#speaking of. screaming crying shitting last night i wanted to read ao3 so bad and it was down??

[gunmetalgreenmp3]

my toxic trait is that when i make an au i dont share anythign about it. at all. it stays cooped up in my brain and drives me mad for 5-7 business days straight before im allowed to be normal about anything again

[whenisitenoughtrees]

this cup of yours tastes holy (this lie is dead)

“I think you might have missed the part where I said that you almost died,” Logan says, and his voice is steady, but his hands are not, trembling where they have balled into fists on his lap.

He blinks, at a loss.

Janus attempts to save Logan from being poisoned. In the moment, switching out their glasses seems like a perfectly rational idea.

It is not, in fact, a perfectly rational idea.

Content Warnings: poisoning, mentioned blood, mentioned death (no actual death though), mentioned violence

Word Count: 5,772

Pairings: Loceit, background Prinxiety

Written for Whumptober2020 theme no 22. "Do these tacos taste funny to you?" with the more specific prompt: poisoned.

(masterpost w/ ao3 links)

The banquet hall is bright, noisy, and crowded, full of laughter and music and talking, and Janus is almost certain that the ambassador from Halledrin has just slipped poison into Logan’s wine.

No one else seems to have noticed. Janus can’t say he’s surprised. The formal dinner is over; now is the time for mingling, and everyone is deeply involved in their own conversations, their own social circles. Roman knows how to throw a good celebration, if nothing else, and now that the pressure is off of him to preside over all the little details, Janus spots him off to one side, shamelessly chatting up Virgil, who seems… exasperated, if not entirely displeased. He spares them a glance before turning back to Logan, who seems to be doing his level best to escape the conversation, but the ambassador— and just what is his name? Janus has entirely forgotten— is persistent, and Janus would think it no more than an annoyance if he weren’t fairly certain that he saw the man brush one hand against Logan’s wine glass while gesturing broadly with the other.

Which, no. That is absolutely not permitted.

He makes his way across the floor, snagging a glass of his own on the way.

“If I might cut in?” he says, as soon as he’s close enough. “I’m afraid I have a pressing matter to discuss with our illustrious court sorcerer.”

Logan inclines his head toward him, and Janus doesn’t think he mistakes the relief that flashes in his eyes. The ambassador stammers a bit, trying to come up with an excuse to stay, but a pointed look takes care of that, and the man retreats sullenly. Janus smiles at him, thin and knife-sharp, and then takes Logan by the elbow, escorting him to the other side of the banquet hall.

“Was there actually something you needed to discuss, or was that a rescue?” Logan asks dryly, and Janus laughs.

“Oh, you seemed like you were having so much fun,” he replies. “Here, switch with me.” And he presses his wine into Logan’s hand, taking Logan’s for himself. Logan frowns at him, but Janus shakes his head. Not here, that means, and Logan can read him well enough to understand it, little though he likes being unable to ask for clarification. In any case, as soon as the potentially-poisoned glass leaves Logan’s grasp, Janus finds himself able to relax.

“I’ll admit, the man is… long-winded,” Logan says. Janus sniffs at the wine as surreptitiously as he can. He can’t smell anything, but there are plenty of odorless poisons out there. “And yes, I am aware of how that sounds coming from me.”

“You’re not that bad,” he says, trying to keep track of the ambassador out of the corner of his eye. He’s positioned himself at the edge of the room, now, and he is staring at Logan, not even bothering to hide it. “At least you actually know what you’re talking about.”

“I would hope so,” Logan says, and then narrows his eyes. “Just what is Roman doing over there?”

Janus turns his head in that direction, but he’s too preoccupied to pay much attention. The problem with this is that he’s only about eighty percent sure that the drink has been tampered with, and the remaining twenty percent is enough unsurety to prevent him from being able to confront the perpetrator brazenly. Not that that would be his style anyway, but it also means he can’t go to anyone else with it; if he told Roman his suspicions, for instance, his sword would be drawn in an instant. And on the off chance that the drink isn’t poisoned after all, that would irreparably damage relations with Halledrin, and they can’t afford that.

So, he’ll have to be careful with this. Keep hold of the cup for the rest of the night and have it tested for toxins as soon as he can. Take the results, and move from there.

“Oh, dear Fates,” Logan groans, and Janus snaps his attention back to the present. It doesn’t take long to figure out what has Logan annoyed.

Roman’s climbed on the table. And as king, he can do what he wants, of course. But generally speaking, he’s supposed to keep the table-climbing to a minimum.

“My dear guests!” he calls out, his voice rich and booming. He doesn’t sound as drunk as Janus would expect from this kind of behavior. “If I may have your attention, I would like to propose a toast! To my dearest friend—”

“Oh my gods, Roman, stop,” Virgil groans.

“—Virgil of the Western Isles, who single-handedly—”

“Roman.”

“—rescued me from the clutches of the dread Dragon-Witch Alcara, thus saving this kingdom from utter disaster and ruin, and once again proving himself to be a man of the highest courage and determination, yes, courage, stop glaring at me like that, and also, did I mention he did this all by himself?” Roman raises his glass high, cheeks flushed red. Virgil has stopped protesting verbally in favor of trying to strike Roman down with his eyes alone, it appears. “So! To one of the best heroes this land has ever known! To Virgil!”

The crowd echoes the call, most of them smiling good-naturedly, a few laughing at the antics; if nothing else, Roman knows how to play to an audience.

“Not one of his best speeches,” Logan mutters.

Janus shrugs, and finally manages to catch Virgil’s gaze from across the room. He smirks, sardonically saluting him with his glass, and Virgil turns the full force of his glare onto him, mouthing something that is either I’m going to kill you or I’m rowing to mill two; really, Janus can’t tell which.

And then, he realizes that he has a problem.

It’s a toast. Everyone is bringing their drinks to his lips, taking sips, swallowing. Obviously, he can’t do any of this, as he rather likes being alive and unpoisoned. But the ambassador is still watching Logan intently, and Logan is sipping from Janus’ old glass; if the ambassador is expecting something to happen, and nothing does, he will turn his attention to the people around Logan, trying to figure out what went wrong. If that happens, there is a chance that he will notice if Janus doesn’t drink. From there, he will be able to suppose that Janus has caught onto his plans, has caught onto him, and from there, he will become more desperate.

Janus doesn’t want that. A desperate man becomes unpredictable, uncontrollable. A desperate man might act as though he has nothing to lose.

His mind racing, he brings the goblet up to his lips. It shouldn’t be too hard to feign a sip. He’s overthinking this.

He tilts the glass back, stopping just short of letting the wine touch his lips. He swallows a bit of his own saliva for realism. And then, it’s done, and he can relax again.

“Really, he should know better then to put Virgil in the limelight,” he says, keeping the ambassador in the corner of his vision. “He’s going to make him pay for that later.”

“If he would stop being so reckless, he wouldn’t be captured by his enemies so often, and Virgil wouldn’t have to hare off after him at all,” Logan sighs. “I will never understand their intricate courting rituals. Why don’t they just say they have feelings for each other and have done with it?”

The longer Logan goes without succumbing to some kind of terrible sickness, the paler the ambassador’s face grows. Janus is almost enjoying watching him.

“Some people are incapable of saying what they mean,” he says, and Logan looks at him, raising an eyebrow.

“Is that the case?” he says, pointed, and Janus grins.

“Why, my dear master sorcerer, you can’t possibly be implying that I—”

His left arm goes numb. Suddenly, all at once, and he cuts himself off, trying to shake feeling back into it. But it’s not like pins and needles, and as the seconds pass— only a few, surely, but the quick, rabbit-beating of his heart makes it seem otherwise— the sensation spreads, creeping toward his chest.

“Janus?” Logan asks. “Is something wrong?”

He sounds worried, very concerned, and Janus would be flattered, but he’s a bit busy being concerned himself.

“I don’t,” he starts, “I’m not—”

And then, his lungs are set on fire, and the rest of his sentence is lost to a wheezing scream as he doubles over, hands flying up to his chest, the wine glass clattering against the floor, half of it shattering and drawing the attention of everyone in the vicinity, but he can’t care about that because he’s trying to force his lungs to inflate, but he’s burning up from the inside out and he can’t��

“Janus!”

There are arms, around him, steadying him. He looks up to meet Logan’s face, painted with fear and blurry, strangely blurry, and he doesn’t think that he’s crying so why is Logan blurry? But he is blurry, and the rest of Janus’ limbs have gone numb, and standing is becoming increasingly difficult, and the fire is there, growing hotter with each moment, and he opens his mouth to say something but all that escapes is a gasp, and then a strangled squeaking sound, as if the sounds are being wrung from him along with the last of his air.

“Shit, shit, shit—”

It’s almost funny, Logan swearing. He’s usually far too collected for that.

His center of gravity tips. Everything spins, and then, he feels himself being lowered to the ground. The floor is cold against his back, soothing, though it doesn’t help much after the momentary relief.

“What the fuck is wrong with him?”

Virgil, now, hovering over him, frantic.

“I don’t know,” Logan says, and he sounds scared, and that’s wrong. Logan is never scared. “I don’t know, poison, I’d imagine, but I don’t know what—”

“Well can you figure it out?”

Roman’s here too.

“I’m trying,” Logan snaps. “If you’ll give me a bit of room—”

The pain rises to a crescendo, like it’s eating his flesh away, and he lets out a whimper. An honest-to-gods whimper, and no. Absolutely not. He has more dignity than this. He has faced worse than this and come out alive, and he trusts Logan to do all that he can. So he breathes, shuddering breaths, breaths that twist and hurt and seem to move in places that they shouldn’t, and he wrests his mind back under control.

“The wine,” he gasps out, and his voice sounds absolutely wrecked. “I saw— the ambassador from Halledrin— he put it in the wine—”

“So you switched them,” Logan says, and scratch fear. This is fury. “How could you possibly have been so stupid?”

“I didn’t drink it!” he cries, and the exclamation is ripped from him, too harsh, and the exertion sends the pain flaring up, the flames licking at his heart, and he chokes on air. “I didn’t— I faked it, I didn’t drink, I don’t know—”

“Well, how the fuck did you get poisoned, then?” Virgil shrieks, and then, Logan fills his field of vision. He’s chanting something in the Old Tongue, and then slapping his hands on his chest, and just like that, the pain fades as magic rushes through him, warm and sparkling and steady and very, very Logan, and his head clears enough to think properly.

“The Halledrinian ambassador?” Roman snarls, and in that moment, he looks exactly like his brother. “I’ll be back.” And then he’s stalking through the crowd, and Janus wishes he didn’t feel so drained; he’d love to watch Roman make the man sweat, but he can barely muster up the energy to raise his head to look at Logan.

“I was going to keep it until I could get it looked at,” he says. His mouth is dry, painfully so. “I faked a sip, for the toast, but I didn’t take one. I didn’t touch it.”

The magic is still buzzing through him, lending him strength. He’ll ride it for what it’s worth.

Gods above and below, this is embarrassing.

“Are you sure it was the wine?” Logan asks. “It couldn’t have been anything else?”

“I wouldn’t think so,” he says. “I’m sorry, I probably should have—”

“Told me?” Logan cuts in. “I should think so. Honestly, why would you think keeping it from me was a good idea?”

The magic is still buzzing through him. It feels more intense now, almost uncomfortable.

“I didn’t want him to think that I knew anything,” he says. “I didn’t want to risk him trying something else.”

Logan shakes his head. “You’re too clever for your own good, do you know that?” he says, and he sounds completely exasperated, but the anger is fading, and Janus is glad of it. He doesn’t regret what he did, just how it turned out, and he never likes it when Logan is annoyed with him, because somehow, Logan has the ability to make him feel like a child, chastised for trying to sneak dessert out of the kitchen.

“I think I’m just clever enough,” he retorts, and then frowns. “Out of curiosity, what spell did you use?”

“A general cleansing incantation,” Logan tells him, “though at twice the power I would usually put into it. I’m just glad the poison wasn’t more specialized. Some toxins are resistant to magic, you know.”

Janus does know, and under any other circumstance, he would be more than willing to listen to Logan going on about the subject for days. But the buzzing of the magic in his system, Logan’s magic, has graduated from relieving to uncomfortable to something approaching pain, and it’s been a long time since he had to be healed with a spell, but he doesn’t think this is right.

He opens his mouth to tell Logan about it, about the way it feels as though there are ants crawling under his skin, but then—

then—

his body—

seizes—

and rational thought flies out the window as his muscles lock and pain tears through him, biting and sharp and ripping and buzzing, and his limbs jerk and this is a seizure, he’s having a seizure, and his head slams against the ground hard and white lights flash across his vision and he can hear shouting, and something soft is shoved underneath his head to soften the impact as it hits against the floor again and again and again and he can’t speak, can’t breath, and there is blood bubbling in the back of his throat, so much that he fears he’ll choke on it, and all the while there is the buzzing, curling in him and forcing his bones from their sockets, it feels like, scrambling his innards, and it feels like there is something inside of him, something eating him, and perhaps he’s eating himself, has turned into the serpent that consumes its own tail—

He doesn’t know.

There are still voices, panicked and loud, and he should know them, too, but he can’t. Not now.

He just knows that it hurts, in waves, each one worst than the last, and it won’t stop. A strangled scream is ripped from his throat, high and thick, forcing its way past the blood that’s gathered in his mouth, and someone is cursing, swearing up a blue streak, and the people around him sound scared, and he thinks that he is too.

Each wave worse than the last. Once he screams once, he can’t stop.

Unconsciousness, when it comes, is a blessing.

-------------

Awareness comes and goes in flashes.

He wakes, his body thrashing, trying to escape. Pain like red hot pokers pressing up against him and into him. He wheezes, and there is someone holding him, trying to restrain him, and he’s too weak to push them away.

“Please,” he tries to say, but the word comes out garbled and mangled beyond all recognition.

“Remus,” the person growls, and it must be Virgil, but he can’t pry his eyes open to see, “knock him out.”

“On it,” says someone else, and there is a hand on his forehead, blessedly cool, and then nothing.

Then, again: his entire body on fire, but lacking the energy to so much as lift a finger. He gasps for breath, each inhalation a struggle, and past the white noise in his ears, he thinks he hears someone speaking. Muttering. Praying? He wrests his eyes open, and his surroundings are a blur, but it is Patton sitting at his bedside. Holding his hand, too, he thinks, but he can’t feel it.

He didn’t even know Patton had returned to the castle.

He tries to say something, anything, but he doesn’t have the air to spend on speech. So he lies there, panting, and finally, Patton looks up, and Janus can’t make out his face but he hears his gasp.

“Oh, gods,” Patton says, and leans in closer. “Jan, can you hear me?”

He can’t respond. Can’t so much as nod.

“You hold on,” Patton says, and he sounds like he’s fighting tears. “You hear me? You don’t die from this. You hang in there, and everything’s gonna be a-okay. You got it?”

It’s a sweet lie, a pretty lie, and Janus can’t begrudge him for it.

Darkness again.

And then:

“—cking be giving up!”

“Of course I’m not giving up!”

Logan’s voice, sharp and angry and lined with despair, and his heart skips a beat. Or perhaps it’s not the sound of his voice that does it at all, but the poison, wrapping around his heart and squeezing. He still hurts, every inch of him, but it’s distant, far away, and it should worry him, he thinks, because that probably means that he’s far past the point of pain that his body can actually handle. But his mind is too fuzzy, everything indistinct.

“I’m not going to give up. I would rather die. But without knowing what the poison was, or better yet, having a sample of it, I’m left to flounder, and attempting to use magic has done more harm than good.”

Gods. He sounds so broken.

“Roman said he was gonna try and get answers out of the shithead.” That’s Remus, uncharacteristically serious. “No luck so far, apparently.” A bang, like a fist against a table. “He should let me at him. I’d rip it right out of him, reach my hand down his throat and pull out his fucking vocal chords—”

“Okay, I’m gonna need you to shut up right the fuck now—”

“Oh, I’m sorry, is that too much for your delicate sensibilities—”

“Enough, both of you!”

Logan again, desperate and exhausted, and with a labored, stuttering breath, Janus pries his eyes open. A wave of dizziness assaults him, and the light is far too bright, but he holds out, turning his head to the side in a motion that takes more effort than it should.

His vision is swimming, coming in and out of focus. But it’s Virgil, Remus, and Logan, all standing and arguing with each other.

And it hits him, then: Oh. I’m dying.

“The fact remains that we’re all in the dark here. I’m in the dark. Without knowing what the poison was or how he ingested it, I can’t deconstruct it to find a cure. All efforts to use a spell to detect the toxin have failed, and all efforts to use a spell to heal him have only aggravated his condition.” Logan makes a sharp motion; Janus isn’t sure, but he thinks he’s scrubbing his hand down his face. “It makes sense,” he continues, more subdued. “I was the original target. So of course the poison would be undetectable by magic. Of course it would—”

He breaks off, and Virgil reaches out to him.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says lowly. “Janus made his dumb fucking decision himself.”

“He wasn’t trying to get poisoned,” Remus interjects, sharp. “So how about you take your dumb fucking decision and shove it up your—”

His mind is whirling. Something about the description of the poison, the fact that magic cannot be used to combat it, seems familiar, but his mind refuses to dredge up any memory that he might have of a poison that fits those qualities.

He doesn’t know. Or, worse, he might know, but the poison that is killing him is preventing him from coming up with the information that could save him.

But there’s something else. Something just beyond his reach, something that flits from his grasp when he tries to think about it.

“And there was nothing in the wine,” Virgil says. “Nothing at all?”

“Nothing that the chemists could find.”

“And I checked it for good measure!” Remus says. “Nadda. Zip. Fucking nothing. So how we got here is beyond me.”

That’s it.

That’s it.

He didn’t drink the wine. It wouldn’t have mattered if the wine was poisoned. He didn’t have any.

But he remembers swallowing. His own saliva, just to make it realistic.

There’s only one place the poison could have been.

He tries to speak. But his throat feels full of razor wire, and the effort is enough to bring the rest of the pain back into focus. What starts out as something that might, possibly, be a word devolves into a high, keening whimper, and he can’t muster up the energy to be embarrassed about it, because gods. His back arches, and his fists clench into the bedsheets as he tries to ride it out, but there is no riding it out, because it just won’t stop.

“Janus!”

Suddenly, they’re all very close.

“Shit, shit, you’re gonna be okay, just give us a second,” Virgil says. “Remus, you—”

“Right—”

And no, because Remus is going to knock him out again, but he can’t, not before he tells them what he just figured out, because if he goes under again he’s scared that he won’t get another chance.

“No,” he gasps, and his voice is absolutely wrecked, and speaking hurts, but— “No, don’t. I need—”

He breaks off with a ragged gasp, his throat refusing to cooperate with him, and he could scream with frustration, really would scream, if his voice was working. But then, Logan is there, his face close to his and his eyes very blue.

“What do you need, Janus?” he asks, his voice low and urgent, and Janus gathers his breath, and try again.

“Test the rim,” he says. “It wasn’t— wasn’t in the wine, and it wasn’t a spell. But I—” His words strangle themselves, but he can see the light dawning in Logan’s eyes.

“You put your lips to the rim of the glass,” he finished. “It was on the—” He turns to Virgil, the motion whipcord sharp. “Virgil, go find the glass and have it sent to my— no, actually, bring it here. Time is of the essence.”

Virgil is off like a shot almost before Logan is finished speaking.

“And Remus,” he continues, “I’ll need—”

“You’ve got it, specs,” Remus says. “Whatever support I can give.”

Logan nods, and meets Janus’ eyes again. At least, he thinks he does. His vision is growing dark, shadows curling around the edges like fire-blackened paper, eating away everything he can see. The pain is distant again, and even his own heartbeat seems to be slowing. Logan’s voice sounds as if it’s coming to him through deep water.

“You can rest now, Janus,” he says. “You’ve done well. I’m going to cure you, I swear. This will all be over soon.”

One way or another, he agrees, but doesn’t say it out loud. Even if he could, he thinks it would upset Logan to say something like that. Would upset him to remind him of the very real possibility that this will not end well, that it is already too late. Because his vision is blackening and his heartbeat is slowing, and everything feels so very, very far away, and he doesn’t want to die but he might not have a choice in the matter.

Logan’s face is still hovering above his, and he thinks that if this is the last sight he will ever have, it’s the best one he could have asked for.

-----------------

He wakes to a pressure against his side and a bone-deep exhaustion, and he takes a moment to simply breathe, staring at the ceiling and reveling in the ease of it. He is so very tired, but his lungs inflate and deflate without pain, without anything catching and setting him to coughing, without having to fight his own body to get the air he needs.

Then, he turns his head.

Logan is asleep on a chair next to his bed, slumped forward so that his head is resting against his side, effectively trapping one arm. He is pale and drawn, his brows furrowed and hair sticking out in all directions, as if he’s been running his fingers through it repeatedly. His glasses are still on his face, terribly askew, and on instinct, Janus reaches across his body, trying to correct them, perhaps, or to take them off entirely. But at the movement, slight though it is, Logan startles awake, eyes blinking wide open, lips parted as if to call out.

Then, his eyes meet Janus’.

“You’re awake,” he breathes, and it sounds uncomfortably like a revelation, like the answer to every prayer Logan has ever offered— and Logan isn’t religious, Janus knows, has never seen much point in worshiping distant gods. “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” he offers, wincing at the sandpaper-quality of his own voice. It’s the truth, though; he feels drained, mentally and physically, and he aches terribly, but the pain is nothing compared to what it was. “I assume you figured it out.”

Logan pushes his glasses back into position on his face, a little more aggressively than the motion should require. “Barely,” he says. “If you had consumed any more than you did, or if I had been even ten minutes slower, you would have died.”

He hums. “I certainly felt like it,” he murmurs, glancing away. “Thank you for saving me.”

For once, he means exactly what he says, but Logan’s expression darkens. “I shouldn’t have had to,” he says, sharp. “That poison—” He breaks off, sucking in a breath, looking away. He vigorously jabs at his glasses, pushing them even farther up his nose. “That poison was meant to target magic in a person’s system, and because you don’t have magic inherently, it turned to attacking your internal organs instead. Every attempt to heal you only fueled its effects. Do you know how I—”

He breaks off again, but Janus is stuck on something else, is stuck on targeting magic, and he has always been good at reading between the lines, so he knows exactly what Logan isn’t saying. Logan lives off magic, breathes it, practically is magic in every sense of the word. Had Logan taken a poison that destroyed magic, it would have destroyed him.

The Halledrinian ambassador chose his toxin well.

“In that case,” he says, “I suppose that this turned out as well as it could have. Obviously, getting poisoned myself was far from ideal, but better me than you, in this scenario.”

He knows immediately that this is the wrong thing to say; usually, he would have realized that before the words left his mouth at all, but his mind is still sluggish, his mouth looser. Logan’s face twists, becomes something thunderous and angry, and the warm candlelight that fills the room— his room, he notices, though he’s fairly certain he was in Remus’ infirmary before— flickers and dances as the air stirs, a slight wind buffeting the bedsheets.

“I think you might have missed the part where I said that you almost died,” Logan says, and his voice is steady, but his hands are not, trembling where they have balled into fists on his lap.

He blinks, at a loss. Were he in better form, he would know what to say here, how to soothe Logan’s worry and wash the past few— well. He has no idea how long it’s been. But he would be able to turn it all around, put the event behind them, if the words would only come, but they don’t, so here he lies, feeling powerless and a bit stupid.

“I didn’t,” he points out, and knows that the rebuttal is weak, that this won’t help. “Clearly.”

“The point is that you could have!”

It’s a shout, and Logan pauses, seemingly surprised at his own volume. He deflates, then, his shoulders slumping, all the fight flowing from him like water from a sieve. He hunches in on himself just slightly, his expression fading from fury to something much more tired, much more worn.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and Janus can only watch as he scrubs at his eyes, almost viciously, and then stares at his hands. “I just— you nearly died. From poison that was meant for me.”

He sounds wrecked, as if that is the worst possibility he could imagine, and— oh.

“I would have died,” Logan murmurs. “It would have decimated my magic before I could do a thing about it, and me along with it.” He looks up, and his eyes are shining with unshed tears, and Janus wants nothing more than to wipe them away. He would try, he thinks, if he felt as though he could move enough to do so, if he thought Logan would allow him the liberty. “But instead of me, it was you. And I had to watch as you died in my place. If you hadn’t been able to communicate how you’d ingested it, I would have been helpless. I would have—” He breaks off suddenly, closing his eyes. “I would have lost you.”

Oh.

He wrenches himself into a sitting position, ignoring the way his muscles scream in protest, ignoring Logan’s startled exclamation. He pushes himself up, reaches out, and snags Logan’s hands in one of his. Too late, he realizes that somewhere along the line, he was divested of his gloves, and his bare skin makes contact with Logan’s. It’s like a bolt of lightning shooting up his arm, and he struggles not to show his shock on his face; he is no stranger to touch, but not like this, never like this, with his bare hand. And from the way Logan is staring, from the way Logan’s lips have parted, just slightly, he knows it too.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, as fierce, as vehement as he can manage. “And call me selfish, but I am infinitely glad that I didn’t have to lose you.”

He meets Logan’s eyes. As difficult as this level of honesty, this level of vulnerability is for him, it needs to be said. He needs Logan to know, needs him to understand, needs him to realize that he cannot possibly regret this, if the alternative was watching Logan choke on his own blood.

Logan makes a sound, soft and wounded, and turns his hand so that he’s grasping at Janus’ just as tightly as Janus is grasping him. And then, he leans in close, bumping their foreheads together and then staying there, and Janus doesn’t dare to move. He can feel Logan’s breath on his skin, ghosting across his lips; an inch or two closer, and they would be kissing.

With one hand, Logan continues to hold his. The other curls around the back of his neck, keeping him in place.

“Never,” Logan says, “do that to me again.”

“I assure you,” he replies, “I don’t plan on it.”

For a moment they stay like that, foreheads touching, breathing together, and Janus’ eyes slip closed. Like this, he can almost forget that anything happened, can forget the pain, can forget how weak he feels. He’s here, and Logan’s here, and nothing else matters.

And then, the door slams open. He jerks back, startled, and Logan’s hand slips away from his neck.

Remus is standing there, gaping.

“Holy shit,” he says. “You’re awake.” He turns to call to someone down the hall— “He’s awake!—” and then, he’s rushing into the room, and Janus doesn’t have any time to prepare before he’s jumped onto the bed, wrapping his arms around him like a particularly clingy octopus, and he’s chanting a litany of words under his breath, things like, “You’re okay you’re okay you’re okay holy shit,” and other words that he can’t quite make out, and the hug is a bit too tight to be comfortable, but he accepts it anyway. He’s still holding one of Logan’s hands, and he is loathe to let go, but he wraps his free arm around Remus’ back.

“Everyone’s been very worried about you,” Logan says quietly. “Patton returned from the coast in the middle of it all, and he was quite distraught. And that’s not to mention how… irate Roman has been, and Virgil—”

“Speak for yourself,” Virgil says, leaning in the doorway. He crosses his arms, but the relief on his face is poorly disguised, and he must have truly been in a bad way if Virgil was that concerned. “Roman and Patton are on their way up, I think. They were talking to the asshole. The ambassador,” he adds when Janus tilts his head in a silent question. “Piece of shit admitted to everything. He’s not even the real ambassador; he killed the real one and took his clothes, tried to go after Logan to spark war between us and Halledrin.”

“I’m gonna kill him,” Remus says. “Roman said I could, if I wanted to. He was real mad so I dunno if he meant it, but he said it, so it counts. I’m gonna stick a knife in his guts and pull out his intestines and feed them to him and—”

“That’s more than enough, I think,” Logan interjects, and Janus is glad of it. He’s used to Remus’ gory tangents, can deal with them well, normally, but he’s exhausted, and he thinks that consciousness will slip away from him any moment now. He can feel his eyelids beginning to droop, his body leaning against Remus’ more and more, and he highly doubts that he will make it to see Roman and Patton.

But that’s alright. He’ll wake up again and see them then. For now, he has Virgil here, and Remus, and he is still holding Logan’s hand, and he is tired and he aches, but he’s alright.

He meets Logan’s eyes, squeezes his hand, and smiles. And Logan smiles back.

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Janus Fic Taglist: @idkanameatall

[woeisme-iamwoe]

an absolutely massive Haikyuu!! fic rec pt. 1

I went through my entire ao3 history because I’m insane, AND here’s my favorites. (There’s not a lot of aus because I’m not a huge fan of them, and there’s no sad endings. I’m a hopeless romantic leave me alone. There is angst though! Lots) 

Beginning with SakuAtsu (I’m a hoe for Atsumu): 

Hide and seek, by badreputation (10k. E. canonverse) 

It sure is a good thing Atsumu doesn't have a latex allergy 

It’s just a fleeting infatuation. As long as he pushes through it he’ll manage. So what if nowadays there isn’t a night where he doesn’t dream of Sakusa pinning him down on his own bed, in the shower or make Atsumu go down on his knees in the hallway? Those are just pesky details.

Some Memories, We May Keep, by mika60 (31k. T. canonverse) 

This is canon, fight me on it. 

The missing panels, the missing games, the missing moments.

The them we never saw.

*Now complete! :)*

 every action has an equal and opposite reaction, by akanemnida (10k. T. canonverse) 

Miya Atsumu gets a modeling contract with Calvin Klein, which sets Kiyoomi's heart in motion.

(Or: Sakusa Kiyoomi realizes that the rules governing the universe are absolute rubbish at explaining matters of the heart.)

 Ass-fingering as a prelude to relations of the emotional kind: a case study, by neverwere (2k. E. canonverse) 

Fucking hilarious, the imagery is absolutely hilarious. 

"Marry me, he thinks, as he comes around Sakusa's fingers and all over himself.

This. This is exactly why you don't let strangers or very attractive teammates finger you out of the blue.

Everyone knows that the ass is the shortest way to the heart."

Or

When it comes to sex, Atsumu has rules. Guidelines! SOPs! He swears they work, they've always worked.

Until they don't.

 parallax error: angle of inclination, by min_mintobe (10k. T. canonverse)

But now there's the one person Atsumu'd promised himself never to touch. His eyes leave Atsumu breathless with guilt at seventeen, and he spends the next six years safe in the satisfaction of making things right.

Feelings, of the physical kind, and one kiss.

ft. competitive spirit, childishness, and late night conversations.

Atsumu POV.

 autumn ends, but we remain, by wolfsbvne (5k. T. canonverse)

Author says in their ending notes that they're not an ‘author’, but methinks they should write more and pursue that career path because this was wonderful.  

atsumu stares at his ceiling at 2am. he stares until he can make out designs in his popcorn ceiling. a cat there, an onigiri here, and then something that suspiciously looks like a mop of hair, triangle eyebrows, and oh those two bumps are moles right above what atsumu just mapped out as an eye.

(or, atsumu is in kind of in love. sakusa is maybe in like.)

I left a taste in your mouth, by emso (26k. E. bodyguard au)

Because obviously 

Sakusa fixes him with a vague expression of something like distaste. There's a scathing edge to his tone when he speaks. "Contrary to what you seem to believe, not everyone who meets you is instantly dying to get into your pants, Miya."

"Lucky I don't really care right now what 'everyone' wants to do, then." Atsumu swivels his mug around on the tabletop a few times, and then brings it to his mouth to drain the last few dregs of his latte. Over the rim of his mug, he adds casually, "Just you."

Whoa hey Bodyguard Omi, I think Spoiled Rich Kid Tsumu might possibly have a teensy crush on you. 

 How do you know you're in love?, by spiritscript (12k. T. canonverse)

Pure art

“So, how did you know you were in love? How did it feel?” Atsumu felt nervous asking this, a slight wiggling in the pit of his stomach, unable to look at the man beside him who rolled his shoulders in an attempt to reset his posture. “I mean, you didn’t resonate with what I said, so, what is love to you Omi-kun?”

Atsumu thinks he must be in love with Hinata Shouyou and so asks the best person he knows to help him understand his feelings

 san'yo expressway, 6:17 pm, by yamabota (13k. T. canonverse)

Of violent forethoughts, and handheld car vacuums. 

Atsumu tilts his head to watch a slice of orange light bend over the impassive planes of Sakusa’s face. He is absolutely, ruthlessly beautiful. It makes Atsumu want to punch something—put his foot through the windshield—scream, maybe.

Kiss him again, maybe.

They have 344 kilometers to figure this one out. 

Different Kinds of Dysfunctional, by DeathBelle (Series, 5 works. T-E. Canonverse)

Honestly, I think this one is kind of famous amongst Sakuatsu readers but I can’t not include it. If I recall correctly, this is the fic that got me into Sakuastu, so thanks, DeathBelle. The characters are portrayed really well (i.e. Sakusa is disgusted and confused, and Atsumu is a little shit). You’ve got a good balance between conversations and descriptive thoughts and all-in-all it’s just a really good read. 

 Atsumu said into the heavy silence, “You can’t say you’ve never thought about it.”

"Thought about what?" said Sakusa.

Atsumu smiled to himself, smug. "You know."

"No, I don't."

"You know. Of course you’ve thought about it. There’s no reason to be ashamed, Omi-kun. I’m a real catch.”

Sakusa was appalled. "You're disgusting."

"You flatter me. I'm not judging you. I can't lie and say I haven't thought about it, too."

Sakusa shifted, slowly, to peer over his shoulder. He wasn’t scowling, but his expression was unreadable. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Atsumu wasn't joking, and he was about to get more than he bargained for.

i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands), by liliapocalypse (7k words. T. canonverse):

Oh, god. This one was so cute. Super fluffy. Loved the metaphors and symbolism. Sometimes you just can’t say things out loud. 

When a bad injury shocks the whole V. League, Sakusa finds himself paired with Atsumu for more rigorous assisted stretches before every training. Atsumu then finds himself writing random letters on Sakusa’s skin to soothe the spiker, forcing Sakusa to reevaluate how his touch aversion became an irresistible yearning for more, and how the boy with the annoying hair somehow brought that hunger to life.

Or, the fic where Atsumu mindlessly writes a confession on Sakusa’s back when he thought Sakusa wasn't paying attention. Sakusa always did.

 mortality is found is the flesh of your sins, by novrik (10k. M. canonverse)

This is literally my favorite fic of all time. Not just of Sakuatsu, not even of the Haikyuu fandom. Ever. Favorite fic ever. Listen, I’m an atheist, but this fic took me on a religious experience that I haven't come down from yet. The symbolism had me actually shivering, and I had to put my phone down quite a few times. Just, oh wow, just read it. I’d like to share my favorite line; ‘And if Sakusa is Eve, if he takes a bite, what then? Perhaps, he is a little afraid of the knowledge he will gain’. My god, author, if you ever see this, this is not only a plea for you to continue writing, but also an offer of marriage. Your hand, author?

 dickhead one, sakusa kiyoomi. dickhead two, miya atsumu. neither understand how to communicate.

Pray tell, why are you drawn to him?

Are you drawn to him in the way he looks beautiful even when crying?

When his eyes are red, shiny tears streaking down, lips quivering, is he beautiful?

 sakuatsu domesticity simulator, by pseudoanalytics (75 words. T. canonverse)

75 words because it's actually a digital art simulator. An interactive fic! How frickin’ cool is that? The art is so beautiful and I love the plotline and ugh, just everything. Please read, or watch, or click around, yes. Good. 

Update: artist created another interactive fic and of course it is wonderful. SunaOsa this time! https://newttxt.itch.io/cheesecake honestly just check out @newttxt their work is amazing and I love everything they do. 

a vaguely interactive mixture of fic, art, and html, where you too can experience the inherent romance of a big fat jerk and a too-blunt jerk attempting intimacy

***

(this is the result of letting the sakuatsu brainworms really get to you...)

 Pas De Deux, by hatsuna (19k words. T. Ballet/college au)

There's just something about prim, proper ballet Sakusa and human-benign-tumor Atsumu that makes my heart burst. Seriously gorgeous writing style, loved every second. By the same author who wrote ‘liminal spaces’ (which is also just perfect) so that should give you a good idea of the style. 

The mystery athlete gives Kiyoomi a once over in the mirror. “Yer pretty tall,” he observes. The twang of an accent rasps low in his throat. His brazen eyes drift to Kiyoomi’s legs, and something like exhilaration glints gold in his gaze. “Good quads, too. Ya ever played volleyball?”

 Ah. So it’s volleyball.

“I’m a dancer. Ballet and contemporary, mostly.”

 the affective presence of our black and white reruns, by kozumess (19k. E. canonverse)

Beautiful, classic misunderstandings, my heart actually physically ached at that one scene (you’ll know the scene when you come to it). Kiyoomi is so refreshingly relaxed(? Is that the right word to use? We all know Omi never truly relaxes). 

but the want, it's always there, constant like the static playing on every television channel, present even when the station disconnects.

 cut the conversation, just open your mouth, by meeksoo (E. 16k. canonverse)

Absolutely filthy...BUT WITH FEELINGS! Completely nails the Sakuatsu dynamic, and protective ‘Tsumu? Love it. 

Sakusa opens the door. He always does.

 They’re teammates first, barely even friends. But they hook up on the regular and it works. It’s simple, easy. But then a fan gets too close, Sakusa reacts, and Atsumu is swept up in how quickly things can get complicated.

__

As Atsumu palms himself over his briefs, still feeling off, he realizes it’s because he still wants it. Him. Sakusa. Even after already having him earlier.

He should probably feel self-conscious, mildly ashamed even, that he’s panting ‘Omi Omi’ into the dark beneath the steady thrum of the AC unit when Sakusa’s right down the hall, probably good for it if Atsumu ended up back at his door. Instead, he lays there, writhing and sweaty, alone in his hotel room bed thinking about Sakusa and touching himself.

Afterward, as cum begins to cool on his chest, Atsumu really can’t help but face the fact that things may be getting complicated.

 the hands that beckon me to come, by Ellieb3an (4k. E. canonverse)

So hot, what the fuck! 

The toss, the run, the spike-serve at the end of it all—Sakusa sees it happen in perfect clarity as if time has slowed and his vision narrows to the center where just Miya exists, all powerful muscle and extraordinary skill and that air of confidence.

Sakusa isn’t one of the best receivers in the league for no reason, so his body moves on muscle memory, forearms absorbing the sting of the hit. It’s not enough. But his eyes are still on Miya—on the way his shorts ride up his muscular thighs as he lands, on the bead of sweat dripping down his forehead, on the clench of his fist thrust into the air—when the ball ricochets out of bounds.

***

Atsumu stays late at practices to work on his new third serve, even when his frustration with it starts throwing off the rest of his game. Sakusa notices and starts hanging back to secretly watch him from the gym doors. He’s fascinated with Atsumu's determination... and more than a little turned on by it, too.

 you're the flame i use (when it gets dark), by starkartifices (55k. M. canonverse. Ongoing)

Everything is the same except the Sakusas are super rich. 

“Oh, if you want dear, you could bring a plus one. Though, I doubt you have a partner yet.”

“I do actually.”

“What was that, dear?”

"I do have a partner, I mean."

alt title: crazy rich sakusas 

 the inherent romance of classical conditioning (or; the fine art of emotional recognition), by pseudoanalytics (13k. E. canonverse)

Ah, yes. A Pavloved sex life. A Pavloved LOVE life?? 

It's stupid. Atsumu isn't a romantic, no matter how many times he's imagined laying Sakusa out and finally really touching him.

So there's no explanation for why Atsumu is constantly stuck thinking about brushing his fingertips against the meat of Sakusa's palms or the prominent tendons in his freaky wrists.

There's no explanation for why doing dishes sets off a warm burn in his ribcage, or why when he smells disinfectant he inhales like he's walking past a bakery.

Yer doin' this to me, he thinks furiously, as Sakusa derails his thoughts with kisses that come more and more frequently now. Yer conditionin' me, and I can't stop it.

 flutterbird (a collection of sakuatsu oneshots), by wordstruck (5 works. T-E. canonverse)

Works 1-3, I think follow a linear story, whereas the last two don't. 

All sakuatsu works are just the angstiest, most miscommunication filled pieces of absolute gold and this one is no exception. Wow. These men are assholes and they bring out the worst in each other, but I’ll be damned if they’re not soulmates. 

Collection of SakuAtsu fics. Several fics are loosely set in the same storyverse. Not necessarily directly connected and can all be read as standalones.

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Captain Syverson-Chapter 20: Second Assist

Characters: Captain Logan “Sy” Syverson, Shane Benton (OFC), various other original supporting/secondary characters

Summary: Shane reunites with friends and family, hashes out some feelings, and gets real with Sy. Can their relationship survive her trauma? And the threat that still looms above them?

Romance and Smut Abound HERE!

Word Count: 4500

Warnings: Mention of rape, alcoholic beverages, violent imagery…feels out the butt.

Author’s Note: You guys are so splendid and beautiful! I can’t thank you enough for your support and encouragement to finish this piece. First, welcome to new readers! I know poor Henry’s injury and subsequent physiotherapy has driven some of you here, and while I’m sorry for him, I’m glad I can consider myself something of a pioneer in this particular genre and provide you some help for your newfound thirst. To my OG readers, it is to you I owe this entire work, parts written and incomplete, and I hope an eventual book deal. I mean to mention you in my acknowledgements, should this ever reach a willing publisher. You’ve inspired me so supremely that I cannot quantify it, even with the words I hold so dear.

Since my last chapter was posted, we’ve said a relieved goodbye to 2020 and a tentative hello to 2021. To be honest, this year has started out worse than last year. Lots of bad weather in my area this winter, my sister is currently on her way to a new life in another state, and my grandmother, the last grandparent I had, passed away in February. Those last two things have been especially difficult to shake off and recover from, both coming to fruition pretty suddenly. Amongst all that, I’ve been pretty distracted by my other fandoms, especially Marvel, and I’ve been reading a killer book series that I’m utterly in love with. (The Throne of Glass novels by Sarah J. Maas. 10/10 recommend.) But I knew I needed to get back into Shane and Sy’s story, especially given the new and rekindled interest in the subject matter. In all honesty, I’ve had most of it written for months. It’s just been a matter of finishing it off to set up the rest of the story.

I really hope you all enjoy Chapter 20, Second Assist, and would love your feedback and notes. You are all so important to this story, and your notes, reblogs, and comments are cherished. Thank you so much for reading! Love from Hannah!

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism. This is an original work by me, Hannah. Please reblog if you wish to share. Please do not repost either in whole or part, as the work of anyone but myself. Thanks so much for reading!

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X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@X@

Shane woke in her warm bed, late morning sun streaming in through her sheer curtains, the heavier drapes parted to let in the light. She wished she'd remembered to close them before now. She really was not ready to be awake.

She was sore. Achy. Her sleep had been fitful and full of shadowy nightmares and muffled screams. Beyond that, she didn't try to remember images or events. She knew the general premise of the dreams. It would take a lot of time, effort, or a miracle to make her forget those traumas she'd been through in the last week. Not even forget. She knew she never would. But move on from them. Accept them. And heal from them…even that seemed a mighty obstacle. One she was not sure she could surmount.

Through the open bedroom door, she could hear Lynyrd Skynyrd and the clanging and sizzling of pans, and she could smell bacon and freshly brewed coffee. Sy had left the room, but had not, it seemed, gone far. She gingerly sat up, stood from the bed, and donned her robe as she walked out into the hall and down the corridor to the kitchen.

The sight before her warmed her heart. There was Sy. In only his boxers, daringly frying the notoriously dangerous breakfast meat. Upon her entry to the kitchen, she could also smell pancakes, and she thought syrup, as well. He seemed to be warming a bottle of the maple unction in a pot of hot water. He turned as she stepped on a squeaky floorboard, and grinned widely at her.

"Mornin' sunshine." And she was struck by the irony of someone with such a radiant smile calling her sunshine. Especially when she didn't feel much like beaming. But she couldn't help return the expression, even through her pain.

"Mornin' bear. Did you go to the store?" She knew she couldn't have any bacon in her fridge, and she doubted her eggs and milk were still good at this point. But she also couldn't think that he would leave her for any reason.

"Nah, some of the guys brought over some provisions. Matt worked on your car all night, too, and filled up the tank. It's as good as new. He and Nate brought ‘er over as well as the groceries. I just had ‘em get stuff I knew your family wouldn't be bringing later. They've had tons of food given to them this week, and they're ready to share. You should have seen your mom loading me down with sandwiches and chips and whatnot when I visited them."

"I still can't believe you met them. I really wanted to introduce you personally." Shane's face fell. She would never be able to get that back. She wanted to cry. Sy had poured her a cup of coffee and sat it in front of her with her favorite creamer.

"Darlin' I’m so sorry. I had to talk to them."

"I know." she sniffed. "I'm not mad. Not at you. Just…"she didn't want to say Elliott's name. "I'm disappointed that the experience was stolen from me." That so many things had been stolen from her. By that monster. There was no other way to describe him. Sy growled. As if he could read her mind. He really just knew her well enough and shared her thoughts.

"Well, don't worry, we'll have a nice dinner with them one of these days, and we can pretend. Sound good?"

"Yeah, and I can feign nervousness." she laughed.

"And I'll pretend too. That I'm scared to meet your dad." he chuckled. "What if he threatens me with his shotgun?"

"I'll pull the ol' 'Daddy, no, I loooooove him!' line, as I throw myself between you!"

"That oughta work." he laughed and kissed her on the forehead as he stepped toward the stove and flipped a pancake.

As they sat eating their late breakfast, Shane's mind wandered. Nothing had changed on the surface, but everything was different now. This cozily mundane breakfast with her boyfriend felt like an out of body experience. As delicious as it was, as wonderful and comforting as it should feel, her guard was up. Even through her amiable façade. She was not the person she was two weeks ago. She was not the same woman who said goodbye to Sy at the base. Maybe that was the real transformation. Maybe that was why nothing felt normal. It wasn't the world, but her own self coming back into it.

"Shane?" Sy asked, gently, but it felt like he was speaking through a megaphone directly into her ear. She was so startled, she nearly dropped the half full mug of coffee that was paused midway to her lips. A bit sloshed out onto the table and splashed her shirt.

"Shit!" she chided herself. It wasn't a big deal, but she felt stupid jumping at the sound of her own name.

Sy reached for the closest towel, hanging from the oven handle, grabbed it and started for her clothes with it. She stopped him. But she couldn't think about why the intimate act made her uncomfortable.

"No, don't, it's fine. These clothes have seen better days, anyway." She pulled the towel from him and began to mop up the small puddles of coffee around her plate.

Sy seemed to note the stains already present on the shirt, as if trying to divine their history. She was something of a messy eater, so the battle wounds of many a barbecue, spaghetti dinner, and hurried breakfast peppered the now off-white SATB club tee she'd gotten her second or third year in college choir. She thought back to a huge room with high ceilings. White, cinder block walls, flecked tile floors, a beautiful, glossy, black baby grand in front of a long whiteboard with black lines to resemble sheet music. She thought about the mnemonic device she'd learned to help her remember what notes appeared on each line, and in the spaces between them. She pondered the deeper meanings and implications of these devices. EGBDF…every good boy does fine. She thought about the "good boys" in her life. She knew many. Her dad, her brother Ethan, Sy, obviously, her many male coworkers and friends…and honestly they did far better than "fine." They were wonderful. But she was letting the "bad boys" she'd encountered dictate her mood. Permeate her psyche. Tear her down. She didn't want to be like this. Then FACE came to mind, and above their purpose of indicating the notes between the lines on the staff, they called her to action. To face these newly minted demons with all the strength she knew she possessed, and she too would "do fine." But as with almost all actions, this was easier said than done.

She felt a warm presence on her left hand which had paused it's torture of the now coffee-infused kitchen towel. Sy's hand was squeezing hers gently.

"Shane." he uttered, barely above a whisper this time. She looked at him through tears that she had not realized had formed. He continued.

"Shane, what can I do, darlin'? I'll do anything."

"Babe, you're doing everything you can, and more. This…this is all going to have to come from me. I…don't know when I'll be myself again…" she paused, tears streaming now. "I'm…I'm different."

"You're not though." he reached for her face, but she pulled away.

"I am, damn it! Sy, I was…" Words had power. And the one she was thinking of had more power than she thought was warranted. She knew that uttering it would take away it's power…and yet mustering the courage and strength to actually do so…seemed impossible. She took a deep breath, and disassociated herself from the statement, even though it was about her own past.

"I was raped." She refused to cry. She felt it all again. She had never said the words. She had never thought it necessary. Everyone understood. Sy, his friends, and she was sure her own loved ones had made the connection. But she knew she needed to say it now to drive home the points she was about to make.

Sy, looked at the table, nodding, not needing to be told in so many words something he already had surmised from the clear evidence. He remained silent. She went on.

"I love you, Sy. I have since the day we met, on one level or another, and I believe that I always will. But I…right now I can't be a proper girlfriend to you. I can't…be with you, touch you, be touched by you, in the way we used to be. In the way you deserve…and I don't know when…or even if…I ever will. Not that I don't want to. That's ALL I want in the world. To go back. To be the woman who fell in love with this…incredible man. To make love with you, but…I can't."

Sy's eyes were full of tears, their predecessors already descending his round cheeks and disappearing into his thick, dark beard.

"Sy, I don't want to lead you on and keep you tied to a relationship with no life in it. You deserve someone who's whole. Someone who can be a fully invested partner for you, and not this broken, damaged--"

"You stop that, Shane. I won't hear no more of this kinda talk. Y'hear? You're my girl. My woman. My person. No matter what. You gotta know I'd never leave ya just cuz you aren't ready for sex again. You don't think that I would, do ya?"

"Well, you went to Virginia…you took that job…knowing the distance it would put between us. Literally and figuratively."

"Biggest mistake of my life." Shane raised her eyebrows in surprise as Sy elaborated. "I couldn't focus on my classes without wishing you were there. Wishing I could team up with you for discussions and hand to hand combat training…that thought got me a little too excited, if you catch my drift." He smirked, pulling a sheepish smile from Shane. "Then in that forest. I dreamt about you every night. I thought of you constantly. I could barely breath sometimes, I missed ya so damned much. I was an idiot. I was insane to think that I needed anything other than you. Any MORE. There IS no more. You're it. You're the MOST! The most important thing in my life."

The declaration hung like vapors in the air, more felt than seen. Tangible yet ethereal.

"And when I found out that you were missing…I was…well, I think I looked like death…and not warmed over. You can ask the program director I met with after I got the news. She could tell I was just sick over it. And as I thought about it on the way home, pieced things together, started thinking about who'd taken you, I got murderous. Shane, I have been in dozens of battles, skirmishes, firefights, you name it. War. But…the sheer bloodlust I felt thinking about what you could be going through…I've never experienced anything like it. Everything was red. Everything. For days. Until I saw you, alive. And then it went red again when I saw the fear and damage on your face." she could tell he was doing his best not to talk about the farmhouse and that basement, but she still flashed back to the moments before and after his appearance there. The moments when she simultaneously prayed to live and hoped to die.

"You don't owe me anything, Shane. I just want you in my life, and I don't care what your presence looks like. Romantic, platonic, or somewhere in between. I'm here for you. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

Shane felt the urge to wrap her arms around her boyfriend, but could not seem to move more than one arm to place her other hand on top of his. She hoped the gratitude and love behind the small, but heartfelt gesture landed. It was all she had in that moment, no matter how abundant her affection.

~~~~~~~~~~

Shane's family's arrival was a complete blur to her. It was joyous, tearful, and the happiest she'd been in a long time. The moment she opened the front door for them, she was surrounded, engulfed with hugs from her parents and siblings. They stood in their affectionate huddle for several moments before Peg waved Sy over with marked insistence. He'd been standing by, observing happily, but not wanting to intrude on the familial reunion.

When they finally dispersed, John asked the two younger men to help him bring in groceries. The women headed into Shane's bedroom for a more private setting in which to talk. Shane filled her mother and sister in the best she could given the rawness of the wounds left on her mind by the events.

She leaned against the headboard cuddling with Gabby while her mom rubbed her feet. She had insisted on doing this thing that had always comforted her children, and made them feel much better when they were younger.

"Well, I'm very proud of you, pumpkin." The girls both looked at their mother, who rather uncharacteristically hadn't spoken in some time. Shane was nonplussed. Peg elaborated.

"You survived something that many women don't. You're talking about it now, which even more women don't. You may think you're broken, but you're just a tree damaged by a storm, but standing stronger than ever." Trust her mom to lay such wisdom on her. When she felt like giving up. When she just wanted pity. When she could only see defeat. Her mother had always found a way to encourage and buoy her and show her the victory.

"Mom's right." Gabby affirmed, and it was Peg's turn to be nonplussed, as the two women, though similar in so many ways, never seemed to see eye to eye. "It's true. Shane I've seen a lot of women come into the clinic in shoes very much like yours. And trust me…some of them…they don't make it to this point. You've got a long way to go before you're fully recovered, don't get me wrong, but you'll get there. You have us. And you have Sy."

"And then there's Sy." She diverted. "How am I supposed to plan any sort of future with him when…" She looked at her mom, and hesitated. Peg rolled her eyes.

"Shane, I know what the two of you get up to when you're alone. You don't have to be shy with me."

"Still…" she took a breath and spoke. "When I can't bring myself to…sleep with him?"

"Look at him, you're kidding, right?" Gabby chided, insensitively, but recanted at the pained expression on Shane's face. "Sorry, sis. Trying to lighten the mood a touch. Too soon. But seriously, I don't think this reluctance you feel will be permanent."

"And even if it is," Peg took over, "that man is out-of-his-mind in love with you, Shaney." She kissed Shane's toe before putting a sock on her foot. "He almost seems to worship you. Now, you know how I feel about using that term outside of religious context, but that is exactly the kind of love I want for you. Devout, and unconditional."

"But, mom, I can't--"

"Did you hear me? I said 'unconditional,' sweetie." Peg interrupted. "No matter what. No matter the obstacle. No matter the distance. No matter the circumstances. Love unwavering. That's what Sy has for you. I've seen it in him. Trust the momma."

The insistence her mother placed on trust had always ruffled Shane's feathers. Gabby's too, who she could feel stiffen slightly beside her. But Shane, for once, really wanted to trust her mother, hoping against hope that she was right. And that she, herself  wouldn't screw up the best relationship she had ever been in or was likely to ever be in again.

The girls had begun talking about some of the coworkers who'd brought food in the past week, and Peg couldn't resist remarking on the character of her favorites and judging the ones she didn't care for…oddly enough, getting more or less, the correct measure of them, as Shane saw it.

After what must have been an hour from the time they'd arrived, they heard a knock on the slightly ajar bedroom door. John poked his head in.

"Ladies, we've put a casserole in the oven, and completed various manly projects around the house--"

"Oh, daddy, what projects?" She cringed. She hated that the men had felt the need to "fix" things.

"Babe, your guest bathroom had not one, but two leaky faucets, your kitchen table seemed to be more of a teeter-totter, and half the light bulbs in the living room were out. Among other tiny things. You're welcome." he smirked his crooked smirk so similar to her own, and she returned it as if he was looking in a mirror.

"Thanks, dad."

"Anyway, lunch is almost ready. So, when you've finished your confab, let's eat."

Dinner passed amiably, Shane found a reserve within herself to allow some quasi-normal behavior, as long as you didn’t look too closely. She was talking animatedly with her siblings, making their parents and Sy laugh riotously. Shane noticed some odd looks passing between Sy and her father, but chalked it up to paranoia. She wished at least Gabby and Ethan could stay, but Heather would be over soon, and she deserved her own dedicated time. Shane wanted to give that to her.

She said her farewells to her family with promises to visit them the next day, and at least one more time before her siblings went back home, if she could work it out.

Sy was so wonderful the whole time. Standing by her, a hand resting lightly on her shoulder as they waved goodbye to the departing vehicle. He made her feel so safe. They went into the kitchen and cleaned up from lunch. Well, Sy cleaned. Shane was texting Heather about when she'd be over.

"Heather says she'll be here in about a half hour. She's picking up wine and pizza." Shane told Sy without looking up from her phone. She could see out of the corner of her eye, though, that he had just closed the dishwasher and was selecting a cycle.

"Sounds great. Do you want me to get out of here? Give you guys some time, one on one?" He asked as he dried his hands, wet from preparing dishes for the machine.

She thought about it, and shuddered. She played a scene in her head that startled her. In her mind's eye, she saw Sy leave and then moments later heard a knock on the door. Presuming it was Heather, she opened the door with abandon, only to see Elliott standing there under a flickering porch light, smirking maliciously at her and ready to overpower and abduct her again. She shook the thought from her head, but remained uneasy as she answered his question.

"Uh, no. Thanks. I'm sure she'll want to talk to both of us. She likes you." Shane grinned softly at Sy in an attempt to mask her trepidation over the thought of him leaving her alone for any period of time. She thought it had worked.

"Okay, well, whatever you think, sunshine. I don't wanna get in the way." He was wiping down the countertops. She felt so impossibly full of love for him, she was starting to wonder how she hadn't yet burst with it. She couldn't bear the thought of holding him back from a fulfilling relationship. He deserved everything she couldn't give him right now. And she knew she should make him leave her. Cut him loose. But she was, as she'd been since she'd met him, a weak woman. She couldn't stand the thought of being without him. Of him no longer being hers. And somehow worse, of not being his, herself. She would always need him for so many reasons, not least of which being her love for him. Maybe one day, she'd recover from this trauma, and be able to be who he deserved. To give him what he needed.

"You're never in the way, bear." She walked up behind him, wrapped her arms around his middle and squeezed him as tight as she could. He placed a loving hand over hers, sighing and smiling, though she had no visual proof of the latter. It was just a feeling.

Heather's greeting was no less exuberant than that of Shane's family, but it was more joyful and less emotional, even though she was immensely relieved to see her best friend after so long. They talked as if no time had passed, and Shane mustered up the dregs of her former self to have one more interaction for the day. Thank God it was Heather and not someone who would require more. She wouldn't have it to give.

"I am so glad you're okay, Shane! Things around the clinic have been bleak as fuck. Susan is loosing her mind, Anita is beside herself with concern, and the rest of us just plain ol' miss the hell out of you. And not just because of all of the overtime everyone has been pulling to get your patients seen."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry! I didn't realize…wow, I'm awful. I didn't even think---"

"That you'd be missed? Think again, sister. The place would fall apart if you ever really left. But don't feel guilty. It's the least everyone can do, and they've all said it themselves. We all love you, and know that you'd do the same for any of us if you could at all. Hopefully you won't have to, though!"

Shane nodded, eyes wide in agreement. She wouldn't wish the last week of her life on her worst enemy. On the worst person in the world. Except maybe the people responsible. Tit for tat.

"Well, I'm sorry my absence has caused extra work for all of you." Shane looked into the deep glass of Chardonnay Sy had poured her from the bottle Heather had brought. She felt about as small as the air bubble making it's way up the sloping curve of the stemless vessel. She felt a guilt that she knew was fully void of logic. It made no sense for her to feel guilt for being kidnapped. But she had always had this notion, this nagging voice in her head that told her that her misfortunes were a direct result of her decisions. That she'd inadvertently stepped on the butterfly that resulted in the monsoon she was currently experiencing, and whatever cataclysmic events she would face next.

"Why in God's name are you apologizing for this, Shay?" Heather's tone was kind, but still mildly scolding.

"If I'd never been with Elliott, none of this would have--"

"Bitch, are you a fortune teller?"

"No, but--"

"Soothsayer?"

"No."

"Time traveler?"

"I wish!" Shane chuckled. But she really did wish.

"Have you any real and proven success at consistently predicting the future?"

"I don't, but--"

"No. No buts. No howevers. You had no idea what becoming involved with Elliott could have done. Were there signs, sure. But you can't look on the past as a rubric to judge the quality of your decisions. You know that. You can only learn from your mistakes. And you have."

"Heather's right, sunshine. You really have learned. You look for Elliott's behaviors in mine and shut me down quick if you see 'em. You're not going to let yourself go down that road again. And I'm proud of you for it."

Shane silently worried her wine glass. It was hard to argue with such truth. But it was hard to agree when her own feelings were in such stark opposition. So she did neither.

"Well, I've preached my sermon for the day." she laughed. "I've taken up enough of your time. Oh, your phone. It's in my purse. I think it's fully charged, but I turned it off."

Shane thanked her friend, then Heather hugged them both and took her leave.

"Y'okay, bug?" Sy asked her after what she surmised was several minutes of silence. Minutes she didn't notice as they passed.

"Mmm…" she trailed off.

"Can I do something for ya?" And she really thought about the question. He could probably do a lot of things for her. He could make love to her until she felt whole again, even if it hurt her at first. Not an ideal option. He could probably get them both some new identities and enough money to spirit her away to somewhere her past wouldn't follow. If she became someone new, literally, would she have to bring that old baggage, those old scars, with her? Again, suboptimal. But he could definitely take the source of all grief and turmoil in her life far into the Missouri back country, somewhere not even the hunters would venture, some fallow field or forgotten cistern, and end him. Snuff out his spark of life like a candle caught in a tornado. Spill a fatal amount of his monstrous blood onto the unforgiving earth and send him to the Hell to which he was undoubtedly destined. But did she want that? Did she want another soul as a scar on that of the man she so deeply cherished? He'd say it was worth it. He'd say he'd take a thousand more for her. A million. That was Sy.

"Nothing comes to mind." She lied. And he knew it was a lie, but didn't push it. She was so grateful that he respected her, not for the lie itself, but for the reason she wasn't giving him the whole truth just now.

His phone went off and he picked it up as he stood from his seat at the table. She could only hear that it was Matt, the guy she thought she understood had the car place, before she heard tension in Sy's voice. Even from the next room, she could tell something was wrong, though he was talking too quietly for her to make out words.

She heard him suddenly shout a stream of profanities that he rarely said at all around her, at least, let alone together. There was a bang, and the walls of her kitchen quaked like the tectonic plates beneath them were shifting.

Sy walked back in, his face was red, as were his knuckles. He was shaking an injury out of his hand.

"What's wrong?" she asked, deep concern at his appearance and demeanor, suddenly ominous.

"I need to fix your wall in there." he grumbled, evading, without success. She'd be doing therapy on his hand, next.

"What's really wrong?" she repeated, sternly.

"That was Matt. Elliott's…escaped, somehow. He's in the wind."

Shane's heart became so heavy, she could almost feel it smashing through the kitchen floor and burying itself deep in the cement floor of her basement.

"Oh, God! No! What if he goes to the police!?"

"Fuck that, I'm more concerned about him coming after you!"

The two stared, faces full of equal measures of concern for the other.

Up Next: Chapter 21-Patient Education

[buckleysjareau]

wish i could keep you in amber, safe from the outside

Neither of them say anything as Eddie takes shelter in Buck’s arms, face tucked in the crook of his neck, sheltered from all the bad that’s happened. A safe place.

He can only hope that he’s Buck’s safe place, too.

or

In which Eddie and Buck are struggling after the shooting and they finally have a much needed talk.

Content warning - very non descriptive depictions of war, mentions of blood, suicide statistics and past suicidal thoughts!

(Read on AO3)

Incoming! 

Break, break, break! We’re pinned down and we’re taking fire, two clicks north of our last reported position. 

Prepare for— 

Boom! 

Norwahl, stand down! You gotta get out! What the hell is wrong with you? Norwahl! 

Pain. 

Major 6-4, what’s your ETA? 

Dust off, 47. ETA six minutes. 

We don’t have six minutes. 

Diaz, keep low. Don’t stop. 

Wake up! 

Diaz! I’m black on ammo! 

Go! Go! Go! 

Diaz, he’s dead! 

Diaz, you okay? 

He’s screaming. 

He’s out of ammo— he’s got no other moves left in him. The pain is excruciating. 

Shannon. Christopher. 

I’m sorry… 

He clutches his Saint Christopher medal and he can’t stop the tears. 

Pain. 

Shannon. 

To protect you, to keep you safe. 

–

Eddie shoots up, arms flailing and screaming out something he’s not even sure is comprehensible. His heart is beating out of his chest, won’t stop, and he can’t seem to catch his breath. 

Then his surroundings start to filter in and his eyes land on his son—wait, Christopher?! 

“Chris?” He chokes out, the all consuming fear he couldn’t shake from the nightmare making words hard to speak. “What are you doing here? Are you okay?” 

“Did you have a bad dream?” Christopher asks as he reaches forward to cup his face, wiping away a tear. Eddie almost breaks. He didn’t deserve this kid. 

“Yeah, bud, I did.” He admits with a crack in his voice. 

He’d had that nightmare almost nightly for three weeks after he’d woken up in a hospital bed, his shoulder hurting the way it had when he woke in Afghanistan—Buck by his side being the one thing that stopped him from thinking he was back there. 

It’s been almost two months since that day, and Eddie kept telling himself—and everyone else— that he was fine. That he was talking about it, facing it so he could heal from it. Which wasn���t exactly a lie, he was talking about it with Frank. He just wasn’t exactly facing it as much as Frank is trying to get him to and—he wasn’t exactly fine. 

His heart races whenever he’s outside, subconsciously scanning his surroundings for anything suspicious. He’s constantly alert to everything going on around him—sights, sounds, smells. 

The nightmares started to happen less and less, though, and he could move his shoulder without wincing, the pain down to a dull ache. He was cleared to return to work by his doctors and by Frank. He was ready to go back. 

Or so he thought, until their first call. They were called to a car wreck on Twelfth Street and he hadn’t realized just where that was until the truck pulled up. He’d felt Buck tense up next to him, Eddie’s own muscles tensing right after him. 

Despite Bobby saying he could sit this call out, Eddie declined and pushed past the pounding in his heart, the tightness in his chest and the instinct to duck under the truck when a car backfired near them to do his job. 

He managed to keep it together the rest of his shift. He kept it together on the car ride home, which he has Buck to thank for that. He kept it together through dinner with Carla, Christopher and Buck. 

He kept it together until his head hit his pillow and he could finally break down a little. He’d perfected the silent tears a long time ago, when he was still under his parents’ roof and was taught that crying made him weak. 

He cries until his heart is tired and his eyes flutter shut, no energy to fight the sleep that he knows won’t be peaceful. 

That’s what leads to where he finds himself now, grasping to stay in touch with this reality as his son wipes away the tears in his eyes, soothing him. 

“You’re going to be okay, dad.” He whispers and Eddie chokes out a laugh. 

“When did you get so grown up?” He sniffles before opening his arms wide. “What do you say, you want to stay the night here with me? It’s been a while since you’ve slept in here.” 

Which he’s grateful for because that means Christopher hasn’t been subjected to a nightmare in a long time. But the nights Christopher crawled into his bed after a nightmare didn’t just only help his kid. 

Chris settles in next to him and rests his head on his shoulder, and for the first time in so long, Eddie feels calm. Peaceful. 

He glances down at his son, who’s already asleep once again, and he can’t stop the tears that build in his eyes at the thought that he’d almost left him—again. 

Diaz, you want to ride with the kid to the hospital? 

Yeah, that’d be gr—

His son had already lost his mom, and because of someone with a stupid vengeance, a really close call almost took his father away from him too. 

His emotions are strangling him not for the first time that night. He refuses to wake his son twice in one night, but he feels like he’ll suffocate from the lump in his throat if he doesn’t let it out, so he carefully stands up from the bed without moving his son too much. 

He moves to the bathroom out in the hall, shutting the door behind him before he catches his reflection in the mirror. The bags and dark circles under his eyes make him look like a zombie, brown eyes tearful and dull. The look is familiar to the one he wore for months after he got home from Afghanistan. 

Greggs is dead. 

The others aren’t, thanks to you. 

Greggs...died on impact. 

And you pulled him out anyway. You got them all out, Staff Sergeant Diaz. 

You did good, Diaz. 

Doesn’t feel like enough. 

Splashing his face with water does its job to bring him back to the present but does little to help the lifelessness behind his eyes. 

“Eddie!” 

At the frightened call of his name, Eddie is suddenly ready and alert for any incoming danger. 

He stands with his hand on the handle to the bathroom door, standing still, listening out for the call again. 

“Eddie! No!” 

He’s off without a second thought, fast but quietly running towards the living room where he knows Buck is sleeping. 

“Let me go! Eddie!” 

Eddie’s heart is in his throat at the agony in his best friend’s cries and the sight of him thrashing so bad he’s started to move the couch. 

A sob erupts from Buck’s lip and that’s what kicks Eddie into action. He’s in front of the couch on the coffee table, not too close to crowd him but close enough to reach out if needed. 

“Buck, wake up, it’s okay. I’m okay, you just have to wake up. It’s just a dream.” 

He tries to reach him with words but nothing seems to be getting through, so he reaches forward and shakes him, his name on his lips, and braces for the impact of flailing arms and kicking legs. Nothing comes. 

Except the broken sob around Eddie’s name. 

The tears well up behind his eyes once again but this time, he pushes them back. The first thing Buck sees when he’s shaken out of his nightmare should not be Eddie crying. 

He squeezes down on his shoulder once more and that’s what seems to do the trick. Buck shoots up on the couch, Eddie’s name leaving his lips on a scream, hands clawing at the blankets in front of him—clawing at the blankets like he’d clawed to get away from Mehta to get to Eddie. 

“Eddie!” 

“Buck, Buck, it’s okay, I’m okay. I’m right here. It was just a dream. Buck, look at me!” 

Eddie, look at me! Look at me, man, come on. Stay awake! 

Buck freezes when his eyes finally land on him, but before Eddie can let out a sigh of relief that he’d gotten through to him, Buck is gripping his shirt just over where the bullet went through and the tremors going through Buck go straight through Eddie from the contact. 

“We need to stop the bleeding!” He croaks out. “You’re losing so much blood. There’s so much blood.” 

Shit. Buck might be awake, but his mind isn’t there with the rest of him yet. 

“Hey, Buck, there’s no blood. Okay? There’s no blood. I’m fine, I’m all patched up—” 

He pulls the bottom of his shirt up as much as he can and uses his other hand to move Buck’s hand from the grip on his shirt to the scar just under his shoulder. 

“—see? You helped stop the bleeding. I’m okay, Buck, because you saved me. We’re not back there. You’re here with me in my living room and I’m with you.” 

The fog is slowly starting to clear from his eyes as he traces the scar. “You’re okay?” 

“I’m okay.” He assures. 

Eddie thinks they might be in the clear until Buck looks down at his trembling hands and his breathing picks up, more and more until he’s hyperventilating. 

“Get it off—it needs to—make it go away. Get it off of me. It’s all over.” He sobs and Eddie has to clasp both of Buck’s hands in between his own when he starts to roughly rub at his face. 

Eddie needed to calm himself down. He needs to stay grounded in this moment because Buck was in front of him, but so far away and needed Eddie to bring him back. 

So he takes a deep breath and thinks about how Buck helped him through one of his flashbacks he’d experienced a couple of days after waking up in the hospital. 

“Buck, I think you’re having a flashback right now. That’s okay though, because I’m gonna help get you through it, just like you did for me in the hospital.” 

Buck whimpers. “The blood—get it off.” 

“There is no blood, Buck. Do you hear me? Listen to my voice. It’s Eddie, we’re both safe and okay at my house right now, there’s no blood. If you can hear me, squeeze my hands.” 

Eddie relaxes the slightest when there’s a light squeeze around his fingers. 

“Good, that’s really good. Do you think you can lift your head for a second?” He smiles at him when he lifts his head and meets his eye. “Look around the room. Describe your surroundings.” 

Buck’s grip on Eddie’s hand gets tighter. 

“Okay, how about this—” Eddie pauses and looks around the room, finding the object thrown just a little bit across the room and leans forward to grab it. “Take this, Buck. Can you tell me about it? The details? The feeling? Describe it in great detail for me.” 

Buck pulls his hands away from Eddie’s and grips the blanket in front of him. 

It was a weighted blanket Adriana had given Eddie for his birthday one year, that was however taken by Buck whenever he’d stay over. That weighted blanket was used for comfort by Buck, no matter the mood he was in. It stays at Eddie’s house because Buck is there more often than not, but make no mistake, it was now Buck’s. 

Hopefully this helps. 

“It’s–It’s weighted.” Buck stutters out. 

“Good, good. What else about it?” 

“It’s gray…and plaid…”

–

“I’m sorry that I woke you up.” Buck whispers into the quiet kitchen. 

Eddie sighs. “You didn’t wake me, I was already up.” He admits. 

“Oh. Are you okay?” 

He’s already tensing up, like Eddie’s been hiding that something’s been wrong the entire time, like Eddie wasn’t as okay as he was telling Buck he was. 

Which, technically would have been a lie if he’d been talking about his mental health—but he was reassuring Buck that he was in good physical health, so, nothing to hide. 

Eddie still hesitates. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

He continues when Buck raises an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“Physically, I’m okay, I promise. Just had a nightmare.” 

It’s completely silent aside from a sharp intake of breath from Buck. 

“You’re still having nightmares?” Is what Buck finally asks, voice wavering and quiet. 

“You’re having nightmares?” Eddie asks, deflecting but also asking out of concern. 

Silence follows after. Buck won’t look up from where his eyes are trained on the mug of tea Eddie had placed in front of him with a look that he’d hoped read I care about you. The heat of his stare could probably heat up the tea on its own, but the look doesn’t deter him, it only makes him more concerned. 

Buck, for the most part, was open about how he was feeling. It’s a quality that Eddie adored and often envied. He liked to—had to—talk his feelings out until he could make sense of them. If he didn’t, it would build and fester and eat away at him until he snapped. The lawsuit was one example of what happens when Buck doesn’t talk out how he’s feeling. 

He knows he has Doctor Copeland and maybe he’s been talking about it to her, but Eddie can’t get rid of the feeling that this is something that has festered over two months and if that’s the case—

Well, he’s terrified of what Buck will do when he finally snaps. 

Up to fifty-four percent of suicides in people with PTSD are attributed to PTSD. 

He swallows the lump in his throat as a statistic he’d read in the book Frank had given him about PTSD makes its way to the forefront of his mind. He has to stop himself from physically flinching away from the thought. 

It was something he brought up with Frank after he’d read the book at his insistence. The statistic had struck something in him then and the question that followed from Frank had given him a lot to think about. 

“Have you recently thought about ending your life?”

It wasn’t a recent thing but it had been an almost consistent thought after he’d gotten back from Afghanistan when his PTSD was at its worst and he hadn’t seen an end to his suffering in sight. 

What if Buck has been feeling the same way? 

What if one day his trauma gets too much and he— what if he—

No. That’s not going to happen, not if Eddie has anything to say about it. 

He breaks the silence. 

“Have you talked to Doctor Copeland about how much you’re struggling?” 

Still refusing to look at him, Buck mumbles, “I’m not struggling.” 

Eddie scoffs. “I believe that.” 

“You should.” Buck huffs out. 

“You’re allowed to struggle with this, Buck. What happened was—”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” He cuts Eddie off abruptly, his voice choked. 

Eddie crosses the room, pulls out the chair next to Buck from under the table and turns to face it directly at him before sitting down. 

“Well, I’m sorry, but we’re going to talk about it.” He says matter-of-factly. 

“Eddie,” Buck starts, his tone a warning.

“Buck.” He counters in the same tone. 

Buck looks like he’s about to bolt— he knows him well enough to know he won’t, but he still reaches out and gently squeezes Buck’s forearm, not letting go. He can feel how much he’s still shaking and squeezes again in an effort to comfort him—and comfort himself, keep himself and Buck grounded in the present. He’s feeling so on edge himself, so he can’t imagine how Buck must feel after that flashback. 

“We haven’t talked about that day. It’s been almost two months and we haven’t talked about what happened.” He swallows. “Have you talked about it to anyone?” 

The breath Buck takes in is shaky. 

“Why are you so insistent about my struggles when you’re struggling yourself?” His tone is defensive but it has Eddie nodding. 

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, then meets Buck’s eyes. “I am. Struggling.” 

It’s the first time Eddie has admitted to anyone outright that he was struggling. He’d talked to Frank, but he only ever said the bare minimum of what he was feeling and he admits he had no plans to continue his sessions with Frank now that it’s not mandatory. 

The uncomfortable feeling that always comes with being this vulnerable, even with Buck, starts to buzz under his skin but he continues. 

“It’s not something I ever like to admit, you know this...but yeah, Buck, I’m really struggling.” 

At the break in his voice, Buck’s hand is suddenly resting on top of the hand that’s holding onto Buck’s forearm. He remains quiet but he gives Eddie a look that said he was listening if he wanted to talk more. 

He’s not surprised to find that he does want to talk about it more because talking to Buck has always been easy, no matter how hard the topic was to talk about. 

“I was really bad when I came home from Afghanistan after I was given a Silver Star. I was being called a hero by everyone when all I could think was that I didn’t do good enough because Greggs still died, still left three daughters behind.” 

Eddie pauses to take a much needed deep breath and turns his hand that’s under Buck’s palm up and grasps onto Buck’s the second their hands connect. Buck squeezing back is enough to get the next words out of his mouth. 

“I’m really scared that I’m gonna get that bad again, man.” Eddie whispers his greatest fear. “There have been days where I’ve been terrified to leave the house, thinking that they didn’t actually catch the sniper and I’ll be back there again. I can’t go back there again.” 

Buck squeezed his hand again in comfort. 

“I’m always going to be here for you, Eds. I won’t let you go back there.” Buck’s voice is no more than a whisper but the sentiment is so loud. 

He knows Buck will always be there for him, it’s not a surprise, but the simple promise from his best friend was exactly what he needed to loosen the tightness in his chest for the time being. A sob bubbles past his throat and that’s all it takes for Buck to pull him into his arms and give Eddie the tightest hug he thinks he’s ever received. 

Neither of them say anything as Eddie takes shelter in Buck’s arms, face tucked in the crook of his neck, sheltered from all the bad that’s happened. A safe place. 

He can only hope that he’s Buck’s safe place, too. 

“And I’m always going to be here for you,” Eddie whispers against Buck’s neck after a while. 

He feels the moment Buck tenses. He expects him to pull away, to try to convince Eddie he’s not struggling, but instead, Buck sucks in a breath and grips the back of Eddie’s shirt. 

“You almost weren’t.” 

The choked whisper has Eddie tightening his arms around Buck. “But I’m here now and that’s because of you, okay? You kept me alive.” 

He doesn’t just mean the way Buck had gotten him into the safety of the 133’s truck, or the way he did all he could to make sure he hadn’t lost any more blood. 

He fought to come home to Christopher, and he fought to come home to Buck. He held on for those two and those two only. 

Not Ana, who he should have thought of but she wasn’t who he loved. 

It’s a good thing that he hadn’t fought to come back to her, too, because the moment Eddie shut down… she left. He couldn’t blame her, he’d been a wreck when he first came home and his mental health was not on her. 

But Buck was there. Buck never left, has never left, will never leave. If Eddie is sure of anything, it’s Buck’s permanency in his life. 

He’s going to make damn sure he’s a permanent in Buck’s by fighting to come home to him, too. 

“I froze, Eddie. I didn’t do anything.” 

“You did everything you could do in the situation and you saved me, Buck. Don’t you get that? You kept me hanging on, you got me back to my son.” 

He feels Buck shake his head as he starts to burrow his face into the crook of Eddie’s neck. He doesn’t respond, just shakes in his arms. A sob escapes Buck’s lips. 

Eddie holds him tighter, using his good arm to rub his hand up and down Buck’s back in an attempt to soothe him. 

“Talk to me, Buck.” He pleads. Eddie is still crying himself—hasn't been able to get himself to stop. 

“There was so much—” He starts off before pushing away from Eddie’s embrace and puts a hand near his throat, rubbing at his skin as if he was scrubbing something off. “So much blood.” 

Yeah, that’d be gr—

—gunfire. 

Eddie shakes his head, trying to dispel the memory from the forefront of his mind. 

“Yo–you–you reached for me, and I cou–couldn’t get to you. Then your eyes closed and oh my God, Eddie, there was so much blood.” 

Buck is pretty much wailing at this point and he can’t help but wonder how Christopher hasn’t been woken up yet from the noise they’ve both made. He doesn’t think he can take the pain in his heart at the anguish in his best friend’s cries and he vows to himself to never cause this pain again. 

He’s still rubbing at his neck, staring directly at Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie doesn’t like the way his stare starts to become distant. He reaches for Buck’s hand and lets out a sigh of relief when he lets him pull it away from his throat. 

“Stay with me, Buck.” 

Stay with me, Eddie! 

Breathe. 

“Shit—fuck—shit, I’m so sorry.” Buck chokes out and Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise—confusion, disbelief… 

“You have nothing to be sorry for, man.” 

“No, no, I do. I’m not the one who got shot, I shouldn’t be—I shouldn’t be struggling like this… and you got shot, you’re dealing with your own feelings about that, you shouldn’t have to listen to me.” 

Eddie ducks down to try to meet Buck’s eye. “Hey, no, it’s not a competition here—who had it more traumatic—no. You were covered in my blood, you were being targeted in active shooter situation—”

“Actually, I wasn’t.” He cuts him off sharply. 

“He was targeting firefighters.” 

“I was in my civies. He wasn’t after me, he was targeting the 133 and you.” The guilt in his statement cuts right through Eddie’s heart. 

“You’re allowed to be struggling, Buck. You’ve got every right to be and I hate that you haven’t talked to anyone about this— it’s been two months. Why?” 

“Because I’m not the one who got shot and because I just freeze like I did then when it’s brought up. I couldn’t get myself to talk about it but now that I have it’s all coming out and fuck, Eds, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry.”

“You were still involved in a completely fucked up situation and anyone who has would struggle. I get it, though. You’re the first person outside of Frank that I’ve talked to about how it’s messed me up. But shit, Buck, I know from experience how much worse I’d be if I didn’t talk about it.” He takes in a deep breath and lets out a humorless laugh. “When did we switch places here?” 

He continues when Buck gives him a bewildered look. 

“You have to talk your problems out to process them and I have never liked talking about my problems. When did you become the one in this relationship to hold it all in and when did I become the one that actually talked about it so I could heal from it?” 

“When I almost lost you.” Buck whispers, his voice wet. “I’m proud of you, though. I’m glad you’re talking to Frank. I hope he’s helped.” 

“Well you didn’t lose me. I’m right here, so talk to me. Come to me when you get like this. We went through the same hellish trauma together so I promise you I won’t get tired of you talking about your feelings from it—about anything.” 

He knows that Buck feeling like a burden is part of his reluctance to talk, it always was whenever Buck came to him to talk about his struggles. 

Buck sighs, tension deflating from his body little by little before he folds over and rests his forehead on Eddie’s chest. Eddie takes his hand that’s not holding Buck’s and cards it through his hair. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll try, on one condition.” 

“Anything.” Eddie means it. 

“You come to me, too.” 

“Deal.” Eddie smiles. “Maybe you can do something for me though?” 

“Anything.” Buck whispers. 

“The second her office opens, set up an appointment with Doctor Copeland.” Eddie almost pleads. “I’m going to book one with Frank.” 

He hadn’t planned on going back to him after the sessions stopped being mandatory but this talk has made him realize a few things, and one of them was that therapy had helped. The difference between Eddie’s return from Afghanistan and the aftermath of being shot was just that—therapy. 

And if it got his best friend to actually talk about it and start healing, too,  that’s a positive bonus. 

“Yeah, o—” A loud yawn escapes Buck that cuts him off. 

Eddie yawns right after him, followed by a snort. “We should probably get some sleep.” 

“I can’t—I don’t want to have another nightmare.” 

Eddie moves the hand in Buck’s hair to his cheek and lightly taps him. He smiles at Buck as their eyes meet. “I’ve got an idea. C’mon, get up, follow me.” 

Buck never makes a move to let go of Eddie’s hand as they walk and neither does he. He goes over to the couch and grabs Buck’s weighted blanket with his free hand and leads him to his room. 

“Eddie?” Buck stops him before he can open the door. 

“Stay with me tonight.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“It would be for me, too.” Eddie squeezes his hand. “Though I should warn you—” He opens his door to reveal Christopher sound asleep in his bed. “I should have said stay with us tonight.” 

“Eddie.” 

“I’m absolutely positive I want you with us tonight.” He answers the unasked question on Buck’s tongue. 

He lifts the blanket and gestures for Buck to get in first but Buck shakes his head. “You can go there.” 

The bed stirs as he gets in. 

“Dad?” Christopher mumbles sleepily. “Buck?” 

“Yeah, bud, Buck’s here. He also had a bad dream, do you mind if he sleeps with us?” Eddie asks, already knowing his son’s answer would be yes. 

Christopher nods with a sleepy smile. 

When Buck slides in next to him, Christopher leans over and cups Buck’s face the way he had cupped his not two hours ago. “You’re gonna be okay, kid.” 

Tears appear in Buck’s eyes but he gives Christopher a wet smile and nods. “Yeah. I think I will be.” 

His son really was the greatest. 

Buck’s insistence that Eddie got into bed before him starts to make sense after Buck starts to fall asleep. He subconsciously slots himself against Eddie’s back and pulls him closer, leaving his arm around him, resting over his heart. 

He wanted to protect him. He’d wanted to protect Eddie from all of the dangers that could come through that door. 

In that moment, Eddie has never felt safer. 

His safe place.

[occult-castiel]

Leave a message (after the beep!)

Suptober. Day 13: Rewind Dean has a few things to say to Cas. Word count: 2542 [Read on Ao3]

3 Weeks.

Dean's been stealing glances at his phone for over an hour. The dim light of the hall that creeps from under his door is the only reason he can see the thing, blurred out to a barely-there grey hunk of plastic.

The idea is fucking stupid. He doesn't care what Sam thinks. Sam wasn't even supposed to know. Let alone have fucking opinions.

But Dean slipped.

And it took more effort than he will ever admit to walk out of the kitchen without clocking his brother in the goddamn jaw.

Fuck Sam and fuck the phone.

He turns around, away from the stupidest temptation of his life, and demands sleep come.

It's only mildly successful.

2 Month, 1 Week.

Nothing bad can happen from a phone call. Doing it once can’t hurt you any more than you are now

Sam's a well-meaning kid. He really is. But sometimes he just needs to can it.

'Cause he had to go and say some shit like that, completely unprompted — they were talking about potential witch activity in Utah, not Dean's feelings, for Christ's sake — and now it's all Dean can think about now that the distractions of the day have bled into a dark room and cold bed.

And that gray hunk of plastic on his desk is laughing at him. He could reach it if he sat up. Stretched a bit.

But the idea is dumb. And Sam doesn't get it. He really fucking doesn’t.

Except Dean knows he's kind of full of crap.

He grits his teeth, shoves the covers to the side, and grabs his phone.

With each passing buzz, his heart stutters, breath cut into shorter and shorter spurts.

Stupidstupidstupid.

It- it isn't like he's gunna answer. Dean knows he not, but it just rings and rings and —

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

And it hurts.

He calls again every night for the next week. Of course, he never picks up. Sam doesn't ask.

4 Months.

Dean kicks the door after it slams shut. Throws his gun at his headboard, if it goes off and shoots him, oh fucking well. It's great. Just fantastic.

He pulls his phone out without thinking. Clicks Cas.

It rings, and for a moment his shoulders relax as the familiar greeting plays. Cause its Cas' voice. And fuck. Just… fuck.

Then it beeps, and he actually does the one thing he's wanted for months.

"None of your douchebag family will answer me. And I've tried friggin' everything, I swear to Christ."

He runs his hand over his face, glances up at the sour-yellow ceiling.

"How you ever stood them is beyond me dude."

And then, like a rational human being. He hangs up and pretends that whatever that was didn't happen.

Once the bitter taste of angels that don’t pick the fucking phone up from earlier that day fades, Dean stares at the darkened ceiling.

He left a voicemail. A fucking voicemail.

Pathetic.

4 Months, 3 Weeks.

So he hasn't called again since his, uh, slip up. And Sam keeps giving him these little looks. And he knows that Sam knows, and knows he isn't calling because he's a changed man or whatever.

Maybe Sam would drop it, whatever the hell he thinks Dean's mess is, if he could manage to eat.

Jody, Claire, Kaia, and Alex are all around the table with them. Jody's the charmer she always is, talking about how she's grateful for the help and oh, of course you guys are gunna stay for dinner! Ah-ah! No buts.  

There was a hunt in town she tracked down with Claire, a huge vamps nest — we're talking dozens — and called them over for help. And is now feeding them. Because she's a saint and never deserved to be in the know in the first place.

Dean looks at the food. Pork lathered in dark brown graveyard with a mountain of buttery mashed potatoes. There's a pile of carrots on Sam's plate. Dean opted out.

Not that he's eating now. No, mostly just pushing it all around. He does eat in general.

But Claire isn't looking at him. Hasn't. She barely managed a glance up when he saved her — just a small nod and weary glance.

Sam, on the other hand, may as well be ogling.

Dean wishes he could read Sam's mind, find out where he's keeping it so Dean can wallow in misery without his brother being keen on some of the finer details, thank you very much.

He manages a few bites. Its excellent, mouth-watering, home-cooked goodness he's missed fiercely since he got a taste for it the few days Mrs. Butters was around.

But right now? Turns his stomach.

On the way back home, Sam clears his throat. Dean grips the wheel a little tighter.

"So —"

"I didn't ask for your opinion, Samantha."

In the corner of his eye, Sam's shoulder slump. His brother looks down and sighs out a sad little noise.

But the rest of the drive is quiet. And that's a win in Dean's book.

*

It's roughly midnight, and books are scattered across the library table. They're all open to different pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

Dean's combing through it all anyway. Has been since Heavens decided they have a no-call policy with anyone named Winchester.

The piles he has laid around him have grown increasingly larger as the weeks have drug on. Spiked exponentially when he decided not to call anymore.

"Hey Dean."

Dean snaps his head up mid-sentence. Sam stands in the threshold, holding a plate. In pajamas.

Dean just looks at him. "What?"

"Made you food." He lifts the plate up a fraction

"That looks like a cold cut, so made is a generous word."

Sam has the audacity to slump into himself, full-on wounded-puppy mode. So Dean rolls his eyes and waves him over.

The plate gets sat down with a distinct clank, and Sam pats his shoulder.

"You know I just… want what's best for you."

Dean tenses his shoulders, closes the book in front of him. He speaks through his teeth.

"Yeah, well I never had it in the first place. And now it is gone, and there's nothing I can do."

"You don't know that Dean."

He glues his eyes to the back of the book. Balls his fists.

"Don't I? That — That fucking thing just —"

"I know. But it's also gone. We don't know what happened."

Dean chooses then to look over, fix his brother with a proper glare so he'll go the hell away — but sees it.

Sitting innocuously on the plate, like it isn't an affront to everything Dean would rather not, is a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Sam's talking but he can't hear it. His brains turned to mush, a radio-static circus of nothing.

The bottom of his chair screeches as it drags against the floor.

And Dean can’t see.

Sam grabs his arm, he shakes it off. He moves decisively, tries too, but his eyes prickle and he can’t see shit, and he isn’t about to cry right there in front of his brother, validate every stupid thought the guy has that’s probably one-hundred percent right.

His door clicks shut, and he pressed himself against it. Slides down until he hits the icy floor.

Dean's throat is a constricted cage, each breath in has to be muscled in, down, out. Each wobble as much as the last.

Sam doesn't know shit. He doesn’t know what he's talking about. He really doesn't.

Calling someone who can’t answer, won’t ever answer, is fucking stupid. It's not therapeutic.

When he rubs a hand over his face. It comes back wet, and his eyes sting.

"Fuck."

He fishes for his phone. Going to Cas' number is muscle memory at this point.

It rings. Cause Sam can't help but keep the thing charged.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

The ball in his chest is impossibly tight. Why hasn't he called? Just to hear him again, the gruff tenor that's like gravel and silk and the only thing he ever wants to hear, ever. And now he only has nine words he'll ever hear him say again.

That's it. Two sentences.

You saved the whole world. He didn’t save shit.

And what the fuck is he supposed to do now? How is he supposed to do anything? He’s never been any good, not as good as he needs to be. Maybe if he would’ve been — or did somethin’ different, anything different —

Dean threads his fingers in his hair and balls his fist. Squeezes his eyes shut against the pool of tears that just leak out, and curls in on himself. His guts are twisted and tight, just like the rest of him. Every part of him shakes, the hand vice-gripping his hair should hurt, should be enough to pull him back to sanity, but the tears don’t stop.

And really what does it matter if he cries. Chucks gone, and The Empty, that — that thing got what was coming to it.

But Cas didn't come back.

He lulls his head against the door, untangles the hand from his hair like his fingers piston operated they ache so bad

God, Cas should’ve just left him in Hell.

Maybe he's Heaven, Billy had said with a shrug. Casual. Like she didn't understand. And Dean knows she does. She gets it more than any of them, saw just what this shit did the last time. Saw exactly how much he didn't want to be around.

Jack had to fuck off to put the universe in balance, so he’s MIA and no help. And Heaven doesn't seem to give a shit.

There must've been a beep somewhere, so Dean just goes with it. Presses the phone to his ear again and works his jaw open until it’s loose enough to allow something resembling words can happen.

"It's — it's bullshit." God Dean can't recognize his own voice, pulled thin and hoarse. "You — you know that right? Bullshit." He shakes his head. Tries to take a deep breath that comes out only slightly less ragged. "You always left. And I — I get that you had to sometimes. But no one wanted you here more than me."

He wipes his face off with the collar of his shirt. His skull screams in sharp pain, and his temples thud. And normally this would be too long of a pause, but normally you don't start a voicemail off trying not to sob, and normally they're made for people who can actually listen to them. So whatever.

"This is stupid. It's not — voicemails ain't your style." His breath leaves, and exhaustion sets deep into his bones. "You always just called back for the explanation. You'd leave 'em, though."

At least Dean assumes. Every call back he'd ever gotten from the guy he'd have to fill him in on whatever was happening anyway. Guess it makes sense in a way. If you have enough time to listen to a message, you've got enough time to call.

The space behind his robes aches when he says, "We both shoulda picked up more, I guess. And Sammy wants me to call now. Like it makes up for shit. It doesn't."

He swipes the little red phone to the left, and stares at the word Cas in his contacts page.

But the screen goes blank, and all he can see are his puffy red eyes reflected in the black screen, and that's motivation, so he gets ready for bed.

1 Year, 10 Months, 13 Days

He calls a few times after that. But tries not to leave voicemails for someone that's just gone, in every sense of the word.

It’s dumb. Still really dumb. And he has no defense for it. Eventually Sam hands him Cas' old phone and a charger. All of the missed voicemails untouched.

Dean could swear he remembers ever last one.

They're mostly simple crap, sometimes. Updates.

"Sam and Eileen are getting hitched. They're pretty fucking disgusting together. But sometimes they look at me, and I can just see it, man. See how they like, bubble themselves off." He laughs, but it's strained.  "Guess it just be written on my face. Which is just friggin’ fantastic. Cause I'm happy for them. I've always wanted that for Sam. But I wanted it for us too. Fucked up that I can only say it now, huh."

"I don't like the way burgers taste anymore. And I, uh, have a bumper sticker now. It's a bee. I kept it together until Sam got misty-eyed." There's a pause for a touch too long, then, "That mixtapes been the only thing in Baby for a month."

"I kept the trenchcoat. Wore it earlier. Got cold out for the first time since —" he sighs. "You wore it better. Looks like shit on me. It pretty much lives in my closet. Can't get monster guts on it that way."

But sometimes it's just a confession, none of the other bullshit. Just the truth.

"Look. I'm not mad. So don't think that. Cause I'm not. Wish I was. It's — it's always been easier. But I was trying to get my head on straight. I would've for you. I just… Don't know how now."

"Can't tell if I like using your old angel blade or fucking hate it. Don't like much of anything anymore. You were better with it."

"Id pray to you, but this is all I got. And I wish I could hope you're up there. But then I'd hope there isn't any pay per view Earth or whatever. Cause this shit? Is pitiful." A sigh. "G'night, Cas."

And one night, a long time later, he's sitting with his back against his bed, nestled next to the end table he never used, he says the truth in a way he knows he should've years and years ago.

"Guess this is like prayin', ain't it? Sammy caught me a few months ago. He wasn't even surprised I'm still doing this. Told me it was, uh — It was okay. Even if I just… never did. And you know what? I don't think l can." He gives a small laugh. "Hell, I only leave messages when I'm feeling, I dunno, brave? Like some part of me thinks you could still hear it and tell me to get lost."

Logically, he knows Cas wouldn't have kicked him to the curb. Wanted him just as much.

"God I listen to it almost every night dude. Just hearing this stupid fucking line —  It's like hitting rewind, for a few seconds."

The rest comes off easy, in its own way

"I miss you, Buddy. And I — I love you more than I know what to do with. I wish it would've been enough. But instead, it killed you."

He ends it, and calls back. Just to listen to the only thing he'll ever hear Cas say again. It’s not a replacement, never will be until he can see if Heaven really does have an angels left.

But the only faith he ever had is just an echo on the other end.

"This is my voicemail. Make your voice… a mail."

[racebox-of-higgars]

Why Was I Not Cut Out For The Task?

The final (at the moment) fic in the “Unkindest Cut Of All” series. 

MAJOR SUICIDE TW - DO NOT READ IF THIS COULD BE TRIGGERING FOR YOU. Please stay safe, and my DMs are always open if you need to talk. 

Summary: "Spot slumped onto the couch, cradling the jacket against his chest as he finally let the tsunami past its barriers and everything came over him at once, wave after wave of unrestrained, gasping sobs that wouldn’t let him come up for air, not once. Each one hurt more and more than the last, as tears flowed down his face, hot and unrelenting."

Spot finds out that Race is gone, and does his best to cope.

Based on the poem "Straw House, Straw Dog" by Richard Siken, with some influence from the song No Children by The Mountain Goats. Title from Turtles All The Way Down by Sammy Copley.

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31475210

@angelslibrary 

It had been two days since Spot had last heard from Race. “You can sleep now.” That was the last message he had received. If it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t have been worried, but this was Race, who spammed him with 47 texts a minute at the best of times, but all he got was radio silence. So the fear slowly sank in, settling deep in the pit of his stomach and staying there, something he was only vaguely aware of at the edges of his consciousness. It crept in, until it became all he could think about.

Yesterday: 11:32am

You: Race, you okay?

Yesterday: 1:56pm

You: Can you just text me back? Let me know you’re okay? I want to talk to you about something.

Yesterday: 4:23pm

You: I’ll tell you now. I’m going to come out to my parents, and our friends. You won’t have to hide anymore

Yesterday: 11:18pm

You: Goodnight Racer, I love you

Today: 3:36am

You: Tony, I’m really fucking worried now. Please just tell me you’re okay

Today: 3:37am

You: Tony please

Today: 3:37am

You: Tony?

Today: 10:55am

You: Sorry for blowing you up last night. Are you alright?

You: 7 unanswered calls

Tony wasn’t answering. He wouldn’t pick up the phone. Why wouldn’t he pick up? He hadn’t even been online, which was out of character, since Race could nearly always be found endlessly scrolling Instagram or TikTok. Something was incredibly wrong, but Spot could not work out what, so instead he just sat there, going over every possible bad thing that could’ve happened and praying none of it was true as he couldn’t do anything but wait.

At around 2pm, just as Spot was getting ready to send yet another text, a knock sounded at his door. He half expected to see Race standing on the other side (he had a habit of showing up unannounced), but not Jack. He definitely didn’t expect to see Jack Kelly at his doorstep, with no warning, no reason to be there.

See, he and Jack had never gotten along well once. At best, they tolerated each other, at worst, they beat the shit out of each other. They tried to stay relatively civil for Race’s sake, but that didn’t mean that they had to actually like one another. They had a mutual agreement to not kill each other as long as it would make Race happy. That’s just how they worked.

“Why are you here? Where’s Race, he hasn’t answered me in days?” Jack’s face fell and he almost broke there and then, but he schooled his features into something carefully apathetic.

“I’ll explain, I just- you might want to sit down.” Spot frowned, but sat down on the sofa, whole body tense as the fear crept in again. Jack sat opposite him and set down the bag he had been carrying beside him.

Jack looked oddly serious, which was too out of character for Jack for it to go unnoticed.

“What’s going on?” Spot asked. Jack pulled a folded piece of paper out of the bag and handed it to Spot silently. Spot frowned in confusion as he unfurled it, eyes scanning over Race’s looping scrawl.

Spot. I want to open this by saying that I love you, and I’m sorry.

I’m sorry we could never have that future that you wanted. I’m sorry for tearing everything apart, over and over and over.

Spot shut down. He didn’t scream or cry or throw things, he was just unsettlingly silent. The pain crashed over him in waves, each one stronger than the last, but still, he couldn’t cry. He was just numb as his world came tumbling down around him. He seemed to collapse in on himself, as his shoulders slumped and his whole body seemed to cave in with the weight of the world. His hands trembled slightly as he kept reading.

You’re everything to me. I need you to know that. I know that I’m unlovable, I have for a while, but you made me forget that for a beautiful, fleeting moment. For the first time in my life I felt worthy of love, and it was because of you, and I can’t thank you enough for that. You gave me some of my best memories and feelings and you are unattainable and you have a million reasons to throw me aside but you don’t, for some illogical reason that I can’t fathom, and there will never be the words to describe how I feel about you. Just know that I love you beyond what should be possible.

Spot was completely numb as his eyes scanned the words on the page without actually reading them. He took nothing in, he couldn’t. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak. Cold hands seemed to wrap around his throat, squeezing tightly as it stole his breath. Fuck, he couldn’t breathe. He couldn't do anything but stare at the words in front of him as they swum through his blurred vision. Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK. Everything was spinning and falling apart around him and there was nothing he could do to stop it or try to hold everything together. There was no putting this back together.

I am drowning, Spot, and there’s no sign of land. I was crashing and burning and bringing you down with me, hand in unlovable hand. I’m sorry for hurting you in all of this. This isn’t how it was supposed to end, but it was inevitable.

Y’know, our friends always say that there’s light at the end of the tunnel, just hold on, but I think they’re wrong. There is no light at the end of my tunnel. It just gets darker and darker and darker with no escape. This was my only escape, and I’m sorry it came to this. There was nothing else for me to do. It should never have ended like this, it wasn’t supposed to, but I couldn’t stop it. I wish things were different and we could’ve had forever.

Spot couldn’t help but think about the life they had planned, down to the most meticulous details. He had never thought it would happen exactly as they had talked about, that seemed impossible. All the best laid plans get torn apart anyway, but he hadn’t expected them to get torn apart in this way. He thought they would at least have a future.

There are a million things I could say here, but they would all be cliche, and I know you find those disgusting so I’ll keep this short. I love you. I love you so fucking much and I’m so sorry that things had to end this way. I’ll never stop loving you, I will until I can’t anymore. I hope that I’ll get to see you again someday, but until then, please know that I love you so fucking much, I always will.

Spot didn’t know what to do. Everything spun around him. He felt sick as the ground shifted under his feet and everything was just off-kilter and he couldn’t think or breathe or do anything but sit there and read the words that made him sick to his stomach.

I want you to have my jacket. I hope that someday you’ll have the courage to wear it.

I love you,

Tony.

The note slipped from Spot’s hand as he stared blankly at the air where it had been. Jack pulled Race’s jacket out of the bag and handed it to Spot.

“He- uh- he wanted you to have this,” Jack said, utterly out of his depth, with no idea what to say or do. All he knew is that they were going through the same loss, the same pain, with no way out. Spot took it from him, holding it gently, as if it were made of glass. It still smelled like Race.

“I’d like to be alone, please,” he said, voice hoarse with the difficulty of holding back an ocean.

“Are you sure that’s for the best?” Jack asked, brows furrowed with concern. He never thought he would be worried for Spot Conlon, but he also never thought something like this would happen.

“Leave me the fuck alone, Kelly!” Spot shouted. Jack held his hands up in surrender.

“Okay, okay. Just- text me if you want to talk? Please?”

“Get the fuck out.” Jack took that as a no.

Spot slumped onto the couch, cradling the jacket against his chest as he finally let the tsunami past its barriers and everything came over him at once, wave after wave of unrestrained, gasping sobs that wouldn’t let him come up for air, not once. Each one hurt more and more than the last, as tears flowed down his face, hot and unrelenting.

He didn’t know how long he cried for, but he couldn’t cry anymore. Now he just felt empty, hollow. His head hurt with the force of his sobs and his chest hurt from trying desperately just to breathe, but that wouldn’t bring Race back. Nothing would. He was gone.

Spot’s days were monotone. Wake up, have a coffee, watch mindless TV to block out the screaming thoughts that clawed at his mind, dream. Wake up, have a coffee, watch mindless TV to block out the screaming thoughts that clawed at his mind, dream. Wake up, have a- stop. He couldn't break the cycle. Over and over again the same things, as if he was going through the days on autopilot.

His dreams were the only thing that changed. Visions of memories, both good and bad - Race bathing in sunlight. Race’s tears mixing with the rain. Race dancing in the fields. Race collapsed at the bottom of some deep pit. Race’s eyes in the light of a bonfire, his head thrown back with laughter. Race about to burn. Race burning up (he seemed to smile from the centre of his fire). Race, Race, Race. He didn’t stop, didn’t leave Spot alone.

Spot remembered their last conversation. It was burned into his mind. Race, lying on his chest, tracing patterns on his collarbone.

“I want an adventure.” He had said. “I want to feel alive.”

“So have an adventure,” Spot answered. Race’s lips upturned into a cold, cold smile.

“Watch me, Spot. I’ll have the adventure of a lifetime.” He had the greatest adventure, the adventure to end a lifetime.

Every night was the same. Endless dreams, endless nightmares, endless visions of Race’s face and god all Spot wanted to do was reach out and touch him and know that he was there but every time he tried he disappeared in his arms. Spot was falling and falling and falling and Race couldn’t catch him because Race was dead.

Race had wanted to be cremated, so they cremated him and as Spot looked at the ashes he thought about the dream of Race smiling at him through the flames that consumed him. It was a sick sort of thing, really. They scattered the ashes in the wind by the sea. The sea like his eyes, alight with a fire gone out too soon. It was all too soon. Too much, too fast. They were too young to be feeling grief like this.

“I want an adventure.” Those words echoed over and over in Spot’s mind, the forlorn way Race had said them, as if longing for a childhood gone too soon. Spot thought them over, turning them over and over in his head before he came to his conclusion. He would have the adventure Race didn't get.

He found himself in the woods. Trees surrounded him, shrouding him from the outside world and birds sang from their nests. He ran through the trees, leaping over roots and straying from the beaten dirt path into unmarked territory. Birds flew from their nests as he passed and sticks and leaves crunched underfoot. He ran and he ran and he knew that Race wouldn’t be there to catch him if he stumbled, like the many times he had been before, but he didn’t care. His lungs burned, his legs burned, and Race was still smiling at him through the flames and this time Spot smiled back.

Spot had his adventure. It wasn’t the one he wanted, but it was the only one he was able to have.

Race was always there in some corner of his mind, like a fever Spot just couldn’t break, but he was learning to live with it. He was learning to live with the cold sweats and headaches and tremors, learning to live with the pain. It wasn’t going to go away, it never would, but he could learn to accept it as part of himself. Race would always be there, but his presence was one Spot could live with.

That didn’t make it any easier though. Spot couldn’t do anything. He was completely numb, no matter what he tried to make himself feel alive. He couldn’t eat, he couldn’t sleep, he couldn’t do anything, it wasn’t like he wanted to anyway. He just lay there in bed, with Race’s jacket in his arms as the scent of Race overtook him and he listened to the blood pound in his eyes because that’s all he had the energy for. He tried to fix things, over and over, but there’s no fixing or bringing back the dead, and no matter how much Spot tried, Race was still dead, still gone.

He was dead, but still everywhere. Still hurt. Race tore everything in half. There was no putting it back together as Race burned it all down and Spot couldn’t rid himself of that nightmare, Race smiling back at him through the flames, a look in his eyes just like the one he had when he had told Spot to, “Watch me.” It coaxed Spot in, and made him want to follow. With those slightly upturned lips and the flames dancing in his eyes, who wouldn’t want to follow him? But Spot couldn’t, he knew he couldn’t.

Even so, he held onto that jacket like a lifeline. It was all he had left. The one thing he hadn’t lost to those cruel, merciless flames. It was the only thing that made him think, I don’t have to follow. I’ll wait. I have this piece of Race to keep me here, Race wouldn’t have given it to me otherwise. He could hold on, as long as he had this part of Race to keep him here. It was a choice, really. Follow Race, or try to make some good out of the worst situation possible. Whichever one takes over, whichever one you feed, that would decide how the rest of Spot’s life would go. He could maybe do something good with this. He looked at the jacket, and he knew Race had left it to him for a reason, he had wanted Spot to find the courage in himself to be out and proud.

He still couldn’t wear it, though.

He had to do something. Everything was slowly becoming too much. Spot stood in the rain as it slammed the pavement, soaking his skin, soaking his clothes, freezing him to the bone but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. He felt alive as he stood out there, for the first time in months since Race had gone. He had thought it was getting easier to wake up each day, but it hadn’t. He hadn’t felt alive in so long, it was a shock to his system. He let the rain seep through his clothes and relished in the way he shivered against the bitter cold and the sky was black with thick, dark clouds and there was nothing but him, the sky, and the never ending rain.

The rain gave way to snow.

Had it been a year already? Spot stood under the fire-coloured sky as the snow came down around him in a sheet of pearlescent white. He wrapped Race’s jacket tighter around himself, inhaling Race’s scent that had mostly faded or given way to his own, despite how much Spot had tried to preserve it. It had taken a year, one of rain and blue skies (like Race’s eyes, Spot couldn’t help but think) and terrible storms and snow, but Spot had finally found it within himself to wear the jacket. The pride pins glistened proudly under the cold winter sunlight, and Spot’s courage surged. They were all so very Race, wearing the jacket made him feel as though Race was right there with him, holding his hand through everything. Spot smiled.

[sohotthateveryonedied]

Chaos and Bloodshed Already Haunt Us

Read here on AO3!

Summary:

Tim and Jason get kidnapped by Black Mask. Jason is too sacrificial for his own good.

Tim has been waking up tied to chairs in strange places since he was thirteen, to the point where he has been kidnapped more times than he’s been to Chuck E. Cheese. When you’re a Wayne kid and a batkid, you learn to accept regular kidnappings as a part of life, just like taxes. Is it so unreasonable that Tim would prefer to wake up in his own bed, for a change? First things first: take stock. Assess the situation. Go from there. Before he’s even opened his eyes, Tim feels for what he’s pretty sure is regular rope keeping his hands tied behind him. Unfortunately, even rope can hold a bat when said bat has no weapons to bail them out, which Tim doesn’t. His utility belt and bandoliers are missing, and any spare tools he has hidden on his person are impossible to reach with the way his arms are wrenched behind him. His fingertips are already tingly, going on numb. “Red? You up?” Tim opens his eyes at the familiar voice. Jason is tied to his own chair across from him, a mirror of Tim’s own situation. The room itself is small—gray walls, cement floor, unmarked crates stacked along the walls. Jason’s helmet is off, exposing the domino he wears underneath. Tim’s mask hasn’t been touched either. “Do you remember what happened or do you need the recap?” Jason asks.

It’s blurry at best, but Tim remembers enough. “Intel mission on Black Mask, right?”

“Started out that way. We got here and I figured out that Sionis was selling weapons to Intergang so we blew the whole shipment to hell.” “You figured it out?” That doesn’t sound right, as fragmented as Tim’s memories are. From the throbbing in the back of his head, he must have been hit pretty hard. “You calling me a liar?” “I ain’t calling you a truther,” Tim mutters, fiddling with the rope that’s been cutting off circulation in his hands for what must have been at least an hour. He can’t get Jason and himself out of here in this condition. “Did you—" “Already signaled him.” Good. Bruce will send someone to bail them out of this in no time. They just have to hold out until then. “Oh, good, you’re awake,” a chilling voice speaks from behind Tim. “You have no idea how bored I was waiting for the party to start.” Fingers touch Tim’s shoulder and he jerks away. Jason, unbothered by the newcomer, snorts. “This is what you consider a party? You need some fucking friends.” Sionis ignores the jab. He passes Tim and goes straight for the camera set up near the left wall, just far back enough to fit both Tim and Jason in frame. Very, very bad sign. He turns it on, the red light blinking. “You making a movie?” Jason says. He’s snarky, but Tim can see the fear lurking behind his eyes. Roman ignores him and adjusts the camera so it points at himself. “Hello, Batman.” Tim’s eyes snap up to meet Jason’s. “In case you were wondering, this is a live feed you’re getting now. And don’t try tracing it, you’ll just waste your energy. You’re not the only one who has talented technicians on his side.” He leans in closer to the camera, his mask nearly touching the lens. “In the spirit of clarity, let me be clear: this, right now? This is a gift. This is my warning to you to stay the hell out of my business, otherwise you and your precious lackeys will have to answer to me.” He moves out of the frame and zooms in on Tim’s masked face, then Jason’s. “Lucky for me, I found a couple of your birds messing with my shipment, and they so graciously volunteered to help me set an example.” He steps aside and gestures to a tray of tools, each one more horrible than the last. Most of them are still coated in blood from his last victim. Tim gulps. Sionis peruses his collection, which gives Tim the chance to catch Jason’s attention. He jerks his head toward the camera, mouthing, Tell them where we are. Jason nods, and Tim looks back at Sionis. “You think I haven’t been tortured before? This is just a workout.” Is it true? No. He’s terrified, actually. But Jason needs time to signal Bruce through the camera, so Tim will stall for as long as he can. “Bold words, kid.” Sionis picks up a knife, tracing the edge of it with his fingertip. “Just makes it more fun for me when you break.” He comes closer and grabs Tim roughly by the chin, pressing the knife against his cheek uncomfortably close to his eye. “I’ll bet I can make you cry.” “Hey, Blackie,” Jason calls, ripping their focus away. His eyes are narrowed, mouth twisted. “Did you hear the one about the rich dude who wore blackface?” Sionis tightens his grip on Tim’s face. “Do tell.” Stop talking, Tim tries to convey telepathically. Don’t make this worse. “It was universally agreed that he was a piece of shit.” “You should learn to keep your mouth shut when someone’s holding a knife to your baby brother’s face.” To prove his point, Roman digs the knife in, slicing a thin line down all the way to Tim’s jaw. Tim inhales sharply at the sting. “Baby brother?” Jason repeats. “You really are an idiot.” He doesn’t look at Tim, keeping his glare solely on Roman. “I barely know the guy. He follows me around, thinking I walk on water or some shit, but trust me. He’s a pain in the ass. You’re doing me a favor, really.” Sionis pulls the knife away from Tim’s face. Tim releases a breath. Sionis approaches Jason now, his knife still raised with Tim’s blood staining the steel blade. “Someone’s mouthy today.” “If you think this is mouthy, you should have heard your mother last night.” Sionis plunges the knife into Jason’s knee. Jason locks a scream behind his teeth, his face contorting in pain. “Try walking on water now,” Sionis hisses. He yanks the knife out, blood splattering on Jason’s legs and the floor. Tim looks nervously at the camera, its red light blinding ominously. Is Bruce watching this from the other side, agonizing over having a front-row seat to this display? Or is he already gone, on his way to rescue them? Tim hopes it’s the latter. “You think—think I haven’t been stabbed before?” Jason pants, his teeth gritted through the pain. “That was child’s play.” “Is that right?” Sionis looks over his shoulder at Tim. “Then maybe we should get a second opinion. What do you say, kiddo? Want to match your brother over here?” “Thank god,” Jason says. “Go over there and stay, if you wouldn’t mind. Your breath smells like dog shit. But I guess you are what you eat, so.” Roman punches Jason in the face so hard Tim can hear his teeth clank from here. He does it again two, three times, until blood streams from Jason’s nostrils and spills over his lips. Tim pulls frantically on the ropes binding him, tries to do anything, but he’s held tight. “Now, that,” Jason says, spitting out a mouthful of blood and what looks like a tooth, “was better. Still amateurish, but at least you’re not a fuckin’ sissy about it.” “Hood,” Tim snaps. “Please, shut up.” Why are you doing this? “Why should I listen to you? You’re the one who got us into this mess in the first place, replacement. This is your fault.” Jason’s words are snarls and his eyes burn with a tangible hatred, all directed at Tim. But Tim knows him too well. Not everyone wears a literal mask like Sionis does. Roman reaches for his tray and picks up a new blade, this one with large, jagged teeth. “By all means, keep talking, Hood. See where that gets you.” “What, are you going to stab me? Go ahead. The little shit deserves to feel guilty.” Sionis poises the blade at Jason’s shoulder, digging the tip in until Jason hisses. He leans in close, grabs Jason’s jaw with his other hand. “I know you’re not stupid. You think that if you act like a big enough asshole, you can save the runt from me.” He pushes on the knife, slowly sinking it into Jason’s flesh, ridge by ridge. “I’m very okay with that.” Roman twists the knife and Jason screams. Tim closes his eyes but he can’t cover his ears; he can’t tune out his brother screaming in agony, and he almost wishes that he were in Bruce’s position, watching this through a video feed. At least then he could turn it off. “Stop, please,” Tim begs. “He didn’t do anything, it was all me. It was my idea to blow up your shipment. I ruined your business, not him. Just—hurt me, take it out on me. Not him.” Sionis releases the blade, leaving it sticking out of Jason’s shoulder. “Told you I could make the little bird cry.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim has never felt so powerless in his life. It feels like it goes on for hours, the blood and the screaming and the sickening sound of torn flesh. It only gets worse when he escalates to the snapping of fingers, the crackle of knife through bone. He hits Jason so many times there’s more purple riddling his face than clean, unmarked skin. And every time Sionis so much as looks at Tim, Jason does something new to pull his attention back like a wasp on a string. He provokes the sadistic bastard with vulgar comments, snotty complaints that belong more in Damian’s mouth than Jason’s. And Tim can’t do anything but watch. He doesn’t know how long it’s been when something crashes behind him, which he assumes is the door. Roman barely has time to drop the blowtorch he’s holding before a batarang strikes him in the center of his mask, knocking him out cold. Jason doesn’t react. He hasn’t lifted his head in so long it puts Tim on the edge of panic, just quiet groans and grunts through every new injury inflicted on him. “Tim!” Dick is at Tim’s side in an instant, already working on the ropes binding him. “Are you okay?” Bruce is tending to Jason, putting a field dressing on one of his many open wounds while he talks to Alfred through his earpiece. He’s telling him to call Dr. Thompkins and tell her it’s an emergency. As soon as his hands are free Tim is lunging up from the chair, only for Dick to grab him by the shoulders and force him back down. “Hey, hey, slow down. Where are you hurt?” Dick lightly prods around the cut on Tim’s face, which is undoubtedly going to need stitches, but Tim couldn’t care less. He doesn’t take his eyes off of Jason, who lets out a groan when Bruce accidentally jostles his broken arm. Tim shakes his head, swallowing thickly. “He didn’t—he didn’t do anything to me. He didn’t touch me at all. Only Jason.”

[sugarandspace]

Unlocked window (Sterek)

(posted on AO3 under the pseud aconitum)

Summary:  Stiles has a panic attack while being home alone with their five-year-old son

Word count: 2,054

Warnings: panic attack

Read on AO3

It’s been a very stressful week for them all since an unfamiliar werewolf pack had unexpectedly arrived in Beacon Hills. The pack hasn’t done anything yet, but from what Stiles has gathered from Peter and Derek, it’s only a matter of time. They know the Alpha of the pack and they know he doesn’t like to play by the rules.

Derek had suggested that Stiles leaves the town with their 5-year-old son Joel until they find out what brought the pack to Beacon Hills, and potentially make the pack leave if they are here to cause trouble.

Stiles hadn’t left, not really having anywhere to go and not wanting to leave his family and pack. He had faith that if something went wrong, the pack would be able to help. This wasn’t the first threat in the town and it wouldn’t be the last.

That didn’t mean that Stiles wasn’t constantly worried.

And it was starting to show.

It had been too many nights since he’d last slept well. He knew that he was being hypervigilant, waiting for the moment when shit would eventually hit the fan. He wasn’t really worried for himself, but he would never forgive himself for not leaving the town if something were to happen to Joel.

That’s why, when Stiles goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water for Joel who’s playing in the living room, an unlocked window above the sink makes Stiles’ heart rate spike up.

He remembers opening the window this morning when he was cooking breakfast and accidentally forgot the eggs on the stove for too long when he went to wake up Joel. He’d gotten back to the kitchen to the smell of burnt food and had opened the window for a while to let fresh air in. He’d closed the window later when it had gotten too cold in the room. Apparently, he had forgotten to lock it.

He’s been home the whole day and would definitely have noticed if someone were to have sneaked into the house through the window. There aren’t any hiding places in the kitchen, and to get to the other parts of the house one would have to walk through the living room, where Stiles and Joel have been spending time after breakfast. Stiles is sure there’s no one in the house right now except for him and his son.

He’s lucky he noticed it now, but he can’t help but think what could have happened if he hadn’t. If they’d gone to bed tonight, with the door safely locked but with a window unsecured for anyone to use it to get into the house.

Stiles’ heart beats fast and he feels the glass slip from his fingers into the sink, but he barely registers the noise, the sound of blood rushing in his ears overpowering it. Stiles feels lightheaded and he has trouble breathing.

He’s having a panic attack.

The realisation only makes it worse, because he’s home alone with Joel and he can’t have a panic attack now. He can’t defend them when he’s like this. He’s the worst father ever.

His legs feel weak and he has to slide down to the floor, to turn so his back is against the cabinets under the sink.

He tries to regulate his breathing but he can’t, too overcome with the panic.

“Dad?”

Stiles snaps his head up and opens his eyes - when had he closed them? - and sees Joel walking to the kitchen. The child sees him on the floor and runs the rest of the way to where he’s sitting.

“Dad?!” He asks, looking scared. “Dad, what’s going on?”

Stiles reaches his shaking hand towards Joel and takes his small hand to his, holding it and hoping that it brings his son at least a little comfort.

“It’s okay,” he says between gasping breaths. “Dad will be okay.”

He hates that Joel is witnessing this, hates that he can’t do anything to take that worried look away from his face.

He doesn’t register a door opening, but it must have, because suddenly Joel is screaming.

“Papa!” He yells with tears falling down his cheeks. “Papa come help dad!”

Stiles looks at the doorway to the kitchen and sees Derek rush into the room, Isaac following after him.

Derek rushes to his side and kneels on the floor.

“Stiles.”

Stiles closes his eyes tightly and tries to fucking breathe, but he can’t make his body cooperate.

“Isaac,” Derek says and looks to the doorway where the beta is still standing. “Can you go to the living room with Joel?”

“I don’t want to leave dad!” Joel screams and Stiles can feel his little hand squeeze Stiles’ clammy hand tighter.

“Just for a little while,” Derek says, his voice calm. “I’m going to help dad and then you can see him again, okay?”

Trusting his father, Joel replies with a weak, “Okay.”

Isaac comes closer and picks him up, and Stiles can feel his hand slipping from his before he disappears from his sight.

Derek cups his cheek gently, turning Stiles’ head from the doorway so that he’s looking at Derek.

“It’s okay,” Derek says. “Everything is okay Stiles. He’s safe with Isaac and you’ll be okay too. I need you to breathe, okay?”

Stiles sucks in a shaky breath and coughs it out almost immediately. Derek takes his hand and places it on his chest. Derek breathes in deeply and Stiles can feel his chest move under his hand. Having Derek at home makes him feel safer and he trusts Isaac with Joel, and the knowledge that everything truly is okay makes his heart slowly calm down.

They stay like that, with Stiles trying to regulate his breathing and with Derek speaking calm reassurances every now and then. When the worst of it fades they end up with their foreheads against each other’s, Derek’s steady breaths a calming feeling against Stiles’ mouth. Stiles knows his cheeks are wet with tears tracks but he doesn’t want to move away to brush them away.

“Thank you,” Stiles breathes out when he’s finally breathing normally. He feels exhausted like he just ran a marathon, and he lets his body slowly relax against the cabinets, the hand he has fisted in Derek’s shirt slowly uncurling from its grip. He brushes it up Derek’s chest so it’s resting against his neck, and focuses on the steady pulse under his hand.

Derek tilts his head up slowly, his nose trailing up the length of Stiles’ and up further until his lips reach Stiles’ forehead. Derek leaves a soft kiss there, one that lingers and makes Stiles relax even further. He sighs and opens his eyes when Derek pulls away.

“You okay?” Derek asks, his eyes searching Stiles’.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and nods. Then he closes his eyes again and hits his head back against the cabinets. “I’m the worst dad.”

Derek puts his hand between the cabinets and Stiles’ head when he tries to hit it again, ”You are not. You’re a wonderful dad and Joel thinks so too.”

Stiles looks at him with a frown on his face, wanting to believe but not sure if he can.

“Even after what just happened?” He asks. “He shouldn't have to see me so weak. I shouldn’t be so weak when I’m alone with him.”

“It’s not like you can decide when to have a panic attack,” Derek tells him. “And I’m sure he doesn’t think that you’re weak. He’s seen you banish a demon. That little guy knows how strong his dad is.”

They’ve tried their best to shield Joel from the more dangerous parts of the world, but unfortunately those dangerous parts are very much a part of their lives. Joel has definitely seen more than a five-year-old should have, but so far he’s been dealing with it all pretty well.

“I want to see him,” Stiles says. He wipes the tears from his cheeks and clears his throat as Derek helps him stand.

They go to the living room together and they find Isaac sitting on the couch with Joel in his lap, leaning against Isaac with his head hidden against the werewolf’s chest. He’s no longer crying but Stiles can see his shuddering breaths shake his small frame as Isaac talks to him calmly.

Isaac notices them first and whispers something to Joel’s ear. Stiles assumes that he told him that they are in the room because Joel turns around to look at them and jumps out of Isaac’s lap so he can rush to Stiles.

Stiles bends down to pick him up and hugs him back tightly when Joel wraps his arms around Stiles’ neck and hides his face in Stiles’ shoulder.

“Are you okay?” Joel asks.

“I am,” Stiles says. “Papa helped me.”

“What happened?” Joel asks, and Stiles stops to think for a moment, unsure how to explain a panic attack to a five-year-old. In the end, he ends up with a simplified version of the truth, because Joel is smart, and he deserves to know what happened instead of getting brushed off.

“It’s called a panic attack,” Stiles starts. “I get them sometimes. They make me feel really bad for a moment but they always pass. I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help,” Joel says. Stiles can hear him sniffle next to his ear.

“But you did help,” Stiles corrects him. “You got papa. And you were so brave.”

Stiles punctuates his words with a kiss to Joel’s temple and they stay like that for a while before he lowers him back down. He feels exhausted and still a little shaken, so he looks at Derek and speaks.

“I think I’m going to go upstairs and take a short nap,” he says.

Derek leans to kiss him softly and nods.

“Can I come too?” Joel asks. He looks hopeful, like he really doesn’t want to let Stiles out of his sight any time soon.

“I’m just going to sleep,” Stiles tells him. He smiles slightly in hopes that it will make Joel feel better. “I’m a bit too tired to do anything fun right now, but we can do something after dinner today. Is that okay?”

Joel nods, “But can I still come?”

“Of course,” Stiles says. If Joel wants to come to lay with him for a moment Stiles isn’t going to say no. He knows Joel will get bored eventually, but he’s not about to make that decision for him. He feels so tired he’s going to be able to fall asleep even with a fidgeting child next to him.

Stiles gives Joel his hand and they start heading towards the stairs. On their way past the couch, Stiles nods at Isaac and mouths a quiet “thank you” which is accepted with a smile and a nod.

Once in the bedroom, they get on the bed on top of the covers. Stiles takes the blanket from the end of the bed and pulls it over them as he lays down and Joel gets close to him. Joel must be more tired than Stiles realised, because he doesn’t fidget, nor does he try to start a conversation. He lays still against Stiles’ side with Stiles’ arm wrapped around him, and in the end, Stiles isn’t sure which one of them falls asleep first.

Before he can fall asleep, a few things go through Stiles’ tired mind. As much as he knows that what happened wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t control it, it doesn’t stop him from feeling bad. All panic attacks suck, but this one definitely made its way to Top Three Most Awful Panic Attacks Ever. He knows it’ll take a while until Joel is truly convinced that he’s okay. He also knows that he can’t keep going like this, and really needs to consider leaving the town with Joel for a little while if the situation doesn’t calm down soon. He’ll talk to Derek, tell him what caused the panic attack and how he’s feeling about the situation. He knows the other man was dying to ask more questions earlier but refrained so Stiles could see Joel faster.

They are going to talk and figure out the situation. He’s just going to sleep a little first.

[nalgenewhore]

Slipping Through My Fingers - Eight

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter 

warnings: angst, cemetery

an: ummm u kno wut, maybe it is not actually fun, fresh, or cool! maybe it is in fact not fun, stale, and warm? anyhoozles. 

The rolling hills, bright with vibrant green grass and dotted with squares of various rocks, went on forever. It was silent - a respectful quiet for what everyone went there for. 

Lorcan carried a subdued Kohana, who held his favourite stuffed hippo - named Robert - tightly in one hand and sucked on his thumb. It was an old habit that seldom arose. Father and son recognized some of the regulars they shared this day with. Son chose to hide his face in his father’s shoulder while father nodded a tight greeting, grief clear in the lines of his body. 

A short while later, Lorcan set Kohana down and they walked hand in hand through the neat rows of meticulously cared for headstones until they reached a black stone one, a bouquet of dark red peonies already resting atop of it. 

That was something that Lorcan had liked when he was… researching cemeteries. What a cruel and twisted thing, so morbid. But Lorcan had liked this one. They cleaned the headstones all once a week and left a bouquet of flowers on them when the anniversaries came along. She had always loved peonies, loved how fluffy they were. Her absolute favourites were the tiare blossoms of her home, but the tropical blooms were rare in the cold climate of northern Terrasen. 

Kohana dropped Lorcan’s hand and ran the last few steps, sitting down cross-legged on the plush grass. Lorcan remained a little while away, turning around so Kohana could have his own time. 

His ears picked up the melodic tongue of her home that tumbled so effortlessly from their son’s mouth. Lorcan wanted to cry, so unbelievably thankful for his son - for having the ability to speak that language. Both of theirs. It was a blessing, truly. Eventually, Kohana came running back, telling Lorcan he was going to go exploring. 

He began to roam, not too far and always in sight after Lorcan told him to keep off the other headstones. It took a deep breath and the feeling of his wedding band on his left hand for Lorcan to take those last few steps and sit down, picking at the grass. 

He didn’t say a word for a long time, just reading the engravings. 

August 30, 1995 - October 15, 2016

Beloved Mother. Wife. Sister. Friend. 

Her entire life, twenty-one years summed up in five fucking words. 

Lorcan’s eyes welled up and he reached his hand out, tracing her name. Essar Tangaroa. 

With a smile, his tears spilling down his cheeks, he whispered, in his less-than perfect Bogdano, “Hey, babe. I miss you.” He sniffed, looking down at his hands. “Ko misses you too. So do Fen, Con, V, Ro… Mia too. Everyone. Emrys made your favourites.” He pulled out a pastry bag from the canvas tote he’d brought, filled with things to occupy their child. “Oatmeal raisin. Still don’t get how on earth you like oatmeal and raisin, but I guess that’ll be one of life’s many mysteries, huh?” 

He caught her up on everything, stumbling when he got to the topic of Elide. Turning his wet eyes to the skies, Lorcan said, “I know you’re laughing right now. You’ve always delighted in my misery. You’d like her and I bet you’re insanely jealous she slept with my dumb ass cause she’s completely your type.” Lorcan laughed and almost ducked to avoid the hand Essar would’ve no doubt slapped upside his head, but it didn’t come. 

That sobered him and he straightened, tears still steadily falling. “She’s really good for Ko. And Esther, that girl is the best. Still the same bubbly little kid she always was. She and Ko are ‘bestest friends ever’. Oh, you know what’s the fucking weirdest shit ever?” Nobody replied and Lorcan wasn’t sure if he’d been waiting for it. “Rowan’s dating this girl named Aelin - perfect for each other and I hate it when they’re happy but whatever - and guess who her sister is? Yeah, fucking Elide!” 

“Até! Bad word! No bad words,” scolded Kohana, frowning fiercely as he stomped over and sat himself in Lorcan’s lap, in the cradle Lorcan’s criss-cross-applesauce legs made. “Hi, Mama. I would like you to come back, please.” Kohana’s voice wavered and he sniffled. “Please, come back. I want my mama back.” 

The lump regrew in Lorcan’s throat and he used every gram of willpower in his body, willing himself not to cry as Kohana started to, his small frame shaking with the force of it. Lorcan could only discern ‘come back’ through Kohana’s sobs and he hugged the little one closer, feeling his child turn in his arms and cry into his hoodie. “I just want mama back.” 

“I know, baby.” He kissed the top of Ko’s head, rubbing his back as he quieted, only hiccupping now. 

“Mama’s never coming back.” It was a statement, just a fact. “I don’t like that.” 

Lorcan found it in himself to smile, whispering, “I don’t like it either.” 

They remained there for a while, eventually joined by a handful of people. Dresenda walked up, taking Kohana into her arms. Lorcan watched them interact, watched his son’s eyes grow misty and watched as he ran back to Lorcan, asking if they could go now. He said yes, waiting as Kohana said good-bye to Essar. 

Kohana turned and waved shyly, then he turned back to Lorcan and away they went. The five-year old was passed out by the time Lorcan had carried him to the truck and buckled him in. Lorcan drove in silence away from the cemetery, making his way back to the main roads and away, hating that it felt like every time he came here that he was leaving a new shred of his heart with her. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

The bell for lunch rang and Elide herded her little students to the cubby room, telling them that even though it was sunny today, it was still a bit chilly and they needed to grab their jackets and coats. 

Esther needed help tugging her wool sweater over her curly-haired head but other than that, everyone was ready to go. Despite the absence of Kohana, his bestest friend seemed to be in a relatively alright mood as she raced outside with a good-bye shouted over her shoulder. The others quickly followed her, all clambering to be first outside. 

Sighing, Elide turned back to get her phone as Nehemia popped her head inside. “Ready for lunch?” 

“You know it,” Elide replied, getting her long wool coat and slipping her arms through the sleeves. “Where do you want to eat?” 

The school that they worked at was located in a quiet pocket of downtown Orynth, which meant that they had plenty of options within walking distance. Nehemia hummed in consideration, “I don’t know, I’m really craving something hot. Maybe a sandwich too.” 

“Ooh, that sounds good,” Elide said, shivering slightly as they walked outside and were hit with a gust of chilly wind. “Do you want to just go to the cafe, then?” 

Nehemia nodded, waving at a few of her students, “Yeah, that sounds good.” She looped her arm through Elide’s and tucked herself in closer. “Gods, it’s freezing.” 

Elide laughed, “It’s barely even fall, Mia. You’ve lived here for years, how are you not used to it!” 

“I’m a delicate Eyllwe blossom, I can’t be out here in this weather,” Nehemia pouted. 

“Yeah, you need your big strong man to warm you up.”

Nehemia wiggled her brows, smiling wickedly, “Oh, in more ways than one, my dearest.” She cackled as Elide made a face and shook her head. 

“I really walked right into that one,” she grumbled, her face changing into a smile as she waved at Esther, who was occupying herself on the swings, going higher and faster with every pass. 

“No Kohana today? Poor Esther,” Nehemia commented, catching the way Elide’s face fell. “What happened? Did you sleep with Lorcan again?” she joked, nudging Elide with her elbow. When Elide didn’t answer, Nehemia gasped, “You did?” 

Elide shook her head, “No, but we kissed. In the gods-damned cubby.” 

“When?” 

“Last night. After the Parent-Teacher thing.” Elide rested her head on Nehemia’s shoulder. “I stopped it.” 

“But you didn’t want to.” 

“No, I didn’t want to.” They walked out of the school grounds, making their way down the sidewalk. “It… it just feels like we should’ve been more. I walked out and he walked out and it felt so… ordinary.” If she wanted any ending, it was harsh words and anger, after something long and true. Screaming, tears - anything was better than the two of them letting go.

Nehemia gave her a snug hug, “I’m sorry. But are you sure that was your ending? What’s stopping you from going for it?” 

“Everything. We just can’t.” 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

It was getting late and Kohana was barely awake. Lorcan pushed the plate of cut up pancakes his way, “C’mon, just five bites, ok?” 

Kohana sighed and put Robert, his stuffed hippo, to the side. “Ok, Dad.” Dresenda, sitting beside him in the corner booth, chuckled and wisely ate her own waffles, knowing Kohana would be quick to glare at her uneaten food. Kid’s got the best glare in the game, a fierce and menacing frown that no one would expect from such a sweetie. 

They were sitting in an old diner, one they’d gone to for years - just Lorcan and Essar, and eventually Kohana too. They’d had a busy day after going to see Essar at around noon, then going to the beach where Kohana hunted for treasure. Dresenda had met up with them again, red-eyed as she played with Kohana and sat in silence with Lorcan. 

Kohana munched on steadily, finishing his five bites before shoving the plate away. “Done. All done.” 

The two adults smiled and Dresenda gave him a high five, “Good job, kiddo.” Kohana giggled and babbled on as the adults finished their food, picking up Robert and playing around with him while Lorcan went to pay. 

Kohana and Dresenda walked up to wait at the counter beside Lorcan as he settled the tab. “Ready to go home, até,” Kohana said sleepily, hugging his stuffy to his side with one arm as he rubbed his big brown eyes with his other fist. 

Lorcan chuckled and picked him up, propping him on his side. “Yeah, you had a big day today, huh?” 

Nodding, Kohana rested his cheek on Lorcan’s shoulder and waved good-bye to Dresenda. “Bye-bye, Dee-Dee.” 

“See ya, kid,” she quipped, giving a two-fingered salute as she walked out to her motorcycle and shortly after drove off into the night. 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

“No no no,” Elide whined as her car started sputtering. “C’mon, girlie, we’re so close to home!” They weren’t - she’d gone to the good night market after her friend from college, Asterin, had called her during a twelve-hour layover on her way home to the Witch City. They’d gotten food from the stalls and spent a few hours catching up before parting ways. 

It seemed her pleas weren’t enough and she turned her blinkers on as she turned onto the shoulder of the highway, cursing herself in Blackbeak. She sighed and waited until it was safe to get out of her car, walking to the trunk to get her toolkit. 

She walked back to the engine and leaned through her open window, popping the pedal for the hood. Rolling up her sleeves, she lifted the hood and put her hands on her hips, staring down at the engine. “Alright, Bets. What’s wrong?” 

Elide felt a wave of heat coming off the engine, as well as a puff of steam, greater than it would normally be. She groaned in frustration and put her hair up, knowing it was the coolant reservoir leaking again. 

With an old car like hers, it cracked a lot and Elide had a feeling she wouldn’t be able to patch it up and get on with it. “Oh, fuck it all!” she yelled, remembering that the only mechanic she knew was Lorcan. “I am not happy with you,” Elide hissed at her car, narrowing her eyes as she unzipped her toolkit and took out a pair of pliers to switch off the battery. “Don’t want to get electrocuted today, no sir.” 

Elide got to work, making do with what she could just so she could get home. It was a Friday, which meant she would have the whole day tomorrow to bring Betsy in to the mechanic’s. 

She was humming a song she’d been using in her classroom to teach boundaries, physical and otherwise - she couldn’t help it, they were ridiculously catchy, when a truck pulled off to the side. Elide froze, subtly grabbing the heaviest wrench she could and stepping out beside the driver’s door, just so she wouldn’t be caged in with nowhere to go. A hulking figure climbed out of the truck, “Hey. You ok?” 

Oh, fuck it all. No, there was no way this was real right now. Elide scowled up at the skies, asking her gods, What did I do to deserve this? “Hi, Lorcan.” 

He stopped, a hand lifting up to rub his brow, “Elide?” 

“Yep. Coolant reservoir gave out again,” she said while gesturing with her wrench towards her car. Lorcan raised a brow at the too-large tool, approaching warily. Elide huffed a laugh, “I didn’t know who you were and I can’t take any chances. You know, being a woman and all.” 

“I fucking hate men,” he said under his breath. “D’you mind if I take a look?” 

“Please, be my guest,” she said, moving out of the way so he could see. Lorcan nodded and rolled up his sleeves and her mouth definitely did not water at the sight of his sinewy forearms, bronze skin marked with black tribal ink. 

Elide leaned back against her door and crossed her arms, trying so hard to not blurt out why Kohana hadn’t been at school and why he hadn’t said a thing. Lorcan tinkered around for a few minutes and then stood up, wiping his hands on the rag she passed him. “I don’t think you should drive… Betsy, that’s her name, right?” 

Laughing, Elide nodded and he smiled, “Ok, so, it’s not safe for you to drive her home, from the looks of it it’s been leaking for a while. I can, um, I can give you a ride home if you want.” 

“Oh. Ok. Yeah, that’d be great,” she said, slowly packing up her things and grabbing her purse and keys. 

“I’ll get the tow truck out here tomorrow and you can pop over tomorrow.” 

“Perfect.” It was really anything but, but she could handle a half hour ride in an enclosed vehicle with him, right? That was a silly question, of course she could. She was an adult, so was he, they could be professional. 

Lorcan led the way to his truck and, like a perfect gentleman, opened and closed her door for her. Elide looked around and saw Kohana seated in a booster seat, head rolled to the side as he slept. She had a feeling the only thing that was keeping him from falling to the floor was the seatbelt. He was so cute, his chubby cheeks rosy, his thick lashes brushing against his face. 

Lorcan swung himself into his seat and turned the car on with his right hand, using his left to grab his seatbelt and click it into space. A flash of silver caught her attention and she turned her gaze to his left hand, noticing he was wearing a silver band on his ring finger. Elide remembered that band, recalled how it had hung from a chain during their one-night tryst. 

He must’ve felt her staring as he let a car pass before pulling back onto the road. “Is there something wrong?” 

Elide felt her cheeks flush at being caught and shook her head, “No, no, it’s, um, you didn’t wear your… ring. Before, you wore it on a chain.”

Stiffening slightly, Lorcan nodded, tight-lipped. “Yeah, I wear it on the anniversary. Of my wife’s passing.” He didn’t offer anymore than that and Elide felt her stomach drop. She shouldn’t have said anything. As if sensing that she was looking for a way to shove her foot in her mouth, Lorcan spoke again, “That’s why Ko wasn’t at school today - I told the office, but I guess they didn’t tell you?” 

“No, they- they didn’t. I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, offering condolences. She knew how those words sounded, had heard them so often in the years following her parents’ death but… she truly meant them. “Really, I know how those words sound, but I mean them. No one deserves pain like that.” 

They looked at each other, like recognizing like. A soft snort interrupted the moment and they both looked into the back, where Kohana was slowly waking up. He blinked, rubbing his wide eyes with his fist. Kohana startled when he saw Elide and smiled shyly, “Hi-hi.” 

“Hey, Kohana. It’s nice to see you,” she said, waving at him. “How are you?” 

“Sleepy,” he yawned, grabbing what appeared to be a stuffed hippopotamus. “This is Robert. He my hippo-po.” 

Elide chuckled, “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Robert. Did you guys have a good day today?” 

Kohana nodded slowly, his face growing sad, “Yup. Saw mama and auntie D and went to the beach. I hunted-ed for treasure.” 

“Oh, wow, really? What did you find?” 

“No treasure, but I sawed a jellyfish. Dad told me it was a moon one. It looked like see-through jello,” he told her, yawning once again. “Then we had pancakes at the diner.” 

“Pancakes? I’m more of a waffles gal myself.” 

“Dad too. He doesn’t like pancakes.” His eyes drooped and his head bobbed. Slowly, Kohana fell asleep again and snored gently. 

Lorcan looked in the rearview mirror and smiled at the sight, asking Elide quietly, “So, what’s your address?” 

“Oh, no, you should get Kohana to bed first. I can just get a cab or something from your place - it’s really no problem,” Elide insisted. Lorcan hesitated, but then he glanced back at Kohana and relented. 

“Thanks, he’s had a full day,” he said, turning onto the exit and then to the street that would take them to his neighbourhood. 

They fall into a semi-comfortable silence, listening to the radio. It wasn’t long before they pulled up in front of a quaint, two storey house. It had a porch that went along half of the front and wrapped onto the right side. The other half of the front was taken up by large bay windows and most of the other sides of the house had huge windows, no doubt letting the sun and natural light just spill in. 

The yard was a decent size and well maintained, a gorgeous garden with every flower imaginable beneath the bay windows, a trellis with jasmine, she assumed, snaking up between the windows and the porch.

Elide climbed out of the truck and waited while Lorcan carefully gathered Kohana up in his arms, carrying the sleeping child up the front stairs. Kohana woke up and wiggled to be put down once they reached the front door. Lorcan unlocked the door and Kohana pushed it open, carefully taking off his shoes before running off inside to the open-floored area as Lorcan paused, turning to Elide. “Do you want… a drink or something?” 

“Oh, sure. That’d be nice,” she said, nodding as Lorcan ushered her in. Elide took in her surroundings, the stairway directly to her right that went up and then turned to the left, disappearing to the next floor. She slipped off her shoes and looked at the living room and kitchen, taking in the lived-in space. It was cozy and warm here. 

Kohana came pattering back, precariously holding a fluffy cat under its arms. The cat seemed to resentfully accept its fate and looked to Elide with a deadened expression. “Oh, um, hi! Who’s this, Kohana?” 

“Tigger! He’s my kitty! Dad doesn’t like Tigger and Tigger doesn’t like Dad,” he informed her, bending his head down to kiss the top of Tigger’s head. “He was my mama’s kitty.” 

Elide chuckled and approached the duo, “You know, I’m more of a dog person myself. But I love kitties as well.” She reached out and softly petted Tigger’s head. “What a nice kitty.” 

Kohana nodded and smiled brightly, his cheeks dimpling. “He’s my bestest friend.” Elide smiled and startled as Kohana’s eyes widened and his mouth popped open. “Oh, no! No, Essie’s my bestest friend. Don’t tell her I said that, ok?” 

Elide nodded seriously, “I promise.” 

Kohana looked at her warily, shifting the cat to one arm. Good gods, Elide had to stifle the urge to take the cat away from him, Tigger looked like he was begging her for help. “Pinky promise?” Kohana asked, holding his pinky up.

Elide chuckled again and hooked her pinky around his, “Pinky promise, I won’t tell Esther.” 

Lorcan, who had been watching the exchange with something fond and soft in his eyes, cut in, “Prince, why don’t you go put Tigger down and go get your PJ’s on, yeah?” 

“Kay-Kay, até,” Kohana said, smiling sweetly before turning and speeding away to put Tigger down on one of the armchairs. They matched the black leather couch and were situated before the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. 

“He’s so cute,” Elide said, toying with the butterfly pendant on her necklace. Lorcan smiled, a genuine smile, and ducked his head. 

“Thanks. He’s honestly my favourite person alive,” Lorcan said and they both walked in further, their arms bumping as they both moved at the same time. Elide let him go first and trailed behind him. The little one pushed past them on his way up to his room, going as quickly as he could. 

Lorcan motioned for her to seat herself at the island bar as he went to the cupboard and got two glasses. “What can I get you?” 

“Water’s fine,” she said, clasping her hands on the butcher block countertop. Lorcan nodded and opened the fridge to grab the pitcher of cold water, filling her glass to halfway and placing it before her. 

“I’m gonna go to the bathroom,” he said, nodding once before he walked away. 

Elide took her glass and stepped onto the floor, looking to snoop around. Her eyes went to the fireplace mantle, trailing over the framed photos. Most of them were of Kohana and Lorcan, as well as a smiling woman. Elide recognized the ta moko*  marking her lips and chin, the traditional body art of the Bogdano people.

She had the same light brown eyes as Kohana did and Lorcan always seemed to look at her with an awed expression. Utterly beautiful, she was a petite, raven-haired beauty with warm brown skin. She seemed like the sun incarnate. 

Her attention was locked on one photo of the woman - her brow furrowed in concentration as she cut a wave in two, more traditional ink marking her outstretched arms, looking one with the sapphire blue waters on top of her board when two little feet padded down the stairs. “Elide?” 

She turned and smiled at Kohana, “Hi, Kohana. I was looking at the pictures. Is this your mom?” 

Kohana smiled brightly and nodded, running over to her side. “Yeah, that’s my momma.” He sat down on the thick carpet in front of the TV, opening the cupboard and dragging out a thick photo album. “More pit-churs in here. Come-come, sit-sit.” 

Elide obliged him and sat down cross-legged next to him as he opened the album on his stretched out legs. “See, this is my kōkara. She’s not here anymore but she misses me and loves me very much, you know.” 

She nodded, smiling as he gushed about his mother, pointing to all of the pictures. He talked and talked, until they had flipped to the last page, where there was a photo of Lorcan and the same sunshiny woman. Lorcan was carrying her on his back and she had her arms raised, her face tilted to the sun as she smiled. Lorcan was smiling too, his eyes crinkled against the sun. 

“Mama’s favourite colour is blue, like the Oro sea. That’s where she did surfing,” Kohana told her, carefully closing the album and putting it away. He stood up, picking at the hem of his pajamas. They were pale blue with otters on them. “I miss my mama.” 

Elide stood as well and grabbed her left wrist, rubbing her thumb over the raven tattoo she’d gotten for her mother. “I miss my mama too.” She felt someone’s gaze on her and turned around, spotting Lorcan leaning against the bookshelf, looking at her with something too heavy for her so she looked away. She’d never seen someone’s eyes hold that much depthless sadness. 

She suddenly found the wood grain of the mantle very interesting as Lorcan said, “Ko, you ready for bed?” 

“Yup!” Kohana ran off to Lorcan, launching himself into his father’s arms. “Night-night, Elide.” 

That had her turning and offering what she hoped was a gentle smile. Off of her student’s confused expression, it was anything but. “Goodnight, Kohana. It’s pretty late, I should go.” 

“Dad,” Kohana whispered, only it was way too loud and Elide graciously pretended she couldn’t hear him. “Can we have a sleepover? Like with Essie!” 

It was out of her control when her head snapped up and Lorcan stiffened, looking at her dead in the eyes as he swallowed and said, his voice ragged, “No, Elide’s gonna sleep at her house. We’ll see her tomorrow, for her car, ok?” 

“Oh. Ok. Bye-bye, Elide.” 

“Bye, Kohana. Thank you for showing me,” Elide lamely gestured towards the closed cupboard and the photo album behind it. “It was nice.” 

Kohana smiled, unaware of the awkwardness settling over them. Elide had never been more keenly aware of the amount of distance between her and another human. “See you tomorrow.” 

She repeated the phrase as Lorcan carried him upstairs and Elide moved to the front door, quickly grabbing her things, putting on her jacket and slipping out the door after putting her shoes on. She couldn’t… she couldn’t deal with saying good-bye to Lorcan, for the umpteenth time. Every time she said it, he was shoved back into her life and this burgeoning feeling of friendly familiarity couldn’t happen anymore. 

Lorcan was the parent of her student. Lorcan was her sister’s boyfriend’s brother. Lorcan was her mechanic. Lorcan was the guy she’d had a one night stand with. Emphasis on one night. 

They were not friends, they were not lovers, they were nothing more than acquaintances. 

Elide wiped away tears as she latched the front gate shut behind her and cursed herself for them. They were barely together. Nothing they did merited her tears. Or anyone’s, for that matter. 

She was walking down the sidewalk when she heard a low voice call her name. “Elide.” 

Despite the voice in her head that was telling her to keep her head down and keep walking, Elide turned, seeing Lorcan standing at the top of his front steps. “Yes?” Something akin to grief rippled through his dark irises and he swallowed once.

“Her name was Essar.”

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: *Ta Moko is the traditional tattooing of the Maori people! You can learn more here and here and here (video) 

@mythicaitt​ @tinywolfofeyllwe​ @schmlip-scribble​ @the-regal-warrior​ @empire-of-wildfire​ @rhysands-highlady​ @shyvioletcat​ @alifletcher2012​ @ttakeitbacknoww​ @tswaney17​ @ourbooksuniverse​ @flora-and-fae​ @thesirenwashere​ @queenofxhearts @maastrash @mynewdreamwasyou @cursebreaker29 @superspiritfestival @empress-ofbloodshed @queen-of-glass @sleeping-and-books @beccasophia95 @exersize-me-i-dare-u @thewayshedreamed @hizqueen4life @ifinallygavein @bat-wing-rhys @awkward-avocado-s @b00kworm @mu-si-ca-l @lovemollywho @tacmc @soitsgorgeous @staarligght

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glazed eyes, empty hearts

ao3 link!! Summary: Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand. OR: Remus has ways of keeping himself from full lucidity. Janus has some things to say about it. Genre: canonverse angst Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders (platonic dukeceit/demus/intruceit) Words: 1589 Additional Tags/Warnings: Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentions of Dismemberment, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing

Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand.

He’d have to clamp his right arm down—since his left arm was stronger—and on a table, probably, for the best angle. He’d use an electric saw, to keep himself from stopping halfway through from the pain. Maybe he’d even get away with it, too: right here on the living room table in the middle of Family Game Night, or whatever the Lights were doing, he wasn't paying attention. The others normally didn’t question what Remus did, whether a product of not wanting to look too closely or because they just didn’t care, he didn’t know. It came in handy at times like this—ha, handy, he should tell that to Pappy Patouille.

“Handy!” Remus screeched. The conversation stuttered like tripping over a stone, tumbling to the pavement, skittering off a cliff and ending up squished in half by a train on criss-crossed railway tracks before resuming its pace as normal.

Remus went back to pondering his drink, now half-empty. He kind of hoped it was alcohol, although even the more potent stuff didn’t do much for him anymore. Maybe bleach, then. He took a gulp. Snapped his fingers and malathion filled the rest of the concoction to the top. Downed the glass. It didn’t taste half bad—he almost wished it tasted worse—but it made his head spin and his thoughts appropriately fuzzy, which was all he needed.

Remus stood up, bracing himself against the armrest as the room wavered, legs quivering inappropriately under his weight. The room continued their conversation—he couldn’t make out the words, not like he wanted to, he was sure it was about Disney or some other unimportant shit—as he sunk out.

The corner of Thomas’ mind which embodied Dark Creativity, forbidden thoughts, the macabre, badness, demented reason, remained perpetually in disrepair. Remus tripped over shards of glass—broken Bud Light’s?—needles, plastic orange bottles, and crashed to his knees somewhere wet, cheek brushing against bones and plywood as his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

Remus shifted as he came to: alive, in his room, with a mind far too alert and lucid. Had he messed up with whatever he’d drunk last night—accidentally used orange juice or some shit instead of malathion? Remus growled in frustration. The easiest methods of forced mental incoherence—starvation, lack of sleep, the like—always took the longest time to take effect. If he’d paid attention last night, he would have been able to perpetuate the misery longer without this unfortunate break. He’d have to resort to more drastic measures for instant relief.

At least the blackout was nice. He normally didn’t get such an easy reprieve. When nightmares didn’t torment his sleep, the knowledge of coherence and well-restedness it offered did.

Dark Imagination always exhaled cold, stinking of rot and filth, miasma and decay. His thoughts always amplified in his domain, spinning and twisting in a way that felt good—or rather, felt terrible, which was good. Remus sank his foot into the muck, his realm unnaturally still. His creations normally drew into hiding when he came here like this—they didn’t like to see him do this. Welp. Too bad for them.

Here was a total blank slate. He could do anything. Remus’ claws itched.

It sucked how much it hurt, was the thing. The pain was delicious, and he soaked it up, reveled in it like cloth soaking blood, he needed it—but it still hurt, at the very beginning, the moment when knife hit flesh. The physical pain always hurt like hell, but the greater the pain at the beginning the longer it would keep hurting, and if at least some part of him was hurting he didn’t have to hurt a different part again to balance out the hurt in his brain.

Remus heard the footsteps only after rivulets of blood ran down his fingers.

“Remus?” The voice came soft, low, with a hint of a hiss curling the edge of their words. Remus’ blood ran cold, drip, drip, dripping onto the ground, and he grinned a false smile as he turned around—pointless, Janus always saw through him, Janus was the one person who wouldn’t brush off his antics as his simply unfortunate nature.

“Hey, welcome, Janny-Jan! Just messing around, you know me.” Remus was still far too coherent for this, brain just as awake as it had been when he’d woken up feeling nothing unnatural in his system despite the pain. Remus summoned a bottle of arsenic, aiming to chug it, when his fingers grasped empty air. Janus held the bottle away from him with one of his extra hands.

“Give it back, Jan.”

“Remus, this isn’t healthy.”

Remus cackled. The notion of “healthy” deserved that much. “Does it look like I care? Give it back.”

Janus sighed, looking resigned, and Remus knew what was going to happen before it did. That didn’t mean he didn’t struggle as six arms wrapped around him, yanking him from his domain into Janus’ room. Janus deposited him on a bed, holding him down by his arms and ignoring Remus’ pleas with practiced care.

Gloved hands met his own, stopping him every time he tried to scratch his arms, eyes, limbs. Already Remus could feel the effects of Janus’ room sink into his body, denials becoming truths as they healed his wounds, and Remus detested the comfort even as he gave in to it. Janus sat down next to him as the fight bled out of him, its absence hurting somehow more than blood and guts spilling from his wounds.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Janus said quietly, no more to Remus than to the air, but he shrugged anyway. He’d tried for far too long to rationalize his actions, formulate some sort of reasoning, some story, some grand reason why. Eventually he stopped trying, because no amount of reasoning ever stopped him. He would either do something or he wouldn’t, and that was how it worked—whatever thought that had led him to that action could have been fleeting, could have been in response to the opposite inclination, could have been anything. He’d long since given up on trying to understand his mind.

Janus should stop worrying. It wasn’t like anything would kill him, anyway.

“Well!” Remus struggled to sit up. “This has been fun, but—”

“Remus, you can’t—”

“I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

“You’re not —”

“I can’t say it’s been lovely but I should be going, got places to be—”

Janus looked about to explode, or cry, and personally Remus thought the former would be much cooler, wondered how flesh would become explosive, charred, twisted, dead. “We have to talk about this, Remus! I can’t— I can’t let you continue like this.”

Something furious and burning licked through his spine. Remus went still—still like the night, still like corpses buried six feet under the winter chill, still like death. Janus’ expression quickly smoothed over, but Remus was pleased to read fear in the pinch of his brow. “What I do,” Remus hissed, “is not up to you. I am not your charity project, and I understand perfectly well what I’m doing. You don’t get to take this away from me.”

“Remus, you—” Janus’ breath hitched. Remus didn’t— couldn’t turn to look at his face. “You can’t possibly think this is a long-term solution to your problems! ‘Oh yes, continually hurting myself will make my life better, it won’t have any lasting effects on anyone at all—’”

“I don’t want to think !” Remus screamed. He would have glared at the yellow-clad side had exhaustion not burrowed into his bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss, or the aftereffects of the alcohol. “I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to feel normal, or healthy, I just want to— to be numb, to be—”

He’d grown too used to incoherence to be able to deal with reality without it. The fact that the poisons gave him an excuse for being a fuck up, and that he’d have no shield, no scapegoat, no backup if he was still a fuck-up while being fully coherent. He didn’t particularly want to stop, not anymore, not for all the effort it’d take with too little payoff—but Remus knew better than to talk about his self-destructive tendencies to Self-Preservation.

Remus turned his back on Janus, though he felt his gaze tracing his spine. He wondered how long Janus was going to sit here with him—Janus knew better than to leave Remus unattended in his room.

Janus stood up abruptly, drawing Remus’ eye. He grabbed Remus by the arm again, and, to Remus' surprise, he felt the vertigo-like falling sensation of sinking back into his own room. Janus released his grip, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and suddenly Remus found arms around folded him in an embrace. “We will be talking about this again,” Janus murmured, before both him and his touch disappeared as quick as it had come. Silence resounded in his wake, and Remus realized he’d been given what he’d asked for—his freedom.

Remus summoned another bottle of arsenic and drained it, relishing the way it instantly weakened his limbs, confused his thoughts. He sunk back onto his bed of corpses and plywood, gaze falling limp over his realm, wind rustling over eyes that saw no sights and ears that heard no sound.

[fritae]

The Missing Piece (Chapter 12)

Closer.

gang! au / ceo! au

characters: dabi x f. oc, lov

status: ongoing

read on ao3 here.

a/n: i really like this chapter heh, hope u enjoy! 😚

The staircase leads all the way to basement. I wondered why they would hide such steep, hidden steps in Dabi's office when they could create (much) shorter, more accessible ones from the first floor.

But I'm guessing that's the point.

This isn't supposed to be easy to reach. And Dabi's office is the one place no one would dare enter.

Aside from us, of course.

The basement is completely dark, forcing me to draw myself even closer to Dabi. I enjoy the weight of his hand in mine. He has a firm, tight grip. But just as the thought warms my cheeks, I shake it out of my head.

Within seconds, Dabi turns on the lights.

My eyes widen, taking in the sight before me.

Blood.

A lot of it.

Though it looks dried, like it's been there for ages.

I spot a wall of different sized knives on one hand. A gun display on the other. A shelf of jars, filled with a murky looking liquid and...I don't even want to know what that is inside.

Dabi watches me.

There's a simple, plastic white table in the center of the floor with a large white board behind it.

The place is much messier and less...classy, than the rest of the Blaze.

But I have the feeling it's because it's not meant for outside eyes.

"You okay?" Dabi asks.

I nod, squeezing his hand to comfort myself.

Before the others reach the bottom, he whispers in my ear, "Whenever you want to leave, let me know. You don't have to be here."

"Okay."

"And," He takes another glance at the stairs as the others begin to appear. "Again, Rina. This place does not exist. Anything we say here does not leave this room. Got it?"

I glance warily at the knives.

"Why are you so worried?" I try to smile so he doesn't pick up on my nervousness. "I don't have anyone outside of you guys anyway. Who would I talk to?"

My comment seems to confuse him. "What about-"

"Welcome to the League!!" Toga jumps off the last few steps and swings into full view.

I shoot Dabi a look. "The League?"

"The League of Villains, of course!" Atsuhiro follows Toga, a dramatic grin on his lips. "Only the baddest group of bad boys in town."

"And girls!" Toga calls out.

"League of Villains?" I cackle. "Who came up with that?"

Tenko scowls.

Oop.

Dabi lets go of my hand and motions for me to take a seat on one of the plastic chairs.

I pick a red chair near the board.

"So what is that you guys really do?"

"I told you," Dabi says. "Special services to people willing to pay up."

Given where we are, that suddenly feels a lot more sinister than it did when he first told me.

I look back at the knives and jars in the background.

"So like, a gang? Where you steal things and hurt people if someone pays you enough? Like the movies?"

"Guess you could put it that way."

"And there's actually people that pay for this stuff?"

Dabi shrugs. "It's a niche market."

Woah.

There's a lot more questions in my head, but now is not the time. Maybe later.

As Dabi moves to take a seat, his abdomen brushes against the edge of the table and he hisses in pain.

It releases blood again.

"Fuck!" He grips the skin.

I move closer to him, gripping his hands again. "It still hurts?" I ask worriedly. "Is there anything we can do?" I look around at the others quickly.

"Yes!" Toga says, a little too eagerly.

"What is it?"

She hops over to knives behind us, and takes a moment deciding which one she wants.

She brandishes a short but sharp blade and lets out an excited squeal, as though she enjoyed this.

"Fire please!" She calls out.

What's she doing?

Dabi groans and pulls a lighter out of his pocket. He tosses it toward her, and she carefully holds it under the edge of the blade, running it up and down for several minutes until it turns red.

She's going to seal the wound so it doesn't get infected.

"Lie down, boss," She says in a sing-song voice.

I clear the few papers were scattered on the table and move so Dabi could spread himself over it.

He lifts the edge of his shirt to his midriff, and my breath catches in my throat when I see his abdomen.

The skin is covered in large swaths of reddish purple.

Like parts of it were burnt off...

I gasp.

"These are old," Dabi looks at me. He's watching me carefully, wanting to see just how I'd react. "Still want to be here?"

I swallow my anxiety as I stare at Dabi's mismatched skin. I won't give him the chance to say 'I told you so.'

This must be why he wouldn't let me dress the wound.

He didn't want me to see this.

No wonder the stab didn't phase him.

What else has his body been through...

"Here I come!" Toga grins.

She was all too eager to take the scorching knife and press it to his stomach.

Dabi clenches his teeth immediately, leaving me to hurriedly stand next to him. I squeeze his hand to soothe him, but he grips mine back so hard I think he might break it.

I brush his hair out of eyes and press my hand to his forehead to calm him.

"It's okay," I tell him softly. "It's over."

The others stare at Dabi's wound uncomfortably, like they've been under Toga's knife before.

I wonder if they have similar wounds.

Dabi releases his harsh grip on my hand and begins to breathe slower.

One things strikes me though.

Despite all the pain he's undoubtedly feeling right now, not a single tear drops from his eyes.

I think it might just be him trying not to appear weak in front of us.

But as I look into his eyes, I'm surprised to find them completely dry.

"Are you superhuman or something?" I joke with him.

He looks at me quizzically.

"All of that and you didn't cry?"

Dabi closes his eyes. "I don't cry." He grits his teeth.

I roll my eyes.

Whatever you say.

The others slowly help him sit up straight. I take the first aid kit from Atsuhiro, picking out the cotton, gauze and antibacterial wipes.

Dabi is less reluctant when I try to wrap the area this time.

"You can hold onto me if you want," I tease as I wrap the gauze around his body.

A small smirk appears on his lips. His arm suddenly snakes around my waist, pulling me close to him.

I blush and the gauze falls out of my hands.

Dabi tilts his head. "What's wrong? Thought you wanted me to hold onto you?"

The guys snicker behind us.

I push him away from me, and he laughs as I take another piece of gauze and try again.

"You guys can talk now," I tell them focused on what I'm doing. "What exactly happened today?

Did Mr. Lane find out about the League? Is that what made you a target?"

Dabi is silent.

His silence puzzles me. I look to the others to see if they knew anything.

"Dabi tried blowing up his car!" Toga volunteers.

I frown.

Could this be just because of how Mr. Lane treated me?

No. There's no reason for it to mean that much to Dabi.

Enough to get angry, sure.

To harm Mr. Lane?

Doubtful.

"Why would you blow up his car?" I ask.

Tenko pulls up a chair. "We did some research on him. He's working with some really shady people. And Dabi told us about the whole Todoroki affair."

I shoot Dabi a look.

"They're trying to trick people into thinking they're heroes. That they should be put on a pedestal and admired. There's people out there telling their kids to be like them. Meanwhile they're going around-"

"Enough," Dabi interrupts Tenko. "Point is, they're fakes. They built up their media empires off that fake image. And we're going to expose them."

"But you guys are also doing...you know," I don't know how to say it in a way that isn't offensive. "I mean, you tried blowing up his car. And I'm guessing you probably have done more...if I'm not reaching."

Their eyes harden.

"We never pretended to be good."

I know I should stay silent, but I keep going.

"Right, but you have a double image too. There's the Blaze, and then there's the League."

They shake their heads.

"The Blaze is to funnel money into the League. Yeah, sure it's a front, but those who need our services know where to find us. We can't have masses of people finding out about the other shit we do, can we?"

"But how did this all start? What are you trying to achieve?"

"We just hate hypocrites. We'll help a bad guy to bring down a worse guy. Those that act like angels in public are our favorite targets. I don't care if we have to steal, blackmail, or kill them," Dabi's eyes shine with evil. "Whatever it takes to beat their egos down. Reveal the private faces they hide. Until they're forced to show their bloody hands before the world. Someone like Enji is using Lane for media coverage. Lane is depending on him for protection and cash. We can take them both down."

"What if you get caught?"

He dismisses the question, like it's not even worth his time. "By who?" He scoffs. "Lane? As soon as we take down Enji, Lane's done for. Since he's your old boss, we can give you leeway with how badly you want us to go after him." Dabi says this like that's what I'm genuinely concerned about right now. "Lane's a scared little prick anyway, as soon as he saw me he bounced out of the car and screamed for protection." He laughs like he can picture Mr. Lane's pathetic position as we speak. "But he'll fall. Just like the rest of them."

"I meant the police, Dabi."

The question puzzles him as if he's never considered it before. But the look in his eyes tells me they're even less of a concern than Mr. Lane.

"Don't worry about that," He says. "That's the least of our problems, to be honest."

I nod.

I let them speak uninterrupted for the rest of the night. They have business to take care of, and if I keep asking questions like this, they'll never get to finish. It's enough that they waited all day for me to leave so they could start. Can't hold them up at night as well.

The Todoroki name was brought up several times, among others. It seems strange now, considering Dabi knows it was Mr. Lane's relations with Enji that led to me leaving the company the way I did. Turns out he knows a lot more about Enji than I do.

I try to keep track of the other names as well, but there's so many and I'm so tired, I can barely keep up.

"Here's where Rina comes in," Dabi continues.

My eyes widen at the mention of my name.

"Enji's using Lane for his image. Rina, you said they were working on a movie or something?"

"A documentary, yes."

"We need to make sure that shit doesn't air."

I bite my lip, trying to remember as much information as I could about the documentary. It was supposed to air already. I remember Mr. Lane saying it would be within the month.

But it hasn't yet.

Which means I need to find out more from Al.

"My roommate still works at NNTV. She's the floor manager so she might have some idea of what's going on. I can ask her."

"You sure you can trust her?" Dabi asks with a frown.

"Well, I'm not gonna tell her any details, she's the one that's gonna need to have trust in me, no?"

Atsuhiro cracks his knuckles and rubs his neck. "I don't know, I don't like the sound of that. We have our own ways of finding stuff out so-"

"It won't hurt to try," I insist, looking at Dabi since he's the one that has final say on these matters. "Having 2 avenues of information is better than 1."

Truth be told, I just want to feel useful. I want to feel like I have a role to play, not just that I'm here to "sit and watch".

I want them to feel good about me being here, not apprehensive about whether this was a good decision.

After some deliberation, Dabi sighs. He looks to the others for input. "Might as well?"

"I mean she's here," Tenko says monotonously. "Might as well use her."

Dabi nods and then turns to me. "Just don't be stupid with it. Lead her into the conversation, don't bring it up out of nowhere. She'll be curious about why you're bringing it up. Don't say anything that'll make her ask questions. The more questions she asks you, the more suspicious she'll be."

"Relax guys, I got this." I smile. "Besides, she's a chatterbox. She'll open up at the slightest nudge and go on forever. She's the one that told me about all the.." I grimace. "..issues with the Todoroki company."

Plus, she's my friend! Of course, I can trust her. We've been roommates for years. If anyone could tell me about Mr. Lane's current plans for the documentary, it'd be her.

"So it's settled!" Toga claps. She takes a marker and goes up to the white board, drawing a flow chart with all that's been discussed today. She adds my part last, circling my name and underlining it several times for emphasis, over a big red INTEL SOURCING.

The sight of that makes me smile, like I have a role to play in all of this. I look around at the others but they're all preoccupied with moving things around and discussing their own parts.

The lack of enthusiasm isn't surprising, I mean this is normal for them.

But all I can think of is how exciting it'll be if I have something to contribute the next time we meet. If they'll call me down, and look at me expectantly. I imagine the looks on their faces with glee and the thought almost makes me giddy.

"Okay, are we done here?" Dabi asks.

A bunch of 'yes'es and 'yup's fill the basement.

"Alright then," Dabi grabs a leather jacket from on the wall and checks to make sure his keys are inside. Then he walks my way and grabs my arm.

"Time for you to go home," He says, moving me in front of him.

"But-"

"Now," His eyes narrow. He moves his head in a silent nudge, telling me to turn around and make my way upstairs.

The others watch us curiously, and Toga lets out a snicker at my expense.

"I'm jealous!" She calls after us. "Wish I had someone to drive me home!"

Dabi groans, nudging me to keep moving.

"Bye guys," I wave back at them from halfway up the steps. "I'll see you tomorrow!"

They all wave warmly and I can't help thinking how grateful I am that they trusted me with this.

It feels so weird emerging out of Dabi's office like this, from a secret path that leads deep under the building. But Dabi simply presses another tile in the walls, and the entrance reseals itself, as though it never existed.

We make our way to his car, and I hurry to catch up to him. The height difference certainly doesn't help.

He unlocks the car and slides into the driver's seat. I follow into the passenger's seat and shift awkwardly in my place.

"Where do you live?" He asks as he readjusts his rearview mirror. No sooner had I told him the address, than he revved the engine and sped away from the Blaze.

The ride is quiet for a while. Regrettably so. Dabi hands me a box of disinfectants to wipe the blood off my hands. I wonder how many times he's had to do the same thing before coming into the office.

I fiddle with the hems of my shirts as I try to think of something to talk about. Dabi doesn't seem to be in as big of a rush to speak, his eyes darting from the rearview to the side mirrors periodically as we cruise down the mostly empty highway.

"Dabi?"

"Hm."

"When they said you were gone today, were you really in the basement the whole time?"

Dabi takes a moment to answer. "After I got back, yeah. Couldn't exactly walk through the front doors looking the way I did." He glances at me before switching lanes.

"Were you avoiding me?"

"Partly."

I nod. "Now that I know about the League, do you think you'd avoid me in a case like this again?"

"A case like this won't happen again."

"Okay." I respond quietly. "Cause you know I get worried."

Dabi seems to be deep in thought.

"You worry a lot for someone who's only met me a month ago."

I smile. "Well, of course. We're friends aren't we?"

Dabi spares me a look before switching lanes again. "Right." But he doesn't look like he fully believes me.

"You think you'll be able to handle your friend?" He changes the subject.

"Who, Aliyah? Of course! I told you, we're really good friends and she's the kind of person that loves gossiping anyway. It'll be a piece of cake."

He grunts. "Okay. Because to be honest, that's part of why I wanted you at the Blaze."

I don't know why hearing that makes me feel slightly sad, but it does. "The documentary?"

"Yeah. I mean you work in the media industry. You'd know about that stuff. People like Enji have the industry wrapped around their palms. When you told me he was cozying up to NNTV, I figured you'd be the person to handle all of that for me."

I nod. "So why haven't you asked me before today?" Come to think of it, he even sounded reluctant about agreeing.

"I don't know," He sighs. "Still not sure I want you mixed up with all of this."

I roll my eyes. "I'm not even a member, remember? I'm just getting information for you," I tease. "What's so dangerous about that?"

"That's what worries me," Dabi glances at me, his brows pulled together. "That's all you see it as."

"What am I supposed to see it as?"

"What it is," Dabi gets increasingly agitated, but he tries to keep himself calm. "I'm not sure you're taking this seriously enough, Rina. The closer you get to us, the more at risk you are. The more people that know you work for me, especially what kind of work," He looks dead serious. "The more danger you'll be in."

I roll my eyes. "But no one knows anything about you, Dabi. I've been here for a month and I'm only just finding out about all of this. And I'm sure there's much more I don't know. How would people outside of the League even find out?"

"Same way we find out shit about them. Lane's using his Todoroki connections to supply him with information and protection. They're good at what they do."

My mouth drops. "You mean the Todorokis know about you?"

"Well," Dabi's jaw hardens. "They think they do."

I wait for him to say more, but he leaves it at that. We ride the rest of the distance in silence.

Once we pull up in front of my apartment complex, I try to put a smile on my face.

"Thanks Dabi." I tell him as I unlock the door.

He nods without looking at me. "See you tomorrow."

Those words trigger me immediately and I let go of the handle.

"Don't say that."

Dabi looks confused.

"You said that yesterday and had no intention of seeing me." I cross my arms. "You broke your promise."

"Don't be dramatic, no one says that shit as a promise."

"See you tomorrow means I'll see you tomorrow," I tell him seriously. "Otherwise, just say goodbye or something else."

He leans his head forward against the steering wheel and sighs. "It's just a stupid phrase, you're overthinking it."

I frown.

"See you tomorrow," He gives up. But still, I don't leave.

"I mean it!" He says. "I. Will. See. You. Tomorrow. Good enough?"

I grin. "Mhm, thank you!" I lean over to give him a quick hug before I leave, and he immediately recoils, like my body was made of ice.

"Handsy, aren't you," He mutters, craning his neck to look at me, without getting too close.

I pull away.

"Always have to ruin the moment, don't you," I counter, slightly disappointed. I turn to open the door, and suddenly feel him pull me back in.

"How do you do that?" His voices comes out low and raspy.

I look into his eyes. "Do what?"

There's that frustration in his eyes again.

"Fucking making me feel bad about shit I'd never fucking feel bad about." He growls.

The way he says it makes me blush.

"Cut that shit out."

"Yes sir," I mumble.

He leans his head back.

Then, he hesitantly opens his arms.

I shake my head, pulling my purse over my shoulder again. "Not gonna force you to do something you don't want to do."

I open the door this time, and just as I'm about to step out of his car, he pulls my arm again - harder this time, and I fall back into the bend of his arm.

My heart is pounding faster. I shake my hair from my face to get a better look at Dabi in the dark.

"Why are you so much fucking work," He mutters, his face inches away from mine. I swallow.

He leans forward to hug me closer to his chest. The leather jacket feels surprisingly smooth against my cheek, and my hand finds the back of his seat to balance myself, careful of coming near his wound. He holds me to him for a few long breaths and I smile against his chest, knowing he can't see me right now.

When we pull away, I look at his face once more. But Dabi avoids my gaze.

"You don't have to play along with me," I tell him, a teasing smile on my lips. "I'll only expect more from you next time."

"See you tomorrow," He mumbles, still without facing me. His foot is on the brakes but he's already pulling the gear shift into Drive.

And then, just before I leave for good and with no time to think this through -

I press my lips on his cheek.

Dabi's eyes widen immediately and he looks at me in alarm. "What-"

"Bye Dabi!" I wave with a laugh as I hurry out of his car. I run to the door of my building, grateful for the dark to hide my red cheeks.

Dabi remains in front of the building for a moment, his head still turned my way in shock.

I close the door behind me but hurry to the window, peeking the corner of my head out just in time to catch him shaking his head and rubbing a tired hand across his eyes.

There's no way to describe the relief and warmth in my chest, when he eventually pulls out of his spot.

But just before he can drive off, I swear I feel him smirk at the window.

As if he can hear the adrenaline thrumming in my veins.

[kirah69]

Or Stiles and/or Peter have a really bad bout of dysphoria. If not triggering for you ❤🧡💛💚💙💜🤎🖤🤍

Yes! Thank you!

So here it is. For the Full Moon Ficlet Prompt DISCONNECTED & for the @transbingo​: Vampires.

Dysphoria: It's a term for the anguish and distress a person experiences as a result of a disconnect between their gender identity — who they feel they are — and the gender a doctor assigned them at birth.

Laura Beltrán Villamizar

Title: Fucking Vampires

Pairing: Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski

Summary: A fucking vampire turns Stiles and sends to hell all the effort he had made with his transition.

Warnings: Trans male Stiles, Vampires, Forced detransition, Angst, Strong body disphoria

Chapters: 1/?

[AO3 link]

Chapter 1

Stiles woke up in a fucking abandoned warehouse, again. Why couldn't he wake up for once in the bed of an attractive stranger? Oh yeah, for that he would have to socialize. He hadn't even been caught drunk on the way home from a party, at least then he'd have an excuse. Someone (or something) had caught him back from the library late at night. He didn't even remember how it happened, just he was on the street and now he was- oh wait, it wasn't a warehouse.

That in the background was the noise of the subway and behind him was an old subway car. Everything looked gray under the few remaining lights on the ceiling (which were brighter than he'd expect), maybe it was just covered in dust. The air seemed stagnant, and he could smell decomposing bodies. It must have been an abandoned station and by the boxes, the makeshift tents with old fabrics, the gasoline drums turned into bonfires and so on, homeless people lived there. He was probably sitting on the bed of one of them. Where were they? There was not a soul around him, not even rats.

Stiles felt his head for any injuries (the bad guys had a habit of hitting him on the head to knock him unconscious) and there was some dried blood, but no wound, it didn't even hurt. He looked down to see if there were any other injuries and-.

His heart stopped. He lost his breath. His mind went blank for an instant, and then he was filled with sheer panic and terror.

It can't be, it can't be, no no no nononononono, not again, how, no, why, it can't be, not again, please, please, why, how, this can't-, nono nonononono...

He couldn't know how long he was like this until his mind settled down, just long enough to form rational thoughts. Everything had returned. Someone... something had kidnapped him and had... had... Oh god, fuck, something, somehow, had made his body return to... its original form. He had tried so hard to get rid of all that and now... now they were back. His breasts. And inside of him... he was pretty sure his ovaries and uterus had returned as well. He brought a shaking hand to his groin and... shit, his clit had returned to its original size as well. He was terrified of looking in a mirror or talking; he didn't want to hear himself, he didn't want to see his face again with feminine features.

Eight fucking years of hormone therapy and operations gone to waste! Who the hell had done that and how? And how come he still hadn't passed out from the panic attack? His chest... didn't ache. It should, and he should be out of breath and blacked out, but it was as if he didn't need to breathe even though his lungs continued to inflate and deflate.

He stopped thinking about it when he felt another presence nearby. “Feel” was the right word because he didn't hear it or see it until it was in front of him. It was a tall man with long blond hair in a ponytail, intense green eyes and extremely pale skin. He was dressed in black from top to bottom with a knee-length leather coat. Was it a requirement for sinister villains?

“How are you feeling?” asked Stranger with a French accent. Oh wait, he had read this.

“Are you a fucking vampire?”

There was a shocked expression on his face followed by a smile that showed too many teeth.

“I knew I had caught a smart one. My nam-.”

“What have you done to my body? Why did you do this to me?”

“Um... Well... I admit I didn't expect it.” He seemed to be trying to smile, but he grimaced instead. “It's the first time I've turned... well, someone like you. I didn't even know you were a woman.”

“I'm not a woman!” he hissed through his teeth.

“I mean, I knew that the transformation regenerates mutilated limbs, missing organs...” he explained with wide gestures of his hands, “but I didn't even know you were an operated girl.”

“Man! I. Am. A. Man!” he screamed and flinched at the sound of his high-pitched voice.

“Um... Look... I'm very sorry about this, but I have to say that you look very pretty like that.”

Stiles saw red. Something reacted within him, like the snap of a whip, and just as quickly he launched himself at the creature. He didn't think about it, he didn't consciously do it. It was as if the beast mode switch had been flipped and his humanity had stepped aside. He felt everything, he acted with all the precision that his new abilities allowed him, but he did not control it.

When his prey stopped moving in his hands, he came back to his senses. He first noticed the blood in his mouth, a taste that should have been disgusting, but he just swallowed. His hands were covered in the same blood and his clothes too. He had practically bled that pig out, appropriate. He had a broken arm, but he could already feel it regenerating. The vampire's body was at his feet. Or part of it. A pair of limbs were scattered around him, and his head had ended up on top of the subway car.

He let out a shaky breath and staggered backward until he tripped over some box and fell to the ground. His mind returned to his situation and he stopped breathing. Not that he needed it anymore. He reached into his pocket for his cell phone, but it slipped between his blood-soaked hands. He tried to catch it a couple more times, but ended up giving up. He left it on the ground and dialed the number. It was a miracle that there was signal there, and he attributed the first tears to the relief it made him feel. He lay down next to him with his knees and arms curled, making himself as small as he could, and waited as the tones sounded.

“Hello, Stiles.”

He heard Peter's cheerful voice, and a sob escaped him.

“Stiles, what's wrong?” His voice quickly turned concerned.

“Peter.” Shit, why did his voice have to sound like this?

“Stiles?” He sounded confused, perhaps because he didn't recognize his voice.

What could he say? How could he explain all that? He didn't want to say it out loud, he didn't want to hear himself in that voice talking about his worst nightmare. He sobbed again, his chest contracting in a strange way because he didn't need to breathe, but he was trying and surely it was necessary to speak.

“Stiles, listen to me, I need you to take a deep breath and tell me where you are.”

That made him give a nervous laugh, and he seemed to be able to control his diaphragm again.

“An abandoned subway station.”

“Can you go to a public place? Can you get help?” he asked calmly, though his voice was full of concern.

“Um... I can... Wait, what time...” He turned his head to see the screen. 3:29 pm. “No, I can't go out. Peter...”

“Don't worry, I'm on my way.” It was true, he could hear the car's engine. “If you can, don't turn off your phone, I have located you. Are you safe? Do you have danger nearby?”

“No, I'm alone.” He felt a great relief knowing that Peter was on his way. He was going to take hours, he had to get there from Beacon Hills, but Stiles knew he would speed up as much as he could to get there as soon as possible.

“Okay. Are you hurt?”

Stiles began to cry louder. No, technically he wasn't hurt, it was even worse.

“Stiles, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me. Are you hurt?”

“N-no, no. Peter...” he said with a whine.

“I'm on my way, hold on. Hide if you can. You'd have to hang up or the battery-.”

“No! Peter, please...” The idea of staying there alone without even Peter's voice terrified him.

“It's okay, I'm here. Can you tell me what happened?”

He knew Peter just wanted to distract him so that time would pass faster, although for him it was enough to hear his heartbeat on the other end of the phone (it was strange and at the same time comforting that he could hear it).

“I was coming back from the library last night. God, I don't know how I could have been unconscious for so long. I woke up here a few minutes ago and this...” he gave a humorless laugh at how ridiculous it was,” this vampire appeared. A fucking vampire, Peter! Why did it have to be a vampire? If it had been... anything else.”

Anything, even if its only intention had been to kill him. That would have been better than what had happened.

“Well, now we can be a cliché.”

Stiles wanted to laugh, but the sound that came out of his mouth sounded more like a groan. Then his cell phone started beeping.

“No, no, no, no, no.”

He leaned over the phone, there was only five percent battery.

“Stiles, you have to hang up. I promise I'll be there soon, but you have to hang up and keep your phone nearby in case you move. I have your GPS signal located, I don't want to lose it.”

Stiles wasn't going to ask how he had located his phone, Peter was up to date with technology. At that moment he was only grateful for it because the truth was that he had no idea where that station was.

“Okay. Don't let the police arrest you.”

“They couldn't reach my car even if they tried. Although maybe you should be listening for police sirens.”

He hung up the phone reluctantly and brought it close to his body, it was his only connection with Peter. Maybe he should feel bad about not calling his father. He could have arrived quickly with the siren without risking a chase, but the truth was that Stiles didn't know if he would come, he didn't know if he would pick up the phone or if he would believe him when he explained the situation or even if he would consider it important enough to travel from Beacon Hills. In short, he couldn't trust his father to help him. He had been aware of it for a long time, but at times like this it was particularly painful.

He could have called Derek, he also lived in Los Angeles, but most likely he wouldn't even pick up the phone and besides, Derek had no idea of his situation and it would be very awkward to explain. Lydia lived in New York, they barely kept in touch in recent years; and it would be futile to try to contact Scott now that he was on the run in Canada with his latest romance, a hunter whose family weren't too happy about her dating a werewolf. (Stiles was not at all surprised that history repeated itself.)

However, he had no doubt that Peter would come, even if he had to cross the country to do so. He was the last werewolf in Beacon Hills and the one in charge of protecting the town since Scott had abandoned his duties as alpha of the territory. After Scott's departure, Peter had sent the few werewolves of his abandoned pack out to other packs to take care of them while he stayed there alone. Peter was an omega, but he was far more capable of keeping the people of Beacon Hills safe than Scott and his entire pack had been. Stiles had kept in touch with him while he was studying in Los Angeles. At first it had been to keep up with the threats against Beacon Hills, but everything had settled down in a few months and they had still kept in touch.

Peter didn't know about his situation either, but Stiles felt that he would understand it much better than Derek. Although if Peter told him like that asshole that he was fine like this, Stiles was not responsible for his actions.

Maybe he fell asleep at some point or got too distracted because suddenly a noise made him react and he jumped up. His body took on a fighting pose not unlike a cat instinctively. It was a distant metallic noise, but more sounds followed like footsteps, gates opening and closing, and a heartbeat. He then smelled a person before he even saw it. He heard a kind of hiss and realized it was coming from him. He was a snake now? Then he saw Peter appear from one of the tunnels and the hiss stopped. His legs shook, and he was about to collapse, but then Peter was there to hold him. He tried to call his name, but he had forgotten to breathe and there was no air in his lungs to make his vocal chords vibrate.

“I've got you, I've got you,” Peter whispered, sitting him down on the closest mattress without leaving him.

Stiles shrugged and buried his face in Peter's neck, clutching his shirt with both hands. He had forgotten about the blood that now also stained the wolf's clothing. He sobbed in great relief now that at last he was not alone. One hand stroked his back comforting while the other held him tightly.

“You did a great job,” Peter commented. Stiles frowned and then realized he was talking about the vampire's corpse. “We'll have to burn it to make sure it doesn't resurrect, but decapitation is definitely the best method.”

“Good to know, you can use it with me.”

“Hey, no, don't say that.” Peter hugged him tighter and kissed his hair. “You're going to be fine, you're going to get over this.”

“Peter, I... this... m-my body...” Fuck, he couldn't say it.

“I know. I know, sweetheart. We'll fix it, I'll find a way,” he told him confidently, and his heart didn't give any lies away.

“How are we doing...? Wait, you know?” Stiles lifted his head and looked at him confused.

Peter looked at him almost tenderly, a slight curve on his lips.

“From the beginning, well, from the formal. At first the smell of Adderall prevented me from recognizing the other medications, but then it was clear.”

“So, all werewolves...” The idea that any werewolf, any creature with enhanced senses could...

“No, don't worry, if you don't know how to recognize them, it's difficult to distinguish between medications. I had a friend in college who was also under hormonal treatment, that's why I was able to recognize them.”

“My smell isn't... is...” He had always worried about so many things so that people would not notice his situation and now he had to worry about another one.

“It's slightly different from most boys your age, although mainly because of its lack of smell of semen and most would attribute it to a lack of sexual activity. Anyway, you don't have to worry about it, you will soon be practically scentless.”

Stiles frowned and ducked his head to smell himself. He smelled of blood and other foreign smells, but he could barely smell his personal scent.

“It's a peculiarity of vampires,” Peter explained. “It's the way to recognize them, although the most skilled strive to simulate a human smell.”

“Huh. Well, it's not my main concern right now. What...? Fuck, how am I going to-?”

“We. We're going to fix this, both of us.”

“But how?! I can't even have surgery again! It'd just... again...”

“I know, but I'm sure there's some magic that allows us to recover your body. In ancient times surgeries wasn't an option, but magic is older than science. We'll find the spell we need or create it if necessary,” he said it with such conviction that it made him think it was true, that it was possible.

“Werewolves can't use magic,” he whispered.

“But vampires can. You already had a slight affinity for magic as a human, but now, with a little training, you'll be able to use it without restriction.” That proud smile on his face made him blush (or would have if he could still blush).

“You don't have to-.”

“Shh, none of that. We're going to do this together, don't doubt it.” His expression was determined. Stiles was sure that, even if he refused, Peter would keep trying to help him behind his back.

It was comforting that someone cared so much about him. Stiles sighed in relief and relaxed next to Peter, waiting until it got dark.

Peter took him out of the subway station through its abandoned entrance. It was in the suburbs, a pretty abandoned area in every sense, which was good since he was still covered in blood. Peter's Shelby Cobra was right at the entrance (it was a miracle it hadn't been stolen while they were waiting). It was a shame to stain the extremely expensive upholstery with blood, but he didn't have a choice either, and Peter didn't seem to care.

It took them almost an hour to get to Peter's apartment in one of the highest-class buildings in Los Angeles. It had been his property for years, but he didn't use it often, a few times a year when he went to visit Derek or when Stiles needed help with a research. It was an open, modern space with wooden floors, large windows, and metal, glass, and leather furniture. It was quite impressive, especially the views of the city, but Stiles preferred his house in Beacon Hills, much more homey and full of antiques and books.

“Did you bring your laptop?” Stiles asked.

“I'm afraid not, I was in a bit of a hurry. Why don't you take a shower, and I'll go find yours at your place?”

“I had it with me in my backpack, but I haven't seen it at the station. Maybe he got rid of everything when he kidnapped me.”

“Then I'll go to buy a new one, there'll still be a store open. Make yourself comfortable, there are clothes in the room, take what you want.”

Peter left before Stiles could tell him that he didn't have to buy him a new laptop. It would have been useless anyway, he was that stubborn. Stiles walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror without thinking, which was a big, big mistake. There was the body that he had worked so hard to change. As if he had done nothing in those years, as if all the suffering had been for nothing. He got into the shower and slammed the glass door. The crystal exploded, falling into small fragments around him. Stiles started crying cowering in the corner of the shower. He was a monster and not just because he was a vampire.

When Peter returned, he didn't say a word. He stepped over the glass and scooped him up, carrying him into the bathroom attached to his bedroom. He sat him on the shower bench and turned on the shower head, not caring about getting wet himself.

“Stiles, tell me if I can take your clothes off or if you want to do it yourself. You have to take a shower, you have to clean this blood.”

At any other time the idea of being naked with that body in front of someone else (in front of himself) would have been terrifying, but he saw the blue eyes that were watching him so worriedly, and he knew that Peter could handle it better than himself. He nodded and raised his arms almost like a zombie. Peter didn't bother to pull the shirt over his head, he just ripped the front with a sharp claw.

“Hey!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“It's beyond saving.”

Peter removed his T-shirt along with the shirt he was wearing on top of it, then lifted him with one arm around his waist and pulled down his pants and boxers. Peter let him sit down again, his body was shaking. He reached for the shower head, and the water washed away the surface blood before Peter scrubbed it all off with the sponge. He was meticulous, cleaning even behind his ears and between his fingers. At some point, Stiles stopped shaking and relaxed under his attentions. Not a single improper touch or look. Stiles wanted to hug him and thank him.

When he finished, Peter turned off the tap and wrapped him in the fluffiest bath robe he had ever seen. They went out into the bedroom, and Peter started looking for clothes in the closets. Even though he didn't live there, there were more clothes than in Stiles' closet.

“Are you tired or hungry?” Peter asked him as he held up a pair of pants in the air to see if they would fit him.

“No, I'm fine, I don't have... Oh, god! I'll have to feed on blood! I'll have to kill!”

Before he could panic, Peter was already there, kneeling in front of him.

“Hey, hey, no killing. First of all, you can feed on the blood of animals. It won't be as satisfying and it won't help you get stronger, but it's possible. Besides, if you wanted to feed on human blood it wouldn't be a problem either. Nowadays it's not hard to have access to a blood bank.”

Stiles snorted a laugh and shook his head.

“Of course.” He couldn't help but smile. After all, Peter was a man of resources like few others. “Sorry about the shower.”

“It's okay, you have to learn to control your new abilities. Put this on,” he said, handing him the clothes. “I know you'll want to star researching right away, but I have to tell you that you should get some rest. Your body has yet to adjust to your new abilities.”

“I can rest with the computer on the bed,” he replied with a shrug.

Peter smiled and brought his new laptop.

“Think about whether you want to stay here or go back to Beacon Hills. Whatever you decide, I'll stay with you, but I think at first it'd be easier in our territory.”

“I'll have to drop out of college,” he realized suddenly. One more thing to add to the long list of misfortunes. “I was so close to finishing the master's degree.”

“You can always follow the classes online.”

Stiles shook his head and took the laptop out of the box. He needed to focus on something, he had to stop thinking about all the things that fell apart in his life.

“The problem is not the classes. In a couple of months, I'd have to start with the internship, and where am I going to do an internship at night? Anyway, what for? What night shift jobs I need my degree for? I'll end up at a gas station or a 24-hour store. I don't need a university degree for that, much less a master's degree.”

He had tried so hard, working to pay for his classes and studying every spare minute to be one of the best in the class. No parties, no friends, no social life, no coming home except in the summer. All that for nothing. Again.

Peter sat next to him and put an arm around his shoulders, letting Stiles lean against him.

“We'll find something. You could be a night class teacher. And if there isn't a school for that, I'll open one.”

Stiles snorted and buried his face in his neck. He knew that Peter wanted to tell him that he didn't have to work, that he had money to spare to support him, and Stiles was grateful that he didn't. Peter knew perfectly well how important it was for him to be self-sufficient.

“Thank you. For everything, Peter, thank you.”

“I'm here for whatever you need, sweetheart.” Peter tightened his arm around him and kissed his head.

He didn't remember Peter being so tactile, or so affectionate, or so close the last time they'd met, but it was probably the only thing keeping him from falling apart right now.

While Stiles was searching the internet and the bestiaries he had uploaded to the cloud for information on vampires, Peter went to collect some things from his apartment. Even if he did not return to Beacon Hills, he would no longer be able to live with his current roommates. Even if they didn't find it strange that he only left his room at night (something that was not entirely unusual among students), they would find the sudden change in his appearance strange.

He texted his father to call him as soon as he could and considered informing the others, but he wasn't ready for that yet. If it had only been the part of turning into a vampire, it would have been easier.

“You should find less naive roommates,” Peter commented when he returned with ALL of his things.

“Then I couldn't have done some of the things I've had to do,” he replied.

He opened the first bag looking for his hard drive. He made regular copies of his computer there just in case.

“When you put it that way.”

Peter took the hard drive out of the inside pocket of his jacket and offered it to him with a smile. Stiles rolled his eyes and returned with the hard drive to the bed. He hadn't moved from there even though there was a perfectly comfortable sofa in the living room.

“Did you tell Derek?” Stiles asked, trying to sound casual.

“No, I won't unless you ask me to. It's your decision to whom and when to tell.”

Stiles nodded tightly and remained focused on the computer. If it had been Scott, half Los Angeles and all of Beacon Hills would already know.

“Did you find anything useful?” Peter asked, sitting down next to him.

“I thought there was a lot of fake shit on the internet about werewolves, but vampires take the cake.” I was researching on the topic of sunlight, you know, to know if I'll turn to ash or glow like a gloworm. But there are so many possibilities, so many variations that not even something so basic is clear.”

Thanks to his studies, he had a better training to know how to distinguish between reliable sources and junk sources, but it didn't help in something like that. One might think that hunters with their vast knowledge could be a reliable source, but experience told him to doubt every word that appeared in their bestiaries and forums.

“I can assure you that you won't glow like a gloworm and, please, don't read that garbage full of toxic relationships again, it leaves us all in a very bad place.”

“I haven't read it! I've only seen memes on the internet,” he replied. Peter looked at him with an arched eyebrow, and Stiles lowered his head. “Okay, maybe I read the first one out of curiosity. Anyway, do you know anything about that? The sunlight thing, I mean.”

“I can't say for sure, but as far as I know, right now your skin would burn and then your muscles down to the bone. Over time, when you get stronger, you'll be more resistant. You may not be able to expose yourself to the midday light, but you may hold out longer during dawn and dusk.”

“Mm... That matches Anne Rice's type of vampires,” he mused, opening the folder named in precisely that way.

“I have good books at home on vampires, and I can get more, don't worry. I can also speak with some contacts. Vampires are quite closed about their nature, which is understandable, but if I explain your situation to them, some of them may decide to help us.”

Stiles squeezed his knee with one hand and smiled at him. It was a miracle that he could still smile.

TBC...

(The Trans Bingo Card btw)

[zutarawasrobbed]

Hesitant to Love

AO3

ff.net

Rating: T

Summary: Zuko loves his wife, but he doesn’t know how to tell her.

Happy Zutara week everybody! This story takes place a few years post canon. Special thanks to @markedmage​ for her wonderful beta skills

Zuko loves his wife. He knows he shouldn’t, but he does. This was never supposed to be about love. But how could anyone not fall in love with her the moment they looked into her eyes? The moment she revealed her smile to the world, her righteous fury exposed in the crinkle of her nose and narrowed eyes, he adores so much. The excitement she felt for every one of his, or her, bills passed. The prospect of bringing peace to the world by sharing her life with her best friend.

Best friend... friendship. That’s what this was supposed to be. Two best friends putting aside their individual futures to be joined as wedded loves, to bring about a new era of inclusion to not just the fire nation, but the rest of the world. But he was doomed from the start. He promised himself he would repress this feeling. As he looked at the sleeping face of his wife with a hand on her protruding belly- his child, a daughter, he was sure, even though she was adamant it was a boy- he knew he could no longer keep this secret from her.

Zuko loves his wife, but he doesn’t know how to tell her. How can he? Will she hate him for breaking this arrangement they made when going into this union? Their marriage was supposed to be a symbol, nothing more. She would bear his children and they would love them, but not each other... Well not the love he felt for her at least. He knew she loved him, she told him so even before marriage. But it was the love a friend shared with another, platonic and pure with none of the complications that came about from being in love with someone. He thought he could live with this. Keep this secret in exchange for having her in his life.

(There are many things Zuko would do for Katara. Follow her around the world, train a little boy the secrets of his people. Take her to find the man who cracked her heart and shattered her innocence in a matter of second. Take lightning to the heart for a girl like her. But keeping his love for her a secret? Not a chance.)

But now it felt wrong. Like maybe he was deceiving her, yet his mind was filled with words and promises to always be honorable. Words and promises that wouldn't let him get away withholding the truth from her any longer. He used to escape them by whispering softly in her ear as she slept.

But now she held a promise of a different kind. Promises of sleepless nights with crying children. He always knew it was inevitable. But the way it happened was still bizarre to think about but also so Katara he couldn’t imagine it any other way.

_______________________________________________________________________

It was early evening and they were having dinner in his quarters, a common occurrence to escape the gossiping maids and nobles, when it happened. He just finished his bowl of sea prunes when she spoke

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” It was automatic. Her mouth was in a straight line, her fingers fidgeting with the table cloth sewn by her gran gran. In hindsight he should’ve known she was about to ask something serious, but as always his mind drew blank and simply responded the way he always did when she asked him anything.

“Well... it’s more of a request-never mind...” her voice faltered and deflated.

Zuko’s frown was evident on his face. He wondered if he said or did anything to make her feel as if she couldn’t tell him anything. His heart screamed at the prospect. His mind wanted to spill everything he wanted to say. I would give you anything you asked. If you asked for the moon, I would find a way to bring it to you. If you asked for the stars I would learn how to fly to pluck them out of the sky. He would give her anything she asked. She already had his soul.

“It’s just that...” oh! she wasn’t done. “I was thinking about our marriage-“

Shit

“And we’ve been married for almost three years...”

Three years next month- 34 days. But who’s counting? “Already?” Not trusting himself to speak he took a sip of the broth left in his bowl.

“I want a baby!”

If he could, Zuko would turn back time so he reacted better. Or at least not choke on his soup as his wife bent the liquid in his lungs... “what?” His voice cracked. He would also not do that...

Katara steeled herself with a look of determination he only ever saw when she dealt with stubborn nobles. “I want a baby.” She said simply. As if she didn’t just ask him to impregnate her.

“Now?” His voice was still high pitched, but at least he didn’t sound like that toad from the western air temple.

“I think it takes longer than a minute to have a baby.” She deadpanned.

That should be funny. But his laugh was devoid of humor. Instead filled with nerves. She noticed.

“Zuko.” She reached across the table to take his hand. “I want to have a child with you. I know you must be apprehensive at the prospect of sharing your bed with me-”

Not in the way you think his mind interjects,

“but I don’t think it would be so bad. But there are other methods if you prefer!”

Hmm let me think, would I prefer using your bending to you in my bed? That’s a tough one.  

“But I’d like to try the more natural way. If that’s alright with you...” her resulting blush forced a smile from his lips.

“Okay.”

_______________________________________________________________________

He wishes he could say their first time was magical with fireworks and moans of pleasure... not laughter and snorting. He wished he lasted more than a minute. Agni I’m never gonna hear the end of this for the rest of my days. My ancestors must be mocking me in the spirit realm as we speak ! “I’m so so sorry.”

Her laughter ceased, “I’m not. I heard from gran gran this was might happen. It’s totally normal. I just assumed you did this before.”

She did? Wasn’t it blatantly obvious how awkward he was? Where did she get that idea? “No, just you.” He embarrassedly admitted.

“Hey,” her smile in return filled him with warmth. “Don’t be embarrassed. How about this time you let me take the lead?”

_______________________________________________________________________

So he did. He was in control, one the throne, and she was in control in the bedroom. It wasn’t long before the news of her pregnancy was delivered to him. When she told him, he allowed himself one moment of weakness and kissed her deeply, as if she just gave him the most precious gift in the world. He supposed she did in a way. The gift of a child- their child, one part him the other half her. He hoped it was a girl, a girl just like her. Katara kissed him back and laughed as he broke away. He should have told her then. But her smile was infectious and the words died on his lips. He almost kissed her again, but one moment of excitement was justified, another was just selfish.

_______________________________________________________________________

Now, three month later he’s starting to see the evidence of her pregnancy in her stomach and he can’t pretend any longer. Taking a deep breath, he strips his shirt and goes under the covers and pulls her to him, covering her hand on her stomach with his own. She stirs awake and snuggles closer to him.

“Hey.” Her voice is raspy from sleep. But she’s awake and she turns to face him with a smile.

This is it. No going back.

“I need to tell you something.”

That gets her attention. Her eyes look into his with clarity and concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I- I’m in love with you.”

Silence is all he gets in return. Her eyes are wide in shock and his heart breaks from the fragile agreement he’s just broken.

“I,” she steels herself, but slowly a smile adorns her face and her hand rests gently on the scar on his chest.  “I’ve loved you since you jumped in front of that lightning meant for me...”

This, he thinks, is what happiness feels like. Not being crowned Fire Lord. Nor the moment he could finally create lightning from his fingertips. Holding her close, her back to his front, her hand in his laying atop her stomach, is happiness. It feels like the dawn of spring colored by the crimson of the sun reflecting in the pond of blue. Like the sky after its fight with a storm, exploding with colors of all sorts in the middle of the day. He thinks he’ll never love her more than in this moment…

_______________________________________________________________________

Six months later their daughter is born and the sounds of her wails fill the palace walls. One look into her golden eyes staring up at him with curiosity, from her mother’s arms, he’s proven wrong. This, he knows , is happiness. When his wife looks up at him with her tired eyes beaming with joy and pride she tells him, “I love you.”

They tell each other constantly since that night. But this time it feels different. This time he knows their hearts no longer belong to just each other but the little girl with her eyes the shape of her mother’s with the color of her father's gold, the heat of her darker skin confirming what type of bender she’ll be.

He loves his wife, she loves him, and they love their daughter.

_______________________________________________________________________

Notes: I’ve read many arranged marriage fic that have Katara and Zuko as either strangers or enemies. I love reading those AU’s but in this story, I decided to go in a different direction. A direction of mutual consent for mutual benefits.

[klariwitch]

You’ll Love Me Again

No one ever really mentioned all the symptoms that comes with heartbreak. For one, your heart quite literally hurt. It burned. Not in the sorts that felt like heart burn, but more so like it was falling. The feeling of weightlessness. Yet, at the same time you felt as heavy as can be. From there its just full on misery. Y’know how people will say they feel like they just got hit by a truck? Yeah. Yeah its that.

“I’m uh, how do i put this without you going all vigilante mode on me? I’m into your sister,” Kon was grinning stupidly now.

Oh!

oh.

Tim felt his heart sink and then the nausea began to settle in.

“My? My what?” Tim shook his head in disbelief. Kon didn’t like him. He liked-

“Cass. Kon likes Cass, Steph,”

“Yknow when I see him next, you best believe I’m bringing that kryptonite ring, I’m gonna-“

“I feel sick to my fucking stomach,” the Robin sobbed over the phone. 

read the rest on ao3

The answering voice sighed. She still felt the shock of Tim crying on the phone with her, about a boy of all things. And, although the she wanted to slap the living shit out of the both of them, she also knew it was best to be calm and to let him cry on. “I know, I feel you Timmy, been there, done that,” she gave the phone a sad smile.

“I can’t even comprehend how that’s a thing. Seriously, Steph, how?!” His eyes seemed to bulge, one step closer to completely freaking out. He laid back on his bed, the phone still close to pressing against his ear, and salted tears running down his reddened cheeks.

He was a bat. A detective. Trained by old comics and the world’s greatest himself, batman. So, how on earth was he feeling so sunk by all these emotions? Why so much all this once? How was he to cry over the phone to Stephanie Brown over not just a boy, but the superboy. And, not just because he didn’t like him back—no, that wasn’t even able to be gotten out—but because he planned to ask out Tim’s own sister.

“Could my life really get anymore amusing, Steph? This is fucking humiliating,”

“Tim, I’m seriously so sorry this just all around sucks. Were you really planning on telling him, though?” The voice questioned over the device.

“Yes,” the boy cringed, “ I had a whole speech planned out to tell him tonight. Talk about bad timing,” his breath slowed. Without all the tears now, he felt tired. So completely drained for ever believing his best friend would ever see him much more than just that. Best friends.

“Why don’t you just spend some time away from him? Not exactly to cut off all contact, but more so just hanging out less? Maybe start making up excuses like Bruce needs you working on a case more, or that your parents have been home?” She suggested.

Actually, it wasn’t the worst idea, either. Kon would be okay with him being busy, and in the meantime he would take that step back and convince himself Kon wasn’t really the one.

“You’re right,”

“I am, aren’t I? Y’know it actually feels really nice to hear you say that for once, maybe just once more?” The girl pressed playfully.

He scoffed. “Yeah wouldn’t you like that?” The Robins teased one another, after all she could always make him feel better. “Alright, I think I have to call it a night. I’m gonna go throw up and then to bed.” He wasn’t lying, either. For whatever reason after speaking to Conner his head hurt like hell and his stomach carried what felt like a flu virus.

“Goodnight, Tim,”

“Night, Steph,”

               *****

“Well,”

“Well?”

“It’s been about a month,”

“Tim,”

“I think I’m actually okay this time. I don’t feel so achey around him anymore! I told you we met up after patrol tonight!” The boy exclaimed over the line, a smile captured on his lips.

“Okay, so, it went alright, then?” Steph asked. She cringed a bit. No way his feelings where just poof gone.

“Steph, it went great,” assured Tim. “I think we plan on doing the same thing tomorrow...it just nice to have my best friend back, yknow?”

“Tim, it’s really okay if you still need time, you know that, right?”

“Steph. I promise. I’m okay, my feelings for Kon are completely gone,”

*****

“You’re here on time” the boy in front of him called. A small chuckle arose, “did bats let you off early?”

“Yes, actually, how’d you know?” Tim smiled. He sat down right beside him on the edge of the rooftop. Ironically, sitting on top of a fifteen story building, next to a superhuman somehow managed to be the spot he always felt the safest. He assumed, it was all about the trust. All about a matter of not having to worry that Kon might decide to push him overboard unexpectedly, or even if the building suddenly gave out. The only fault there was, why did he still have that trust for him? Admittedly, Kon had never exactly tried to send him soaring off a rooftop, but wasn’t heart break a close equivalent?

“Tim?” The familiar hand waved in his face. Tim carefully swatted it away.

“What?”

“I asked you how your day was?”

“Oh,” Tim nodded. He even looked down as if his fingers might curate him the perfect move. Spoiler alert: they did not. “It was…well, I mean kind of slow? Patrol and all that,” the last bit came out as a mutter. Why was he there, again? Honestly, he couldn’t even look at him now. He had thought he was fine, really he did, but what exactly did fine mean? Ignorance, in this case.

The only problem was, he just couldn’t let go. In movies and literature it was always so much easier, because it just always works out for them. They have a promised happy ending. For Tim, none of that was a guarantee.

It was like..insurance. insurance that he did not have. Because, even when the character didn’t end up with their love, they still found something great—like a new person or happiness. And now, all happiness was looking like without Kon was a cold bottle of chardonnay stolen from his mother’s wine cabinet.

“Are you okay?” Kon asked then. His face carried worry and all kinds of fear.

Shit

shit

‘Don’t make me lie to you’ The shorter boy thought. He didn’t want to, it honestly wasn’t something he could find the energy for anymore. “I, uh,” he felt his phone vibrate under his thigh. He didn’t answer it, it would only be Steph wanting to know what was happening.

“What is it, Rob? Spit it out,” the meta pushed, a cheerful smile forming his face.

“I…don’t think I can?” Answered Tim.

“Huh, well, why not? Its okay, you know you can tell me anything, right?”

The raven haired boy just stared at him, mouth split open stupidly. “Right! Right. Yes, I know that,” he nodded.

“So?”

“Right…” he bit his lip till blood arose and the feeling of confidence came beside it. “Could I, show you, instead?” He requested.

“Sure? I mean, yeah. Of course you can, anything that helps,” Kon nodded willingly.  

Was he really going to do that? Where was some sort of memory wiper when you needed it? He’d do anything to redo the last ten minutes.

He sighed. Was he really about to do this? In all fairness, he had been wanting to for some time. Okay, he’d do it. Okay. Maybe not? “Y’know what?” Tim turned. they were closer than he had thought they were. No going back now, right? He laughed sickly, “fuck it.” Evenly, his face melted to a smile as he leaned him, pressing his lips ever so gently against Kon’s.

He couldn’t believe it. He was kissing Kon. His best friend. The boy who unknowingly broke his heart just months ago. This was...unbelievable. It always seemed like it was so incredibly out of reach and get here he was now, kissing him. Did that mean Kon really did like-

“Woah,” and just like that he was pushed away. He’d have to fight through the tears at an arms length distance now. “Hey, sorry, Tim I’m flattered, really, it’s just-“

“Okay, look, I probably should have waited, I just, I don’t know? Ever since you were talking about Cass I just couldn’t get you off my mind, and that’s why I stayed away for so long. Look, most people can just watch, too Kon. Most can just love from afar and wait. Im sorry, but I can’t do that. Im not that person, okay? I’m selfish. So selfish. I hate that I am and i’m sorry, but I can’t just watch, okay? I can’t,” Tim heaved a breath. He wanted to get it all out so bad and now he had spoiled the vibe. “Im sorry to burst your perfect little bubble, I just fucking can’t. Now I see it was a mistake too, because i thought you liked me back. I really did,” his lip bled. Biting too hard again? “You just don’t get it, okay? We’re supposed to be together. Everyone thinks so. We’re best friends, Kon. We’re the beautiful love story. Look, I’ve been telling myself that forever, and you’re just supposed to feel the same,” he shrugged. Just as if it was no big deal.

Kon groaned. He considered for a moment to grab ok to his hands but for obvious reasons that wasn’t exactly appropriate. “Tim. Hey, you don’t have to apologize. Im glad you told me. To be honest, I kind of like you too,”

“Wait, really?” Tim smiled, searching the meta’s face for any truth.

“What? Are you even listening to me? Tim, I’m sorry but I can’t be apart of your little fantasy..” It was clear it pained his friend to say al this. “We’re not some sort of destined couple or whatever you think we are. It just doesn’t work that way, okay?”

Oh. So, not as he expected.

Right

“Well, why not?” The Robin urged, hurt growing in his blue eyes.

“I’m dating Cass,” breathed Kon. “Look, we were going to tell you tomorrow but then all of this happened...I’m sorry, I should have told you,”

Ouch. Fuck. Again?

“Right,” was all he could mutter. “I’m uh. I’m sorry, Kon,” he had to leave. Had to get out of there fire his eyelids broke like dams and he had to muffle his own screams. “I think I’m going to head out, actually..goodnight, Kon,” Tim sighed. He walked off then, taking deep breaths to help ignore the boy calling his name behind him. He could catch him if he wanted to. Easily. Obviously he didn’t want to. Kon loved Cass...not Tim.

****

“I kissed him,”

“You what?!” The voice over the phone sounded livid.

“Yeah, yeah I know stupid, right?” Tim sighed. He sat on his bed, holding a chilled glass of chardonnay, just as he had promised himself.

“Im guessing it didn’t go so well?”

He could hear her cringe over the phone. Tim didn’t respond. Instead, he simply sipped his drink: dry. This one was eruopean as were most of the others, rolled in oak barrels and some sort of fruit. It was like drinking Kon’s scent. Whatever cheap cologne he decided to douce himself in every morning some how crawled its way into his head to torture him. He set the glass down.

“Im sorry, Tim, you really-”

“Its okay, Steph, really,” insisted Tim, having cut her off.

“Is it?” The girl asked genuinely.

“Yes. I’ve decided I cannot change it, so yes, its fine,”

“Wow. Okay. Thats, that’s actually very mature of you,”

The robin nodded, although obviously not visible.

“Goodnight, Steph,” he called into the phone.

“Goodnight, Tim,” she huffed back, right before leaving him in inconsiderable silence.

The boy picked up the wine glass again. He stared deeply into the few bubbled and cringed with the inhale of smoke and aged French oak.

“You’re really messing with my mind, huh, Conner Kent?”

Tim glanced around. His room was gloomy. sad. Dimmed. He wished for Kon to come light it up a bit, yet he didn’t. They’d be apart for now, but he’d turn around eventually. He would get his fantasy.

[guigz1-coldwar]

'Taken away' :New chapter for "Redemption in a Spirit in a Cold War" is out !

"Taken away"

Chapter Summary : Bell is recovering from her gunshot wounds she obtained after her last mission.....

To read it on AO3, click here !

Words : +4800

----------------------------

In just one night, I had the impressions to revisit my worst nightmares. Things I'm trying to fight for days.....two weeks actually. I'm still facing the memories and nightmares where 'The Winter Soldier' was created and I'm trying at my best to stop thinking to be a brutal person. I tried but that night make me do a step back due to how I did neutralize those guards at the nightclub's bar. I'm trying to fight Adler's control and perversion above me and in one night....I did a step back and he was the one who did this to me.

The worst of it is that he didn't disturb him at all to control, I think that he liked that and missed that for 3 years.....and then, I realized that I was shot just next to my right kidney. I was thinking that I was going to die after that shot, after those traumatisms that came back to me. I was starting to lose control and my blood further once I was brought into the car by Park before we drove away. Before shutting my eyes, the only thing I saw was Park's face worried, fearing to lose me as much I was fearing to die. I slowly passed out on the way back to the safehouse, hoping I will live another day.....

I don't know where I was but by looking around me, I was surrounded by multiple flaming buildings and wrecks of vehicles and tanks. The place....it was situed somewhere in the desert but I couldn't tell exactly where it was, more looking somewhere maybe in the Middle-East or in a part of the Soviet Union. By watching the scene, I was the only survivor of what just happened and it was so fucking bad.

I wasn't standing up at all....because I was wounded at my legs, having a bullet hole in each one of them but it didn't stop here. The left part of my uniform especially the coat sleeve part was burned and I was also shot at my right shoulder, making me suffering so much pain in my body. I couldn't move at all, just looking at the skies invaded by the black smokes of the burning surroundings and hearing the flames consuming the place.

Suddenly, a much louder noise was starting to be heard at my ears until I start to saw a helicopter ready next to me. I didn't move at all, didn't smiled too but I was just trying to  stay alive as long as I can. The helicopter landed before I could see some people running towards me, leaded by....Freya.

"Fre-......Frey-......Freya !" I tried to speak but my voice were hurting me a lot like if I was punched in the throat so hard by someone.

"Yirina !" She exclaimed, getting next to me before she checked all my body and seeing its state. "Shit." She whispered as others soldiers approached me as well, mostly medical personal. "Quick, get her in the chopper !"

I was then transported by 4 fours mens inside the cargo hold of the helicopter before they put me gently on the cargo hold ground of it. I was scared, breathing a lot as those mens were near me and I was thinking that they were going to hurt me so with some part of my strenght remaining, I tried to struggle to move my arms and with so much pain my legs before Freya arrived to put her hands on me, especially on my shoulders, avoiding the wounded part.

"Don't panick, Yiri !" She said, holding my shoulders as I was still moving

"They want.....want to hurt me." I told her, so scared by these mens even she was there for me, I was so lost in that helicopter. "Let me go.....let me go, please." I started to cry in front of everyone, asking to leaving me

"We're here to save you, not hurting you." She explained to me, giving me a good look before she looked at the man at my left. "Stop being brutal with her, you're hurting her !" Her voice was sounding very angry, releasing her anger to that guy.

"It's not my fault if she is moving around and complicating our job." The man defended himself before Freya grabbed him by his collar, in a fury.

"Listen to me..." She started, enraged, holding that man like that with her right hand"If she dies because of you, you're next in line, understood ?"

"Okay, okay !" He exclaimed, Freya releasing him as the others started to hold me with less force with their hands, not wanting to hurt me and to suffer Freya's fury on them. The man started to unwrap some medicals tools out of his medic box "I need you to hold her at her shoulders and give her something that she can put in her mouth." Freya complied and the others too, them, holding my legs. She gave me a tissue that she put in my mouth to contain me.

"It's gonna hurt ?" Freya asked to him, he nodded

"I will first remove the bullet she had at her right shoulder, it's gonna hurt. Hold her still." He ordered as he started to move with his tools to my gunshot wound at my shoulder. I tried to take a deep breath but that piece of tissue in my mouth was avoiding me to breath "Grigoriev, stay still."

It was hurting me as he was, with his tools, trying to remove the bullet of my wound and each movement he was doing to remove it was making me want to move but with the others around me, holding me, it was impossible. I screamed, the tissue in my mouth when the bullet was finally removed from me, making my head move a little.

"It's okay, Yiri." Freya grinned as I was looking worried before she moved to get that tissue out of my mouth. The doctor was getting started to move at my legs as his mens were getting next to my upper body to start wrapping some bandages around my wound,

"You're safe now, no one will ever hurt you !"

Another troubling memory...still fearing to die and that fear is still present today in me but I think I need to fight that fear even if I'm believing that it was in me for a long time, impossible to remove, but I will have to do this anyways, one day. Hopefully, when I opened my eyes again, I was relieved to live another day, awakening in the medical room of the safehouse and like before I closed my eyes, the first thing I was able to see was Park standing at the end of the bed, looking at me, worried.

She was looking more happy when she saw me opening my eyes and I could see that she wanted to take me in her arms but she wouldn't want to hurt me and the others came in, having heard Park saying that I was awake. They announced to me that the bullet didn't do any bad damage on me, almost having hit my right kidney in the process but having me moving quickly allowed me to survive the shot. Adler was the only one to not come as the others explained that Park heard him saying the key-phrase to me and forbidden him to come see me after I was brought here.

I wanted to get up but they advised me to stay in bed for some days, wanting me to recover at 100% and not wanting me to hurt myself at work again like that. They were right as where I was shot was still giving me pain each time I moved my legs even if it was still healing and wrapped by some bandages. During 4 days, I followed their advices to stay in bed, sometimes giving me visit to see how I was, to give me food and drinks and Park gave me my book, allowing me to write in case I've got memories back.

I didn't have big memories coming back...well, I've had nothing coming back to me during these days, avoiding me to write in the book expect for updating some parts of the book like the description of my friends. Apart from that, nothing big actually happened in four days in work as Perseus was still struggling with the loss of 'Bonnie Blue' but her death by Adler didn't stop the arms trafficking, meaning that someone took the lead from it, the 'Nuit Blanche' was closed until further notice. Park was the one to give me updates on the situations and she was also staying a lot with me, trying to recomfort me.

Finally, after 5 days, I was finally able to move my legs and it was better for me to get up and to join the others after I put a shirt to cover myself as I was already in the same pants I had fours days ago. Once I was ready, I started to walk to get out of the medical room to get inside the main room.

"Guess who's back alive." Woods was the first person that spoke, seeing me walking out of the medical room as he started to walk in my direction.

"Finally, we were awaiting that moment for so long."  Mason followed, behind Woods as the latter was offering his hand for me.

"It's nice to see you from that height." I joked, causing the boys to laugh and smile at me as I shook hands with Woods before I moved to shook hands with Mason.

"You are really a damn warrior." Woods affirmed, looking at me proudly "I thought that you will stay in that bed for more days but look at you : in great shape !"

"I can say that." I exclaimed before I looked behind them to discover Park, grinning at me and slowly walking towards me "Hey, Park." I waved with a low voice and without warning me, she put her arms around my shoulders to hug me and to be with her, I reciprocated by putting my arms around her....we were doing a friendly hug in front of Mason & Woods.

"I'm happy to see you back on feet." She whispered to me

"I know, me too." I told her before we withdrawed from each others with an smile, we would have liked to kiss but with Woods & Mason near us, it's better to stay low for the moment. "Where's Sims and Adler ?" I asked to them

"Gone to meet an CIA agent in the city." Woods replied

"For ?" I continued

"It's for having more intels about the supposed buyer in Irak and to try to have some on the politician in the US." Mason finished before I started to walk slowly near the dashboard, followed by them.

"There's nothing else ?" I said, looking at the dashboard, trying to find if there's anything new to it.

"Apart for that nightclub to be closed down because of what happened, nothing big occured except with the part that the arms trafficking is still under way." Park responded, leaning herself on her desk. "We're suspecting that one of those three buyers took the lead." I looked at the dashboard, precisely where I did put the initals of those buyers Park mentioned, seeing each one of them : R.D, A.R and H.S.....Harry Stone, the only one that we know exactly.

"I think Harry Stone is the one who's leading that business now." I suggested, looking at Park who were biting her lips, joining her hands together...looking worried. "An ex-SAS soldier is an expert in firearms and since he travels a lot, he can train Perseus troops and manage that business." I looked at Mason & Woods, wondering what they were thinking about it

"You're maybe right..." Woods started, putting his hand on his chin, thinking "I can't see an Irakian general in the middle of a war doing this, even less for an politician in the United States."

"Same thinking with my buddy here." Mason said, nudging a little Woods for fun, making me smile before I looked at Park, still looking worried and in her thoughts.

"Park, what do you think ?" I questioned and surprisely, she almost jumped from her desk because of me. "You're okay ?" I told her, curious of her

"Yeah, I'm okay." She responded, trying to concentrate back on herself "To answer you, I'm think you're right." Her answer make me look back at the dashboard, thinking that I accidently scared her as she was in her thoughts.

"So now, we have to wait until Sims & Adler come back, right ?" I asked....maybe to everyone.

"Yeap." Woods was the one to asnwer my question first before I started to hear him and Mason walking away, maybe going back to their workplaces or maybe going to take a beer in the fridge. I finally get my eyes off the dashboard.....before I could see Park next to me, holding a jacket in hand and handing it to me.

"What are you doing ?" I asked, confused

"You don't remember what you said yesterday ?" She said in a lovely voice, grinning to me "You promised me that when you will be up that we will get some ice creams." She raised an eyebrow, mentioning a private discussion I had with her yesterday in the night before she left me to go to sleep.

"Oh yeah, I remember !" I exclaimed....semi-enthusiastic "I thought you said that I was joking about it !" I added, never thinking that she really wanted to do that.

"I never said that." She affirmed, still holding the jacket in hand before I finally decide to take the jacket and put it on me. "Now, let's go get our ice creams, I know a perfect place for that."

In less than a minute, we prepared ourselves to go out of the safehouse to get our ice creams, I did take my M1911 in case. We are maybe fighters and spies but if we can just profit of trying to live a normal life for just an moment in our days, could make us happy womens. I think it was cool from Park to organize that for me, maybe thinking that I needed to destress from work a moment since I've been working non-stop for days even if during my days in bed, I didn't work at all, letting the others doing it.

Of course, since she was the one who gave me a chance to have at least a peaceful moment since I woke up, she was the one to drive and of course, she didn't tell me absolutely where we were going, quoting that 'it was a surprise for me'. Each time I was trying to know, she was either saying that or instead, a little lovely 'Ssshhhhh'. During the drive, we didn't put any radios on as she preferred to have her thoughts cleared and not invaded by music for the moment, explaining that she wanted to have a single moment alone with me.

After 5 minutes, we finally arrived at the place she brought me : a typical american diner just next to the border with the GDR called 'Sunny Diner'. The place was looking beautiful to see :very shiny, very....american. By looking at it, I had a weird impression that I did come here before but I couldn't remember when exactly....maybe it was just a dream like that I did about the place or something I can't really explain at all.

We entered the diner, Park first, and we installed ourselves in a empty table. There weren't a lot of people at this time : it was after noon and there were just some people at the bar and few at the tables. A waitress quickly came and we ordered our ice creams and by the odds, me & Park chose the same flavor : strawberry. We both laughed about it as we both said it at the same time and once our order were done, we waited at least 2 minutes before our ice creams cup were there.

We started to eat and during our discussion, I could feel her right leg stroking mine all time and it was arousing me by an lot. Of course, I stayed focused in our discussion where we talked about herself as I wanted to know more about her : she told me when she joined the MI6, some of her various missions she has done in her firsts years but also, she opened herself to talk about her family : she has two brothers, one younger as the other....well, he died in a IRA attack in 1973 and that was her reason to join the MI6.

I was touched while listening to her story and I was quite happy to learn more about her. We were nearly finished when something in my mind came in,

"Park, can I ask you something ?" I started, having finished my ice cream cup before as she was still finishing it.

"Sure." She said, almost surprised as she was looking outside, her spoon in her right hand.

"Uhm..." I took a breath, getting my arms on the table, trying to not screwing my question over by my other thoughts. "Well, each time Stone's name is mentioned, I see you getting either troubled or lost....is there something wrong about him that I don't know ?" At hearing my question, she stopped every movements she was doing, looking like I said, troubled.

"I don't know if I can talk about this." She exclaimed, putting her hands on the table and trying to not look me in the eyes, like she hide something. I reacted by gently putting my hand over the top of hers.

"You talked about yourself." I affirmed to her, giving her an smile "I'm ready to know more." I didn't remove my hand from hers, still smiling before she nod to me and took a deep breath

"Okay." She whispered to herself as she redressed herself on her seat "Stone....was an old friend of mine." When I heard that, I understand why she was not okay each time Stone was said. "During an long time between 1975 and 1980 with him, we formed a friendly group composed of me, two others MI6 agent, an BND agent and him, an SAS soldier."

"Something bad happened, I guess ?" I asked, curious to hear that story, she nodded.

"In 1980, one of our missions goes to shit : we needed to destroy an soviet complex used for holding an nerve gas but during the mission, Stone and one of my friends in the MI6 'died'." She responded, breathing at the end of it, her voice cracking at the last word

"Faking their deaths...." I whispered to myself and somehow, she heard me

"During all these times, these two were Perseus agents and I learned it the hard way a year ago when we started to work on a mysterious project called 'Goldeneye'." So, that was the operation Belikov mentioned 2 weeks ago when I go to his place. "Stone was the one in charge and the other.....well, she was her lieutenant for it."

"How did you learn of it ?"  I questioned her

"A anonymous person asked me to encounter 'the one in charge' as he was apparently knowing me and it was at this moment I saw him."  She scratched the back of her head, not giving for me enough details but I preferred to not get too deep in it

"Must be hard to tell yourself that one of the friends you've been mourning for years is in fact a enemy." I admitted to her, moving my hand to get under hers.

"In the old days, Stone was like an hero to us but now, we all know his true state." She looked at me with narrowed eyes, taking my hand in hers "I just want sometimes to feel that he was never like that."

"I said that to myself sometimes too." I told her as it was also something I was dreaming : What if I was never just an Perseus agent ?

"Listen." She leaned from her seat, getting her head close to me "Maybe you did bad things but yourself, you know that you're not like that, you showed it to me and the others."

"I did." I said in a low voice

"Us....me, I will make sure that you will have what you want." She stated, making me things of what I wanted for me for the future

"Seeing my friends again, my path to redeem myself and......to be with you ?" I affirmed, looking at her with lovely eyes and saying the whole

"Everything at once." She said before she finally approached me to kiss me on the lips, putting her both hands on my face, giving a kiss I was waiting for days now since we weren't really able to do it even when we were alone. We broke the kiss after a long minute. "I think we should go back to the safehouse."

"I would have liked more moments like this." I whispered to her before she got up from her

"Me too." She then take a breath as she was putting her jacket back on her "We will have more time, don't worry !" She added, giving me an smile as I got up too.

Once we have finished to put our jacket on, we started to go out of the diner, not forgetting to pay for our ice creams....she payed for me and her....and then, we got back to her car, and once we were fully seated in the car, Park drove off the place as she preferred to drive herself even if I proposed myself to do it. It's not 3 years in a coma that were going to stop me to drive....it was her who did. At least, I know that she will give me one day, the chance to finally drive myself a car or something that I can drive.

In our way back, she finally decided to put the radio on maybe to remove from her thoughts what she said to me about Stone and I can understand that by the tone she has taken when she talked about him to me. We didn't talk too much in the first minutes, either giving each other some smile before getting focused back on the road again. At one moment, we were stopped at a redlight awaiting it to go to green, allowing us to pass and in a second, my thoughts were troubled by something until the light goes to green, allowing us to go through the crowded intersection.....

But at the middle of the intersection, suddenly, a car coming from the left intentionally hit the back of ours at full speed, causing our car to deviate from its path and sending us off the road, the car hitting violently a pole and making us blackout from the accident. When I opened back my eyes, I could see the smoke of our car's engine going out, the window broken down and Park....still alive but unconsious from the shock, I tried to wake her up but nothing was helping me. I could feel a little bit of blood on my face, some parts of the window making some cut in it.

I don't know how I was able to survive that accident as it was pretty brutal and my body was feeling it a lot. The seatbelt protected me but my left arm was in a big pain as it has gone against the door when the car hit the pole. I was breathing a lot, feeling the blood going down some parts of my face, especially on the cheeks and next to my lips.

I started to unbuckle my seatbelt and when I was done, I could see 2 people coming towards us....masked people.....Perseus...By seeing them, I realized that they have been following us since we left the diner to go back at the safehouse but why striking us now instead of having everyone in the safehouse ? When I saw them, I decided to act like if I was still knocked down, taking out my M1911 and hiding it from their sight with my right hand. I closed my eyes, acting....

"Shit, they're alive ?" One of them said, worried

"Of course, they have to be, ducon !" The other exclaimed, annoyed by his friend. He was sounding french and his last word showed me that it was indeed french....a bad word.

"So, we have to take the two of them ?"  The first one asked to the french guy as he was opening the door.

"Are you gonna stop asking questions ?" The french was getting angry as I could hear him finally opening the door widely "No, we only need the british cunt, orders from the top, the other.....she's nothing for us !" Nothing.....really ? They could take me but instead, they take Park away and by that, I couldn't let this happen...Why her ? "Come on, help me out to transport her to the van."  He added as he was getting Park out, helped by his friend and it was at this moment I decided to stop acting.

Once they got Park out of the car, not wanting to hit her in case, I opened my eyes and then I aimed towards the first guy I saw before shooting him in the back of the head, making him fall in front of him. I tried to shoot the other guy but instead, I start to hear some gunshot coming towards me....a van positioned in the middle of the intersection with an guy armed with an XM4 shooting at the car. I reacted quickly, opening the door at my side to get out of the car and to protect myself from the bullets.

I checked my gun mag in case....only 6 bullets and by my no-luck, it was the only mag I have bring with me, meaning that I can't miss my shot at all. During all of that, the guy aiming with his XM4 don't stop firying at me until I waited for the right time as he was reloading to go out of cover and perfectly, from an distance, to have him. At this moment, I could see Park dragged inside the van by 2 others masked persons that I tried to stop but before I could shot any bullet, I was suddenly tackled to the ground by an another person.

"Get the cunt out of here, I'll find you at the meeting point !" He shouted to his friends as he was holding me in the ground, it was the same french guy who was talking bad about Park. I watched in horror as the van left the scene, going away and in a instant, I could feel all the rage inside me growing in.

"You son of a bitch !" I yelled before I give a knee kick right in the nuts and then, I make him go away from me by pushing him backwards with my feets.

"Espèce de salope !" He said, angry in his french voice as he was trying to get up again but I was more faster as I grabbed my M1911 I had in hand by the cannon and I hit him in the face with the stock of my gun, knocking him out.

I wanted to kill him but....he was the only one that could tell me where did they sent Park away and why they took only her and not me too. That was questions I wanted to ask but not right here as they were going to have a lot of witnesses and maybe the police to arrive soon. I had to bring this guy with me back to the safehouse and interrogate him by myself. I looked around to see if there were an empty car that I could take since ours were completely destroyed and smoking.

I found one pretty quickly just at a few meters from me and I decided to steal it. I grabbed the unconscious french guy, dragging him on the ground and when I arrived near the car, I broke the window of the driver seat and open the door from the inside. Then, I dragged the guy on the backseats, making sure that he wasn't acting like me. I managed to start the car engine like if I remembered to steal some cars....that's weird, Yiri !....and then, I looked at him, with an deadly glare before I drove off the scene,

"You and I.....we will have a talk !"