#temperature rise as you go from about halfway up the stairs to taking the right turn to where my room & her office are

[doctorwhoisadhd]

a fun fact about me is that i have been getting gaslit specifically and only about the meteorological conditions within specifically and only MY room by my family across two rooms, two different houses, and probably something like 13 or 14 years of my life

[hannie-dul-set]

PAIRING. huang renjun x fem! reader. GENRE. high school! au, suggestive. WARNINGS. attempted murder, mentions of blood and self injury, veryy descriptive kissing, mc has a few screws lost, swearing, depictions of unstable behavior. WORD COUNT. 1.8k GENRAL TAGLIST. @danishmiilk @wownajaemin @leejunini @astroboy-lele @unknown5tar @yunoyeol @w0nni3wrld @charm-art @bat-shark-repellant @keemburley @deliciouslyyellow​ (pls dm me to be added/removed!)

NOTE. ah yes, the only two genres: murder and making out. inspired by the dream i mentioned earlier. different events, but same vibe HAHA. disclaimer that no matter how much you hate your academic rival, never ever turn to attempted murder! thank you and enjoy

huang renjun— with all his picture perfect smiles, prim and proper tucked in shirts, a pretty face enough to have you on your knees, and with a perfect gpa to top it all off— was someone you wanted.

wanted six feet under the ground.

“hey, congrats!”

speak of the fucking devil.

“you always do really well,” huang renjun towers over you in front of your desk as you sit down. you look up from the wrinkled certificate that have the abhorrent words second honorable mention printed on it's scented surface, only to face his fucking face instead. he beams at you with a smile. you feel convulsions wringing inside your throat. “congratulations again.”

you don't miss the first honor certificate tucked between his books in a measly attempt of concealment. it takes everything in your power to force out something of a smile.

“thanks. you too.”

with that, he quickly scurries away into his seat next to yours with red ears.

your first period teacher enters, beginning class with a greeting, but your mind is elsewhere.

it’s only midterms, you breathe out through your nose, hugging your arms above your desk while sketching out a study plan for the rest of the semester in your head. there’s enough time before graduation. the hold you had on yourself gradually becomes tighter.

still, you know that even if you worked yourself day and night until you bled cold and crimson, huang renjun would still be one step ahead. you bite down your lip, peeling off the dry skin with a sourness writhing in your gut, digging your fingers deeper into your arms. if only he were gone. you leer at the boy diligently taking his notes beside you. if only he were gone gone gone gone—

your eyes widen, ignoring the blood staining your nails.

if only he were gone.

after class, you walk up to his desk and asked if he wanted to work on the physics homework at his place tomorrow. he says yes with starry eyes in a heartbeat.

the next day, renjun couldn’t wait for the final bell to ring. you, too, couldn’t remain in your seat— albeit for a different reason. so when the ringing occurs, the both of you don’t waste a second in finally heading out of the campus.

it’s a silent walk to his place, a standard suburban neighborhood, the sky slowly turning orange in the background. every time you turn your head to look at him, he looks back with a small smile, and you can’t help your hands from twitching at your sides.

renjun unlocks the door and meekly welcomed you inside.

“you can leave your shoes here,” he says, digging his keys into the back pocket of his school slacks with dangling noises. you look at him, smiling, and with a soft hum you leave your school shoes next to his, trailing behind him into the living room.

looking around, you ask him. “are your parents home?” there was an opening that leads to the kitchen, glass doors showing the backyard. the stairs that lead to the second floor are made of sleek, dark oak. it’s a modern interior. they have a fireplace inside.

“no,” he breathes out, wetting his dry throat with a swallow before turning back to face you. “they’re out on business. i don’t think they’ll be home until the weekend.”

the both of you stop right in front of the staircase.

“i see.”

he quickly muffles a cough and leads you up to his room.

the inside of renjun’s room is neat— organized books on the shelf and sheets neatly pressed. There’s a set of candles beside his bed. you hold back a scoff. as expected from the top student.

your eyes flit over from the window above his bed to look at him, instead.

“you don’t have to be so nervous around me, you know,” you muse, dropping down your bag to join him on the floor. worksheets littered with numbers and constants, gravity and acceleration, all scatter on the floor. they blow with the wind knowing that they wouldn’t even be filled in, anyway.

“sorry,” renjun sputters out, loosening his striped necktie with two fingers. his vision is kept trained on the wall behind you. “i’m not— i’m not doing it on purpose.”

you adjust your legs on the floor, skirt riding. “is there a reason?”

“a reason?” he gulped.

“why you can’t look me in the eye.”

renjun thinks he sees the corners of your lips twitching upwards.

“i’ll— i’ll go open the window, it’s a little hot in here, isn’t it?” scrambling to his feet, his knees sink into the navy sheets of his bed, reaching for the window in a nervous flurry to let the air in. “the news said that the temperature’s slowly gonna start rising but i didn’t think it would be—”

he bumps into you when he turned back.

there’s a click from behind him.

the wind stopped coming in.

“it’s not really that hot.”

the way your breath fanned against his lips makes his head spin in circles.

you have an arm out against the glass, your sleeve’s fabric grazing his tempered cheek when you went to shut the window down. renjun feels a ghost in the air where there’s a space in between you. “i— i guess you’re right,” he says, clearing his throat. “i never expected that you’d ask to work together.”

there’s syrup at the end of your sentence. “you seemed pretty happy when i did, though.”

he isn’t sure if it’s just him or if you’re slowly getting closer. “well, that’s— that’s because i—”

“you don’t have to say it.”

your voice digs deep into his bones like chains of velvet. he can feel your chest pressing against him now, crushing the sense of rationality that he was bestowed with from birth and is replaced with a warm lush of rabid, violent waters gushing into bit of him stomach,

it comes off a whisper yet it sends him reeling.

“i know.”

renjun swallows. hard. but he’s afraid you’d hear the manifestations of a tempered restlessness that had managed to crawl its way up to the tips of his fingers— which found themselves resting onto the curve of your back. stray strands of his swair sweeps above his eyes, obscuring the closeness of your face, and he wants to ask how. how did you know that he likes you.

he never got to.

the question doesn’t even get to resurface after the first hit of your cherry flavored chapstick, his bottom lip caught in between yours, teeth grinding against the plush, pink skin. the second hit has his decorum slowly peeling away from his skin when his tongue traces over yours in a hot mess of delirium, when you settle between his legs, a coarse groan vibrating in his throat. the third has him forgetting his own name.

his eyes are hazy when you pull back with a rough smacking of the mouth. with a short-winded voice, you ask him.

“do you mind if i make a call?”

renjun looks at you in a fit of breathlessness.

an airy laugh leaves your lips that he can’t stop staring at. you press a kiss on his nose. “my parents need to know that i won’t be going home tonight.”

dazed, he answers. “y-yeah, sure.”

he blinks a few times before letting you go.

“take your time.”

you send him a smile before fishing your backpack from the floor and leaving the room.

just like that, a switch was flipped.

upon closing the door, you quickly twist the knob, locking it with the keys that you’d snatched from him earlier. it’s convenient that he has each one labelled— a belated thank you to your school’s ever organized golden boy who never fails to make you sick in the stomach.

at each wall you pass, you make sure to seal the windows shut and have all the doors closed. the contents of your bag make steady pangs against your back as you shuttled down the stairs. you lock the back door shut, close all the windows, turn on all the lights, and throw a match into their fireplace, waiting for the fire to come to full bloom. all that’s left is the kitchen.

there’s no time wasted in turning everything on— the microwave, oven, and the stove until you can't crank them any further. embers fly into the air. it’s getting hotter. you duck down to the compartment under the stove to reveal a white painted propane tank, taking out a cordless soldering iron to seal the safety relief valve close. you place a rag over the opening valve and twist it halfway through. a hissing sound whizzes through the air.

with that, you leave through the front door, locking it for good measure. his keys disappear into the bush nearest to their porch.

it’s only a matter of time until huang renjun ceases to be a pest anymore. if not for good, then at least lethally injured.

you head home to finish your physics worksheets that were due tomorrow.

for the first time in god knows how long, you wake up and head to school with a well rested air.

you take your things out of your backpack, humming a soft tune right before the bell rings for your first class. your other seatmate— donghyuck— notices your unusual cheery demeanor, and inquires about its oddities. you simply answer him with an allusion to finally being free. he laughs it off and turns his head to the chalkboard.

five minutes before eight. the doors creak open. you’re ready to stand and greet your teacher until you realize that it isn’t her.

it’s not.

it’s not.

it’s not.

something nauseating knocks into your lungs and stifles your throat, eyes wide and stinging. it squeezes your neck with poison prickling the surface.

huang renjun enters the classroom with his usual nods and smiles to everyone he passes.

“holy shit, dude. you look like hell.”

“i didn’t get any sleep last night,” he laughs, lightheartedly. “guess i’ll have to sleep through recess.”

your teeth grind against your lips, supple skin turning redder at each nip. your nails leave scratches on the desk as you rattle in your seat, thinking, thinking, panicking. each breath feels like choking on pulverized copper in sulfuric air. there’s a ringing in your ears and you hear nothing except your own voice screaming why is he here why is he here why is he here?

he doesn’t go to his desk. he’s standing right in front of you.

“you look well.”

it sears your fingerprints off your skin.

you don’t answer, don’t even look at him. he breaks into a small smile and leans forward, one hand pressed against your desk and the other reaching for a lock of your hair as he nears and nears and nears. “there’s something here,” he says.

there isn’t.

“you left my window unlocked, baby.”

his hot breath hits your cold cheek, tucking a strand behind with a smile. to everyone else, it would look sweet— heart fluttering. to you it was a death sentence. renjun breathes out a contained chuckle into your ear before letting his hand fall on your shoulder, a tight grip at the last second.

“better luck next time.”

© HANNIE-DUL-SET. 2021.

[sunflowervolvimp3]

you’re someone i just want around: VII

Sunflower, my eyes

Want you more than a melody

Let me inside

Wish I could get to know you

Sunflower Vol. 6, Harry Styles

A/N: okay so this part was so much fun to write!! it originally was going to have four more scenes but uh. as we all know. i am very wordy. so the other scenes I have planned will have to be split into what will probably become two more parts and you guys will just have to deal with getting another two chapters 😌 but this part is really exciting because we are getting a lil bit of angst mixed in with harry’s general dumbassery!! love to see it love to hear it!! and please if you like what you are reading here!! reblog it!! leave reactions in the tags (we read every single one)!! send a message to andrea and i!! feedback and interaction is what keeps content creators motivated to keep cranking out nearly 30k every one to two weeks!! and that’s a general rule for all content creators not just us!! we do this for free so a lil love note is always appreciated 💌 alrighty now that that’s out of the way!! let’s dive in!!

ysijwa masterlist : andrea’s masterlist : leyla’s masterlist : ysijwa playlist

word count: 26.6k

content/warnings: another good dose of denial, Fajita Friday with a side of blended margs, waking up on the wrong side of the coffin, brutal analysis of niall’s non-existent love life, ribeye!y/n x rotisseriechicken!harry, a horrible impersonation of Bob Barker, “are you there, God?  it’s me, harry,” degradation, the violation of worksafe laws through the improper use of a ladder, mild pain kink, alexa, play ‘kiss it better’ by rihanna, and the rise of kinkrry (dir. j.j. abrams)

As Harry climbs up the stairs to Y/N’s apartment the next Friday night with a bag containing tequila, orange liqueur, and limes clutched within his jeweled hand, there are two thoughts flickering through his mind.  

The first, which weighs more heavily on the vampire, is if Y/N prefers her margaritas blended or over ice, as Harry feels that tells a lot about a person, and it would be such a disappointment to realize now that Y/N isn’t a fan of the blended beverage.  The second, which should weigh more heavily on his mind if he had his priorities sorted out, is how Y/N had managed to convince him to let her cook dinner for the two of them.

In reality, it hadn’t actually taken much convincing on the mortal girl’s part at all.  When she messaged him on her lunch break earlier that day, asking what he was up to that night, Harry had sat up on his couch, drawing Niall and Xander’s attention to him in a confused manner. He’d stared at the message for only three seconds before opening his phone and pressing on her contact name.  The action had come so easily to him that he didn’t even think about hiding his eagerness to speak to her, and instead pressed his phone tight to his ear as the other line rang three times before she picked it up.

“Harry?” Her confused voice rang through his phone speaker, the sound of the bustling cafe apparent in the background. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, love. I just, uh…just wanted to talk to you, s’all.” Harry had replied, shushing the questions he could see hanging off of Niall and Xander’s lips. “How’s work today?  Busy?”

“As busy as it always is on a Friday afternoon.” Y/N answered with a sigh, and a small smile tugged at the corner of Harry’s lips as he heard a loud slurp through the phone, leading him to picture a stressed out Y/N sipping the last remnants of her iced latte. “But I’m over halfway through my shift, at least, so… it’s all downhill from here.  In a good way.”

Harry had nodded slowly, as if the mortal girl could see him through the phone. “I’m glad to hear that.”

His friends, however, seemed to be less glad to hear it, and paused the golf tournament that was playing on TV to stare at him with incredulous expressions on their faces. 

“Who are you talking to?” Niall had demanded, kicking his foot into Harry’s calf with more force than what was necessary. “We’re going to miss the first swing!”

“Isn’t it obvious?” Xander snickered to the Irishman next to him, a devious smirk lighting up his face. “It’s that human he’s been obsessed with for the last, like, two months.  His little plaything.”

Harry had stood up then, flipping the pair off with a pointed glare before turning towards the kitchen, intent on finding some peace and quiet where he could carry on his conversation without having to worry about Y/N overhearing something she shouldn’t.

“I don’t want to take up too much of your break,” He murmured, resting his elbows over the cool marble countertop of his kitchen island that was nearly the same temperature of his skin. “But calling you seemed easier than texting.  I’m free tonight—” He always kept his Friday nights free for her; had she not realized that by now? “So I was thinking I could be at your place around eight?  Or nine?  What works for you?”

And it was then that he had heard it, breaking through the cafe ambient noise that caught Harry’s inhuman ears, and the inquisitive whispering of Niall and Xander in the other room.  As clear as if it were really right in his ear, Harry had heard the sharp intake of breath, the slow exhale that followed, and the melodic voice that he’d become so familiar with, shaking ever so slightly.

“I was, um, actually thinking you could come over a bit earlier.” Y/N had replied, the tapping of her fingertips against her back room’s linoleum table reverberating around Harry’s head. “I got groceries yesterday, and I was going to make fajitas tonight, and I realized I had enough food for two people, and so if you don’t have anything else planned—”

Harry hadn’t meant to cut Y/N off— listening to her nervous rambling is one of his favourite things, and he’d never purposefully forfeit the opportunity to hear it (and that fondness aside, cutting off her speech would be rude)— but shock overtook his body and triggered the response before he could stop it. “You want to cook me dinner?”

“I—” The speaker crackled again, and Harry could practically picture the hesitation wrinkling across Y/N’s face, the caution in her tone a clear indication of how hard she was working to stay upright on the tense tightrope known as their relationship. “Yeah, I do.  I’m not a chef or anything, but my friends and I used to cook for each other all the time, and Fajita Fridays were one of my specialties, so—”

“I would absolutely love it if you cooked for me.” A slow grin had spread over Harry’s face, pulling the dimples from his cheeks in a way that he’d recently noticed only she could. “What time should I be over?  Do you want me to pick you up from work?”

“No, that’s fine.” Y/N had assured him quickly, the breathlessness in her voice leading Harry to picture the light rush of heat that was probably working its way over her cheeks. “You can come over around six, if that works for you…?”

Harry had checked the Rolex hanging off his wrist, which displayed the time of 2:33PM back to him. “Six is perfect.” He’d replied with an airy yet firm voice, nodding to himself once again. “Can I bring anything?  Is there anything you need me to pick up?”

“Oh, uh...no.  No, you don’t need to bring anything.  Just your appetite; I make a lot of fajitas.” The surprise that echoed in Y/N’s voice and the small laugh that followed had drawn an pleasurable ache from Harry’s dormant chest in a way he couldn’t explain. “Thank you for asking, though.  So… I’ll see you at six, then.”

“Sounds good, love.  I’m looking forward to it.” Harry had smiled again, despite no one being around to view it, and continued to smile even after he had hung up and made his way back to the living room, where his two friends had greeted him with an array of exaggerated vulgar motions and kissy faces.

He had waved them off, and though he’d glowered at them hotly and shrugged off their prodding questions, he couldn’t find it in himself to stifle the grin that the human girl’s offer had left behind on his cheeks.  She wanted to make him dinner. Just the two of them. It’d been so long since anyone had gone so out of their way for him like that, he hadn’t been able to help his giddy reaction.

As he reaches the final stair leading to Y/N’s floor of her building, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s pink lips.  He should’ve known better than to call her with his friend present, he thinks, as his footsteps echo around the empty hallway.  The moment he’d plopped back down on his couch, Niall and Xander had ignored his dismissive attitude and proceeded to continue to bombard him with a million questions about her, and a million more digs at his ego when he had later excused himself from their tournament to get ready for the dinner.  Although he’d normally be able to ignore their obsessive inquiries without so much as a second thought, he’d berated himself throughout his entire shower and get-ready routine, the harsh judgement ever-present in the back of his skull as he’d picked up his favourite ingredients for margaritas from the grocery store.  He should’ve known better.

It’s bad enough that he’s toying around with Y/N’s feelings just for his own selfish needs, but every time the topic of Y/N came up around his friends, it ended with the exact same question, just as it had earlier that day.

“So when do we get to meet her?  Like, officially meet her, and not just hear her moaning through your wall.” Niall had asked as he took a sip of his Guinness beer, layering a childish snicker on top of his curiosity.

“Yeah, I’d love to see the girl that domesticated you.  Always thought she’d be fictional, actually.” Xander’s laugh had matched Niall’s as the two of them watched Harry slip a fresh t-shirt over his head. 

A tightness had developed in Harry’s chest then, so tense that it had nearly stopped him from smoothing the shirt over his inked chest. “You don’t get to meet her.” He had replied curtly, shooting the two vampires a stern look. “She’s not something for you two to gawk at, she’s—”

Niall had interjected then, the mirth in his eyes refusing to bow despite Harry’s seething. “Your girlfriend?” 

Harry had stared witheringly at the Irish immortal. “No.  She’s not my girlfriend.  She’s just a friend I have an arrangement with.  An arrangement that will become much more complicated if she starts hanging out with other vampires and notices that there’s something… off about us.”

“Off?” Niall had questioned, grinning cheekily with a flash of his fangs, his blue irises dying blood red. “I have no idea what you’re referring to, mate.”

Pausing in front of Y/N’s front door, Harry takes a moment to swipe his hair back from his face, tousling his curls until they fall into just the right place.  His chestnut locks are beginning to get a little long again (they curl around his ears and tickle the nape of his neck now), but he can’t quite bring himself to cut them just yet; Y/N has a habit of reaching for them whenever he goes down on her, and the sensation of her tugging on his hair is too satisfying to let go of so easily.  As for the rest of his look, Harry has opted to keep it casual tonight, wearing a blue and pink flamingo patterned button down over his Chicago Cubs t-shirt, paired with a rust-coloured pair of corduroy pants and his white vans.  If their usual routine is any indication, then Harry will be staying the night, and he’s learned over the years that it’s much comfier to leave the next morning in loose clothes than trying to yank on a pair of tight leather pants in a stranger’s bedroom.  Not that Y/N is a stranger; in fact, he could probably get away with bringing an overnight bag now.  But there’s something so presumptuous in showing up to a dinner date with a bag, and in a shocking— though fleeting— change of heart, the last thing Harry wants is to seem presumptuous. 

Harry raises his jeweled knuckles and raps on Y/N’s door in a rhythmic pattern, straightening his back and leaning against the frame as he waits for the door to open. 

Even through the wooden barrier, Harry can hear the old music floating through the bluetooth speaker that he knows sits on Y/N’s kitchen counter, the sizzling of peppers and onions in a pan, and Y/N singing to herself softly under her breath, the latter of which pauses as soon as Harry knocks.  Instead, it’s replaced with the soft padding of bare feet against the laminate floor, the click of a lock, the removal of a door chain, and the turning of a knob as the door swings open. 

And then Harry sees Y/N, and the sight of her catches the breath that he doesn’t really need. It lodges in his lungs and at the back of his burning throat, causing an odd sensation to churn the pit of his tummy as a sudden wave of heat pours into his cheeks. 

If Harry’s pride wasn’t as steadfast as he likes to portray, he would openly admit that it truly is frightening how just one glance at her can make his entire nervous system flare. 

It’s obvious that Y/N’s been at work all day; her mascara is slightly smudged beneath her eyes, and the ponytail bouncing at the top of her head is loose, with wisps of hair falling out and framing her face.  Her clothing, however, has been changed from her usual work polo and jeans to a cotton bralette that clings to her chest and displays a strip of her stomach that makes Harry’s mouth water.  Her black leggings have mesh cutouts on the side, and while that detail would normally draw Harry’s eyes by default, it’s the multicolour patchwork cardigan hanging loosely off her shoulders that really catches Harry off guard.  Or, more specifically, it’s his multicolour patchwork cardigan that catches him off guard. 

“Hi.” Y/N smiles up at him warmly with the edges of her eyes crinkling, her hands grasping the side of the door tightly. “Six P.M. on the dot, Holmes.  I’m impressed.”

“Solving mysteries isn’t my only speciality.” Harry matches his grin to hers, his dimples making an appearance as his expression grows. “Although speaking of mysteries… I think I just solved the case of my missing cardigan.” With his free hand, Harry reaches forward and tweaks a button on the article of clothing, his fingers brushing against Y/N’s bare tummy when he pulls away. 

A wispy giggle falls from Y/N’s cheeks as she opens the door wider to invite Harry in. “Right, that case.  I was about to call you about it, actually.  We got a big break-through last night.”

“Did we?” Harry raises an eyebrow as he steps into her apartment, shifting the fabric tote bag in his right hand to his left as he squeezes into the narrow corridor beside her. “And what was the big break, exactly?” 

Y/N wraps her arms around Harry’s neck as he snakes his now free hand around her waist, clutching her close to his cool body. “Well, I was trying to go to sleep, and I was cold, so I went searching in my closet for an extra blanket, and found this tucked in the back from when you let me borrow it last weekend.” She explains lightly, twisting her fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. “Case closed.  Elementary, my dear Holmes.”

“I thought that was my line?” Harry quirks an eyebrow as fond amusement dances through his emerald eyes, his cold palm giving one of her love handles a playful squeeze. “First you steal my cardigan, and now my catch phrase.  What’s next?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Y/N says with a shrug, her smile growing wider with every passing moment as she nudges his chin teasingly with the tip of her warm nose. “I could steal a kiss, I suppose?  That’s a very you thing to do.”

“Not quite.  Usually you’re the one trying to steal one, and I make you ask for it. Beg, even, if I’m feeling a bit meaner than usual.” Tilting his head to the side and shaking it slowly, Harry lets out a long sigh. “You’re losing your touch, Watson.”

“Tragic.” Y/N matches his sigh as she begins to untangle her hands from his hair, but when she tries to extract herself from Harry’s grasp, he just holds on tighter. 

“But for the sake of tradition…” Harry’s eyes fall to the mortal’s lips as he wets his own with his tongue. “How about a hello kiss?”

Despite the usual iciness of Harry’s touch, heat begins to blossom through Y/N’s chest as she tilts her head up to meet Harry’s mouth.  The kiss, unlike many they’ve shared before, is tender, and only lasts for a brief moment before Y/N settles back down on the balls of her feet. 

“Hi.” She whispers, her hands curling around the fabric clinging to Harry’s muscular shoulders. 

“Hi.” The vampire replies easily as he finally releases his grip on her waist, taking a step back from both Y/N and the bashful instance they’d found themselves in.

He allows her to lead him down the entrance hallway and into her living room, drifting behind her towards the kitchen and glimpsing over all the ingredients she has scattered around her counters.

“You look beautiful in my cardigan, by the way.” Harry throws out casually, admiring the way the article hangs off her figure in the most adorable oversized fashion. “If I didn’t make that clear enough before.  And,” the monster takes a sudden deep whiff for emphasis, “it smells delicious in here. Seems like Gordon Ramsey doesn’t have shit on you, huh?”

Although the initial compliment brings a flush of pleasure up Y/N’s spine, she chooses to focus on the latter half of Harry’s comment. “I’d like to think so, yeah.  Dinner is almost ready, if you want to take a seat at the table.  Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Actually…” Harry holds up the bag in his hand and bounces it jestingly, fully bringing it to Y/N’s attention for the first time. “I thought I’d make us margaritas to go with the fajitas.  Really commit to the theme, y’know?”

All of the previous drinks that Harry has made for her float through Y/N’s mind, and her mouth salivates at the thought of drinking another of his incredible creations. He really does have such a wise talent with liquor that she finds herself subconsciously wondering how that had come to be. “Of course; we can’t do Fajita Fridays halfway, now can we?”

“No, we can’t.” Harry agrees with a firm nod, setting the bag down on her small kitchen tabletop and unpacking the ingredients he’d toted with him. “Do you prefer your margaritas over ice or blended?”

The correct answer immediately rolls off the mortal’s tongue. “Blended— I’m not insane.” She states with a scoff, picking up her spatula to stir the pepper and onion mixture on the stove as she bobs her head towards the cabinet at the far end of the room. “The blender is just up in that cupboard there.”

The corners of Harry’s pink lips tug up at her response, and he nods to the girl as he drifts over and reaches for the cabinet she’d motioned to. “Gotcha.” He says, pushing back a few decorative serving platters before extracting the blender sitting on the back of the shelf. “Oh, this’ll do nicely.”

His comment is met with a quiet snort from Y/N, who glances at him from the corner of her eye as she turns her attention to the sautéing chicken in her skillet. “Oh, it will, will it?” She asks sarcastically, her lithe fingers adding pinches of seasoning to the dish. “Are you a blender connoisseur, then?”

“Of course I am, angel.  Y’have to be, to make a half decent margarita.” Setting the kitchen appliance in the counter, Harry studies it with a keen eye, running his fingers over the smooth glass and slightly worn buttons. “It has a little bit of wear and tear, but that’s to be expected; the rest of it seems to be in decent condition.” He unwraps the cord from the base of the blender, plugging it into the wall before pressing the pulse button a few times to make the machine roar to life. “Listen to that engine purr… A blender like this could bring a man to tears.”

“That’s good to know.” Y/N snorts again, shaking her head at Harry’s antics as he begins to prepare his ingredients. “If you need a knife for the limes, there’s one in the block there.  And ice is in the freezer—”

“That’s good to know.” Harry mimics her prior reply with a shit-eating grin on his face, his hand wrapped around a bottle of Don Julio he’d snagged from his bar shelves. “I was about to check the cabinet again.”

With a shake of her head, Y/N steps past Harry to open a cupboard and fetch a serving dish. “Alright, smartass.” She bumps her hip against Harry’s as she passes him, the motion sending a jolt of electricity across the vampire’s pelvic bones. “Keep it up and you’ll lose dessert privileges.”

Although she tries to step away, Harry twists a cool arm around Y/N’s waist, pulling her back against his chest as he smudges a kiss over her pulse point. “‘M sorry.” He murmurs, keeping his voice low in an attempt to hide the smile brewing on his face. “I’ll be nicer, then.  I’d hate to lose dessert—it’s my favourite part.”

With his lips over her neck, Harry can feel the exact moment Y/N’s heart rate increases, his ears pricking with the now familiar and adored sound.  Her warm hand cups his over her belly, fingers tracing over the knuckles of his icy touch. 

“I know it is.” Y/N tilts her head to the left, trying to provide Harry with more access to her neck as his mouth continues to ghost over her skin. “So I’d hate to take it away.”

The human girl’s familiar and achingly sweet honey and lavender scent fills Harry’s nostrils as his nose brushes against her jaw.  When he refers to her as dessert, Y/N doesn’t know how genuinely Harry means it. “Alright.  I’ll behave.” He relents, but he squeezes her tummy tightly as his teeth graze her skin one last time before pulling away. “For now.”

When Y/N detangles from the cage that is Harry’s arm, she busies herself with cooking again, doing her best to hide the light sheen of sweat that is beading her forehead.  It’s almost embarrassing, really; despite only being here for five minutes, Harry’s already pulling reactions out of her that she didn’t even know she had.  If she doesn’t get a hold of herself soon, she’ll be on her knees for him before he’s had a bite of dinner. 

With that thought in mind, the mortal forces herself to focus on the tasks at hand, continuing her banter with Harry while making sure to keep the subject matter PG as she plates the food and Harry blends drinks for them.  Her tiny table, which she’s already set for two, is soon filled with dishes containing sautéed vegetables, chicken, and other various toppings, and Harry pours his margarita mix into two glasses before sitting across from her with a curious air. 

“So this is what you and your friends used to do back home, is it?” He asks, crossing his arms and resting them on the table as he regards Y/N with a tilted head. “Fajita Fridays?  Taco Tuesdays?  Meatloaf Mondays?”

“Meatloaf Mondays sound depressing.” Y/N shoots back with a scoff, her hand wrapping around her margarita glass and lifting it to her mouth to take a sip. “We weren’t that pathetic.”

Harry exhales a sharp but quiet breath from his nose once—the beginnings of a laugh— before offering a dry reply. “No, it doesn’t have a very nice ring to it, does it?” He says, watching eagerly as her eyes widen at the first taste of the drink rolls across her tongue. “Do you like it?”

Y/N clears her throat as she lowers her glass from her mouth. “It’s...strong.” Y/N replies slowly, taking another gulp and smacking her lips in an exaggerated fashion. “But yummy.  This is a repeat recipe, I think.” 

The praise warms the pit of Harry’s stomach as he raises his own glass, motioning to the girl before him before bringing the edge of the cup to his lips. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He murmurs, setting his drink back down after taking a sip and letting his eyes roam over the food before them. “So how did you and your friends do this?  Everyone would just reach in at once, or—?”

“Oh, well, we—we used to say grace first, actually.” Y/N admits after a moment, her eyes momentarily flickering to the gold cross dangling from Harry’s neck.  Although his usual cross earring is absent tonight, his pearls out of sight as well, and he’s only wearing his opal and lionhead rings, that familiar cross necklace is present as ever. “And then we’d move everything around the table clockwise from the person who actually led saying grace.” 

Despite Y/N previously mentioning that she’d been a regular church goer in her hometown, this new information sparks an interest in Harry’s mind. “Really?” He quirks an eyebrow as the human girl reaches for a warmed tortilla and begins to spoon her toppings inside. “But you don’t do that now?”

“Nope.” Her lips pop on the final consonant sound of the word. “Did you say grace growing up?” She asks curiously, nodding to the chain around Harry’s neck. “You always wear that cross, so I was just wondering…”

“Oh, uh—yeah. Yeah, we did.” A crease furrows the space between Harry’s brow as he selects his own tortilla, keeping his eyes glued to the food. “My father used to lead it every night.” Although he could leave the comment there and be done with the topic, more words of explanation spill from Harry’s mouth without him realizing how much he’s actually saying, his gaze remaining trained on the way he’s filling his tortilla, almost as if it’s a monumentally difficult task that requires his utmost attention. “I liked to listen to him say it.  My father had a very calming voice; he could be loud and boisterous when he wanted to, but at home, he always kept cool and collected.  It was comforting.”

Y/N notes the use of past tense when discussing Harry’s father, but doesn’t comment on it.  With the knowledge that his mother had passed away in her mind, she assumes the same has happened to his father, and the realization twists her heart in a new and aching manner. “You speak like that, you know.” She tries to steer the conversation into a lighter direction, registering the sadness in his emerald eyes when he discusses his family. “When you’re telling stories about your life.  Your voice is low and even, quieter than usual.  It sounds a bit like a…lullaby, I guess.  Or like— like an audiobook, like someone’s reading some old poetry, or—” Her cheeks flame beneath her skin as she drops her eyes to her plate. “Sorry.  That, um, that sounds strange.”

The outpouring confessions from the girl across from him brings an awed expression to Harry’s face.  He had always assumed his voice was more of a siren song than anything— capable of luring his victims into a false sense of security before he showed his true monstrous form.  But if the stuttering of Y/N’s heart and the brightness in her eyes is any indication, maybe that isn’t quite the case.  She described him as a lullaby, yes, but she didn’t sound betrayed at the thought of him spinning stories in order to keep her pliable under his grasp.  If anything, her words give the impression that she enjoys it.

“I’ve heard stranger.” Harry murmurs after a moment, his unusually bare forefinger rubbing over his lips pensively as he waits for Y/N to raise her head again. “Thank you.  That’s a compliment, really, saying that I sound like my dad used to.”

“Well, I mean, I’ve never heard your dad speak, so take it with a grain of salt—” Y/N forces out a laugh, despite her cheeks and neck still feeling uncomfortably flushed, “—but I imagine it’s similar.  After all, he raised you, didn’t he?”

Harry nods slowly, his mind so wrapped in his own memories that he doesn’t even think about the incriminating answer about to fall from his lips. “He did, yeah, but it’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak to him.” He admits, pinching his chin between his thumb and index finger as he lifts his left shoulder in an empty shrug. “Memories fade over time.  Things change.  People change.”

Although she can feel that they’re beginning to breach a more serious topic, Y/N doesn’t pull back like she did in the restaurant.  She rationalizes this action to herself as she sips her margarita and collects her thoughts, saying that it’s just because it’s easier to be honest in her apartment than a brunch restaurant. But the truth of the matter is that the longer she spends with Harry, the more Y/N wants to know him. Really know him, outside of their usual arrangement. 

“That’s true,” She agrees with hesitancy etched into her voice, keeping a measured glance on Harry’s body to read his reaction. “But you can’t have changed that much since you last saw him.  When…” Her words trail off when Harry locks his emerald eyes with hers, but she takes a deep breath and finishes her question in determination. “When did he pass away?  How old were you?”

In the immortal’s mind, the answer forms without any delay.  His father had been the first to go in his family; the combination of breathing in smoke from the forge and his age being four years his mother’s senior had stopped his heart before hers.  The news of his death reached Harry a few days after it had happened, and he had just made it back to Holmes Chapel in time to watch the funeral service from afar.  

Despite his appearance being frozen at twenty-six, as it always would be, Harry was nearly twenty-nine to the day of the funeral.  Gemma had been thirty-three by then, standing with their mother and a tall man by her side, who whispered what her brother hoped were reassuring words in her ear.  His sister's eyes had been nearly a perfect mirror of Harry’s, with the exception of a few crow’s feet beginning to show around them.  And his mother had been dressed in widower’s black, a veil pulled over her weeping face to allow her the bit of discretion that was expected in Victorian times.  Harry had been distressed when he saw the veil, despite expecting it to be there; he’d hoped he could get one more glimpse of her eyes before he had to leave that day.  He had entertained the idea of walking over, expressing his condolences, and compelling her to forget she’d seen her lost son, but the thought had twisted an ache into his chest that had nearly brought him to tears, and—

“I was twenty-one when he passed away.” Harry spits the sentence out, and the familiar lie burns his throat in an entirely foreign way than the thirst he’s used to. “He had lung cancer.” At least, that had been Harry’s assumption after he read up on the disease years after his father’s undetermined passing.  It made sense, given that all the grit and soot from the coal and metal grime had found its way into the air of the blacksmith’s shop, and after slaving away for years in order to keep food on the table, it had also eventually made its way into his father’s system… “It progressed quickly.” 

As he watches sympathy glaze itself over Y/N’s eyes, all he can think about is how undeserving he is of it.  Even though he’s compelled the mortal girl in front of him, gained her trust, been invited into her home, and is kindling a connection with her, all for the simple act of drinking her blood, Harry thinks that this might be the most monstrous thing he’s done yet— paint himself as a victim of circumstance, hiding all the wrong-doings he’s ever committed, and allowing Y/N and her softly-beating heart to feel sorry for him. 

The conversation moves to an lighter tone after that, which Harry does on purpose; the less he needs to tell her about his fabricated sob story, the better.  And, truth be told, he’d much rather hear about Y/N’s day-to-day life.  It’s been so long since he had human concerns, and when he did, his concerns certainly didn’t have anything to do with being betrayed by customers because the cafe wifi was down.  It’s almost amusing to him, listening to her rant about all these insignificant people, and he can’t help the way his dimples begin to peek out of his cheeks as she raises her voice at imaginary customers. 

“So I told him, in my most polite voice, that we were aware the wifi was down, and that we’d called the provider to let them know, and that they were sending someone as fast as they could to fix it. And do you know what he said to me?” Y/N widens her eyes in incredulous disbelief as she takes a bite of her fajita, chewing and swallowing quickly to continue with her story with more emphasis. “Do you know what he said?”

“No, I don’t.” Harry shakes his head in endearment, hiding the laugh forming on his rosy lips behind his margarita glass. “What did he say?”

“He said—” Y/N twists her face to mimic the customer’s expression, dropping her voice down five octaves lower as she speaks with a ridiculous tone. “‘Oh, well, can’t you just fix it?  You work here, don’t you?  What else do you get paid for?’ Can you believe that?” She states the last phrase in her normal voice, scoffing at the memory as she crosses her patchwork covered arms across her chest. “Like, I’m a waitress!  I don’t work at an internet company!  I’m trained to bring you water and sandwiches— which are more cucumber than anything with actual substance—  so it’s not my responsibility to figure out why you can’t load Candy Crush on your phone!”

A snicker finally breaks free from Harry’s throat as he watches Y/N angrily stuff a piece of chicken into her mouth. “Sounds like you had a rough day today.”

“That’s pretty average for me, honestly.” Y/N sighs again, rubbing her hand over her forehead as she polishes off the rest of her second margarita. “Ugh, it pissed me off.  I wanted to shove his phone right up his ass and ask if his wifi connection got better.” A small smile breaks out across Y/N’s lips in spite of herself as Harry stifles another giggle at her witty comment. “But I’ve talked about it enough.  How was your day?  What did you do?”

“I did a bit of work in the morning, nothing too noteworthy.” Harry replies, deliberately keeping his answer vague as he twists his lionhead ring around his finger. “And I was about to watch a golf tournament with Xander and Niall when you called.”

Harry thinks nothing of mentioning their names, but is surprised when Y/N’s brow cinch in thought. “Which ones are Xander and Niall?  Is one of them the long haired one?” She asks curiously, pulling her (his) cardigan off one shoulder as the tequila begins to course through her veins and heat her body. 

“The— no.  No, that’s Mitch.” Harry says slowly, cocking his head to the side in confusion. “How did you know that?”

Y/N feels a spike of embarrassment in her stomach, and shyly avoids Harry’s eyes as she answers. “There was a photo of you with a group of guys in your apartment, in the living room.” She mumbles, tapping her fingers against her newly cleaned plate. “One of them— I think he was next to you in the photo?— had long hair.  Another had blue eyes, glasses… and brown hair, I think?  I don’t really remember the rest…”

Harry hums in the back of his throat, quiet and low. “That was probably Niall.” He guesses, finishing his own margarita and setting the glass down gently. “If I’m thinking of the right picture, then Xander was the one standing next to him.”

Y/N pictures the faces in her mind’s eye, imagining the two brunette boys in the clothing from the photo, slumped next to Harry on the couch of his stunning condo, knocking back pints of beer and plates of nachos as they watch golf on TV.  It seems strange to picture Harry doing something so… normal.  She forgets, sometimes, that he’s a regular twenty-six year old man.  In her head, when she thinks of Harry, regular is the last word that comes to her mind— even when he’s sitting across from her in a casual outfit, doing something as simple as eating dinner while he asks her about her day, Y/N struggles to remember that this man is just that: a man.  

Maybe, she ponders, as Harry stands up with the explanation of making more margaritas falling off his lips, it’s because she’s only ever really been alone with him.  With the exception of the club where they met, and his friends interrupting their weekend a few weeks prior (her cheeks flame at the recalling of the embarrassing memory), Y/N has only ever seen Harry in her own context.  

As the blender whirs to life behind her, the human twists in her chair to catch a glimpse of the object of her thoughts.  Even beneath his opaque shirt, she can see the muscles of Harry’s back flexing as he bends down to slice a lime, squeezing the juice into the top of the blender while holding his jeweled hand underneath to catch any seeds.  When Harry is around her, he’s charming, cocky, self-assured, and— on the extremely rare occasion— vulnerable.  What’s he like around his friends?  

Just as cocky, Y/N is sure; she can’t picture Harry letting go of his signature smirk so easily.  But does anything else about him shift when exposed to different company?  Is there different vocabulary that slips from his mouth?  What about his tone of voice?  Does that change, too, like Y/N’s used to when she was around Bradley, or when she’s with customers?  He mentioned earlier that he’d been watching golf, and that was the last sport she'd ever think he’d have an affinity for, let alone one he’d enjoy enough to make a day out of watching tournaments.  What other personality traits and pastimes is he keeping from her?  If she were to be a fly on the wall while he was with his friends, would she see someone completely unrecognizable in his Gucci boots and translucent shirts?

The sudden lack of noise from the blender snaps Y/N from her thoughts, and Harry detaches the pitcher and carries it to the table, filling her empty glass with a smile. 

“There you are, miss.” He winks at her quickly before filling his own cup and standing back from the table with a grin, his free hand folded behind his back as he straightens his posture. “Now,” He begins, his accent slipping into a more posh tongue as he bows his head lightly. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

Despite her worries, a soft laugh rolls from Y/N at his impersonation of a server. “Yeah, actually.” She drops her voice lower again, plastering an angry expression onto her face as she reaches into her cardigan pocket and retrieves her phone. “Your wifi is down.  What kind of restaurant doesn’t have wifi?  Can’t you fix this?”

A loud snort echoes from Harry’s mouth as he sets the blender back down on the counter before sliding back into his seat across from her. “Sorry, love,” He laughs, his regular accent back in its place. “That’s a bit above my paygrade.  I can, however, offer you some compensation.”

Wrapping her fingers around the icy margarita glass, Y/N leans forward, resting her chin on her free hand as she appraises Harry with a kinked brow. “Is that so?” She replies in her regular voice as well, her interest piqued. “What kind of compensation?”

“It’s part of our Friday Night Special,” Harry slides his hand across the table and pushes the baggy rainbow sleeve of Y/N’s cardigan down her arm in order to brush his cool fingers up and down her bare skin. “And it features bottomless margaritas paired with cunnilingus from our most handsome waiter.”

A fluttering warmth begins to knot itself around Y/N’s core, but she does her best to keep her composure as she straightens her spine and glances around the apartment. “Sounds intriguing.  So where’s the handsome waiter?”

Harry’s pillowy lips plunk down into an exaggerated frown as he presses a hand to his chest, his other hand continuing to stroke over Y/N’s forearm. “Ouch, Watson.  That hurt.  Might need you to kiss it better.”

“Oh yeah?” Y/N challenges, lifting her drink to her lips and sipping it slowly. “Where exactly does it hurt?”

Instead of answering her query, Harry simply stands from his chair and rounds the table to stop in front of Y/N, extending his hand to her.  She lays her fingers inside his cool grasp, allowing him to pull her from her seat.  He’s closer than she realized, she thinks, as her chest brushes with his and the intoxicating scent of his cologne fills her senses, only getting stronger as Harry nudges her nose with his own, his lips just barely gliding over her own. The copper specks around his pupils glitz under the muted lighting, electric from the alcohol, from the sensation of her close proximity, and from the ever-present intention of getting between her legs.

When Harry finally speaks, his thick cadence washes over her just as much as his tequila-scented breath, his free-hand tugging suggestively at the waistband of her leggings. “If we go to your bedroom, then I can show you.”

“Mm, is that so?” The girl gives in to his gesture, stepping forward as the vampire begins treading backwards towards their new— though entirely familiar— destination. “You’re gonna show me, then?”

“I most certainly am.” The boy keeps their bodies close, making sure that his lips continue to just barely graze hers as he moves, teasing her nerves into a frenzy. “I plan on showing you over, and over, and over…”

Y/N can’t bring herself to resist the offer.  She’s only human, after all.

///

The next morning, Harry wakes up tangled in Y/N’s sheets to two surprises: the sheets on Y/N’s side of the bed are cold and bare, and that Harry is actually waking up.  

Although he remembers falling back onto the scattered sheets the night before (after coaxing three orgasms out of Y/N and her coaxing two from him in return), he doesn’t remember drifting off into the sleep he so rarely needs, and because of that, Harry feels disoriented and groggy in a way he hasn’t in a long time.  He does his best to blink the haze from his usually sharp eyes, knuckling at them with his cool fingers as he attempts to get his bearings.

His sleep-fogged mind struggles to recall what had happened after Y/N had fallen asleep.  She’d drifted off easily and quickly, her sweat-soaked body tucked into Harry’s with her head resting in the crook of his neck.  That noted detail sticks out in his memory because it had made Harry pause before biting her.  She’d been so comfortable next to him, and in such an inconvenient position that Harry didn’t want to shift her to drink. After debating with himself for a few moments, he’d eventually decided on an alternative and had lifted her fragile wrist to his lips.

Even half awake, Harry’s lips quirk up at the hazy memory.  He recalls the feeling of her hummingbird pulse thrumming beneath her delicate skin, practically vibrating against his lips as he stamped a kiss over her vein before biting down.  Her blood had a weaker flow there, but that was alright; he’d just sucked a little harder to coax the liquid from her body, feeling his mouth overflow with her welcomed taste as well as with the supernatural chemicals that inject into her system and dull any pain his feeding might cause. He’d been careful to gauge his consumption by the strength of her heartbeat, and when he’d finished, he’d sealed the wound with a bit of his own blood, as usual. He’d made sure Y/N was healed and settled back in his arms before relaxing into the pillows to listen to her breathing, the soft pillows and her radiating body heat feeling more soothing than usual. Somewhere between counting the movement of her lungs and the sun rising, Harry had fallen unconscious.

It’s strange, being up after Y/N.  Harry has grown used to rising before her and making breakfast, or even just coffee, and there’s something disorienting about being in her bed alone, without her inherent warmth and soft skin, and only the ghost of her sugary scent left behind.  He briefly wonders if this is how she feels when she wakes up to cold sheets and no one beside her (although Harry suspects the lack of his frozen body would make the bed a more comfortable temperature), and thinks that maybe he should begin to lay in bed with her a little longer; if he’s going to fake a relationship with her, it should be a relationship where her partner wants to be around her, and isn’t awake before the sun.

And that’s another thing.  The golden orange light of the rising L.A. sun is just beginning to stream through the closed curtains, so what time is it?  It can’t be any later than seven— on a Saturday, no less— and at such an early hour, Harry would expect Y/N to still be dreamily dozing in bed.  What had drawn her away from her comfortable position in Harry’s arms?

As the sun continues to rise, the light begins to streak onto Y/N’s empty side of the bed and, instinctually, Harry begins to reach for the beam, craving the warmth she took with her when she abandoned the sheets.  Instead of the expected touch of heat, however, Harry is jarred by a burning sensation ripping across his icy flesh.

The vampire yanks his hand back in a flash, his face screwing in silent pain as he bites back a yell of anguish, but the damage has already been done.  The tips of his fingers are puckered with red blisters, which throb as he flexes his hand in the safety of the shadows. Harry digs his sharp teeth into his lip harder, forcing himself to inhale slowly through his nose and exhale shakily through his mouth.

It takes a few moments for him to collect himself, breathing deeply with his eyes closed as he does so, and as he counts his own breaths like he’d counted Y/N’s the night before, what should’ve been an obvious thought enters his mind: why had he burned?  He’s wearing his lionhead ring, which has eyes made of those precious crystals that protect his inhuman skin from sunlight, and as long as he’s wearing it, the sun shouldn’t be able to…

Harry’s sight snaps completely open as he jerks forward in bed, his head throbbing from the sudden movement.  When he’d first awoken, he’d attributed his grogginess and dry eyes to sleeping for the first time in weeks, but as Harry’s jade gaze settles upon his uninjured hand, he realizes the truth.  That disorienting feeling isn’t from sleep, but from the sunlight that had begun to seep through the curtains and affect his body, bouncing off the glossy walls of Y/N’s room and reflecting off her picture frames and furniture.  What would normally not be an issue suddenly becomes the bane of his existence, and what usually isn’t able to affect his body immediately does, obvious in the agonizing sweltering writhing through every single one of his dormant arteries. And all because his lionhead ring is missing from its rightful place.

Granted, Harry hadn’t worn most of his rings to Y/N’s apartment the night before, seeing as how they planned to spend the night in, but he’d kept his mother’s opal and the lionhead securely on his middle finger and pinky, just as he always did.  The former brings him memories of his mother, and helps him keep a piece of her— and who he once was— with him in this strange modern time.  The latter had been a rebirth gift from a family he’d rather forget, and if it didn’t keep him from flambéing himself every time he stepped into the sun, he wouldn’t wear it at all. In all honesty, he probably would’ve chucked into Hell, if he could. 

But the reality of his afterlife is that Harry needs that ring.  So why is it missing from his hand?

Cradling his blistered digits to his bare chest, the wounded vampire tosses back the covers, careful to avoid the streaks of sunshine beginning to light up the small room.  His icy chest soothes the burn in his fingers, which are taking longer to heal than Harry would’ve thought, but if the grating itch of his dry eyes is any indication, the effects of the sun aren’t just limited to direct physical harm, but are also stopping his body from healing itself as quickly as usual.

Harry presses his good hand to his dizzy head and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet onto the ground as firmly as he can to center himself, refusing to cripple under the extraneous circumstances. He fishes his grey boxers from their signature spot on Y/N’s floor, slipping them on slowly as even the smallest of movements seems to strain his muscles beyond reason. As the elastic band snaps around his hips, another frightening possibility seizes his body: his mother’s ring could also be gone. He yanks his hand away from his head, and it takes his eyes a moment to focus on the opal ring.  At least he can breathe a sigh of relief about one thing— if his mother’s ring had disappeared, Harry’s not quite sure what he would’ve done.  

And that thought brings his spinning mind back to the present.  His lionhead ring is gone, and he can’t so much as step into sunlight without undergoing intense, insurmountable pain, so how is he going to find it?

Another groan falls from Harry’s mouth as he rests his forehead in his palm, propping his elbow against his knee so he can shield his eyes from the sunlight by hiding in between his legs.  Daylight talismans are extremely rare; he can’t exactly waltz into the nearest Wal-Mart and pick one up.  The crystals that give vampires such cherished immunity all date back to the medieval era, when vampires were considered mythical legends instead of just plain myths, and what few of the crystals are left are hidden deep within old ruins in the remote wilderness of Europe.  If Harry hadn’t been given his shortly after he was turned, he’s not sure he would have been lucky enough to own one.  He remembers Niall telling him how he had to search every night for months before he found a crystal hidden inside a ruin in Wales, and Xander had once recounted the story of stealing his from the vampire that turned him.  Even Mitch had struggled with the crystals before; although his ring had originally been a gift from the vampire that transformed him, he had to crack the crystal in half and set it into a new ring for Sarah when she had met her untimely demise. 

Vampires have been known to beg, lie, cheat, and steal in order to get their hands on a daylight crystal, so if someone managed to sneak in and take Harry’s lionhead ring while he and Y/N were sleeping, then Harry is going to have a fucking hell of a time trying to get it back. 

As the thought enters Harry’s dazed mind, a chill runs down his back, crawling across his spine and down his tailbone in an unsettling shiver as he slowly turns back to Y/N’s empty side of the bed.  If someone— if another creature just like him, who would be the only other person capable of recognizing such a treasure— got into the apartment and took his ring, and found an unconscious mortal girl with the sweetest honey and lavender liquid pulsing through her veins, then…

The sheets and curtains of the room blow in a breeze as Harry jets off the bed, forgetting to control his inhuman speed as he throws the sliding door open and stumbles into the hallway.  More sunlight streams through the windows of the living room, and it’s taking all of Harry’s dulled concentration to avoid the beams as he staggers towards the kitchen.

It’s not until the immortal smells Y/N’s familiar fragrance and hears the beating of her heart, in tune with her quiet humming, that the fear Harry hadn’t realized had tightened his chest flows out of him in one fell swoop.  He does his best to force even breaths in and out of his lungs, watching as Y/N raises her coffee mug to her lips and blows on the hot liquid before taking a small sip.

She’s dressed in his multicoloured patchwork cardigan again, buttoned up to provide her with warmth and modesty, but it slips down her bare shoulder in a way that allows Harry to see she’s wearing nothing underneath it.  Although the cardigan pools around her silky thighs— which are marked with bruises from the night before— Harry can see the tiniest peak of her panties beneath the fabric, and if he were in a better frame of mind, he might’ve noticed how they’re not the pair she wore last night (that pair had been ripped right down the middle in his frantic attempt to get them off).  However, Harry’s eyes quickly settle on Y/N’s hands, which, after she sets down her coffee cup, pick up Harry’s lionhead ring and begin turning it around in her fingers.

When he sees the ring in her delicate grasp, a wave of sheer rage begins to rumble through Harry’s chest, and it takes every fiber of his undead being to keep it at bay as he approaches the mortal girl. “Y/N,” Harry rasps lowly, voice heavy with the exhaustion that his newfound vulnerability has stacked onto his shoulders. He stands in the one spot of shadow near the kitchen counter, trying hard not to glower. “What are you doing?”

When Y/N turns her head to look at him, her sleepy face smiles softly, eyes nearly as bright as the infuriating sun. Maybe that’s why, Harry thinks, it feels like it burns.

“Morning,” She says quietly, her own voice just as sleepy as Harry’s as she picks up a grey cloth from the table and begins to run it over the ring with precision and care. “How did you sleep?”

It’s a simple, innocent question, and Harry knows that, but his mind can’t think in simple and innocent terms right now.  As the light filling the room begins to pound his head even more, Harry’s thoughts revert back to his most instinctual behavior— rough carnal impulse. “What are you doing?” He asks again, his voice lower than before.  He sounds dangerous, and he means to.  How could she possibly think that taking something from him without his permission is fine?

“I’m polishing your ring.” Y/N keeps that good-natured smile on her face as she replies, but Harry can see the smallest waver in it as she begins to sense his distorted energy from across the room. “It was tarnished, and I have a polishing cloth, so I thought I’d—”

“Give it back.” Harry doesn’t mean to snarl the phrase, but he can’t stop himself from doing it as he thrusts out his hand expectantly; it’s taking all his concentration to keep himself from baring his teeth and letting his eyes bleed red. 

Y/N doesn’t fight him on it, and drops the ring carefully into his awaiting hand without letting her warm skin meet his.  She watches with confused eyes as Harry slips the newly shined lionhead ring onto his finger, a breath of relief sighing from his red lips the moment the metal meets his skin. He finishes twisting it into its designated spot, and he feels like he can actually breathe again.

The human girl waits a moment for an explanation from Harry, some spoken word or action to justify the hostility rolling off of him as he clutches the jeweled hand to his chest.  As the moments pass, however, Harry offers no explanation, or anything at all as he takes deep and measured inhales through his nose, as if he’s trying to relax. 

“I’m sorry.” Y/N offers the words quietly, turning in her chair to properly face him with sincere eyes. “I just noticed that it was more tarnished than your other jewelry, and I thought I could—”

“You can’t take my rings from me.” Harry answers in a harsh voice, his face reflecting about as much warmth as stone on a winter’s day. “I thought I’d lost it.  You can’t do that.”

“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats the phrase again, gentler this time as she wraps her hands around her steaming mug.  She had guessed that the opal ring was his mother’s, but like Harry’s ruby ring and initial rings, she’d deduced this lionhead decal was more for decoration than anything.  If it was something important, one would figure that he’d take better care of it.  But it seems she’s not as adept at reading Harry as she’d like to think, because his explosive reaction had been totally unexpected.  For the first time since she met him, Y/N feels uneasy in his presence.  Had she really offended him that much?

The truth of the situation, unbeknownst to her, is that Harry’s reaction is no more purposefully malicious than Y/N’s intentions. Although the ring is back on his finger, and the crystals are beginning to protect him again, Harry’s thoughts are still muddied as he glances around the apartment, carefully surveying the circumstance like the top predator he pretends not to be.  There’s still a throbbing in his skull, and his eyes remain painfully dry, despite the fact that his healing has kicked in and mended his blistered fingertips.  In this moment, Harry feels weaker than he has in centuries; if someone were to attack right now, he wouldn’t be able to react quickly enough to protect himself. How could his aching head afford him any clear plan of attack?  How could his burning eyes show him every approaching danger?  How did he let himself become so relaxed— so stupidly lax— that he didn’t notice a mere human slipping off his most precious and needed object as he slept soundly in her bed?

“I really am sorry, Harry.” Rising from her chair with her quiet speech, Y/N steps towards him, hand outstretched to touch his inked forearm. “I didn’t know—”

Her hot fingertips against Harry’s frozen skin jar the vampire, triggering his fight or flight instincts as he tenses beneath her touch. “No—” He wrenches his arm away hurriedly, the searing graze reminding him of the sunlight that had harmed him just seconds ago, his wild eyes meeting Y/N’s in a feral frenzy. 

Although her chest barely moves, Harry can hear the stuttering breath that the girl sucks in through her teeth, her eyes widening at the severity of his actions. “I’m sorry.” She whispers the phrase again, her fingers jerking back from Harry’s arm in shock. “I…”

The more time passes, the more Harry regains control of himself, and as Harry melds his shattered composure back together, he can see the fear beginning to stain its way onto Y/N’s face.  The uneven beating of her heart pricks his ears, as does the scuff of the floor beneath her bare feet as she takes a step back from him.  When that uncertain fear reaches her irises, Harry is suddenly flashed back to their first date, when he’d been worried that she might be scared of being alone with him, and how delighted he’d been when he realized that wasn’t the case.  And now, as a sick feeling begins to settle in his stomach, he knows he’s blown it. 

Inhaling deeply through his nose, Harry urges himself to relax. 

“No, I’m sorry.” He softens his voice as much as he can muster in order to apologize, rubbing his charred eyes with one hand, hoping they’re still the canopy green Y/N is familiar with. “M’just half asleep still, and I was worried that— I’m sorry.” Harry extends his ringed hand in invitation, desperately craving the warmth of Y/N’s touch now that he’s leveled out, but not wanting to take it unwillingly. He wants her to feel safe enough to give it to him. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

There’s a moment of hesitation that flickers in her eyes, but it quickly passes as the mortal lays her hand within his. “You didn’t scare me.” She reassures him, but Harry can hear the falseness of her response immediately, and that guarded demeanor only intensifies the nausea rattling inside him.

Is she lying to save his feelings, he wonders, or to make herself look tougher?  No matter which may be the truth, Harry hates that she has to feel the need to lie.  He’d been upset, yes, but he should know better.  And he should know that she doesn’t know better.  She thought she’d been doing something nice for him; she has no idea about the torturous results his ring protects him from.  And she doesn’t know because Harry refuses to tell her— because he refuses to subject her to that perverted knowledge.  This is his own doing. 

“I did. I did frighten you, and I was rude, and I’m truly sorry.” Harry sighs heavily, dragging his fingers through his sleep-tousled curls. “My ring is just— it’s very important to me, and I don’t really like to take it off, so maybe just—just ask next time, yeah?” He murmurs the words in a soothing tone, his thumb sweeping over her knuckles in a poor attempt to make up for the way he’d berated her. “I know you didn’t have any bad intentions, and I’m not angry with you for taking it, but it just scared me when I woke up and it was gone.” 

“I’m sorry.” Y/N repeats yet again, and although Harry can feel her melting into his touch, there’s still a hint of uncertainty lingering beneath her words. 

Harry forces a grin on his chapped lips, which he wets with his tongue before speaking again. “S’alright, dove.  No harm, no foul.  And no more apologies, yeah?” He brushes a finger over her cheek, trying his best to put on a lighthearted front for the girl. “It was rather tarnished, actually— needed a good cleaning.” 

A shy smile finally creeps its way onto Y/N’s face, and Harry has to stop himself from breathing an audible sigh of content at both the gesture and the lack of prying about why that ring was dirtier than the rest (the answer to said question is just as simple as it is complicated: it reminds Harry of someone he’d rather forget, and if he didn’t need it, he’d drown it in the deepest ocean he could find— keeping it clean is the least of his concerns).

“How about breakfast, hm?  It’s early, but we could make some pancakes, or—” Harry glances at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall, reading the time with surprise before his gaze travels back to Y/N with a confused look. “It’s not even seven yet.  What time did you get up?”

“Around 6:15?  6:30?” She lifts one shoulder in a casual shrug, and Harry’s cardigan slips down her arm with the motion. “I don’t really remember.”

With his other hand still squeezing her own, Harry rugs the sleeve of the cardigan back up her shoulder, smoothing it over her morning-cooled skin. “It’s a Saturday, darling.  What were you doing up so early?”

Despite her heartbeat having not quite returned to its usual tempo, Y/N nuzzles into Harry’s touch as he pulls her closer to him. “Couldn’t really sleep, I guess.” Tucking her face into his neck for a moment, Y/N indulges a penetrating inhale, enjoying the remnants of his mahogany and vanilla cologne before stepping back and past Harry to the cabinet.  

Standing on her tiptoes, Y/N opens the door and retrieves a pink flowered mug before sliding down the counter to her coffee maker. “Want some coffee?” She asks, touching the glass of the carafe lightly to make sure it’s still warm. “There’s butter in the fridge, I think, if you want to make your disgusting drink.”

Ignoring the dig at his beverage of choice— which Harry has explained to her, multiple times, has many health benefits (not that he needs them) and just tastes better than coffee with cream— the vampire leans his hip against the counter, crossing his arms over his bare chest as his brow furrows over his darkening eyes. 

“Why couldn’t you sleep?” He questions, his attention glued to Y/N’s actions as she seems to deliberately avoid his gaze.  He analyzes the dark circles under her eyes, apparent even from just her side profile, and a spark of concern ignites his chest.  Could this be his fault?  Is drinking her blood beginning to take a physical toll on her body?  His blood has been healing her bite marks, but what about her iron levels?  Is her circulation being affected?  Mitch has told him multiple times that drinking from humans is okay once or twice a week, as long as there’s a grace period in between feeding, but Mitch has also never had the same human for as long as Harry has had Y/N.  Have the weeks they’ve spent together begun to unravel her?

When Y/N simply shrugs in response to his question, and offers no other words of explanation, a tired sigh falls from Harry’s lips as he steps towards her, taking the now-filled coffee mug from her hands and setting it down on the counter.  He wraps his arms around Y/N’s shoulders, hugging the girl into his chest for a moment to get a gauge on her body’s response.  Her heartbeat stutters, yes, but that’s a usual response to being wrapped inside Harry’s embrace, and it returns to normal after a few beats.  Her body feels just as warm as it usually does, and her chest is rising and falling just as it should be.  Nudging his face into her hair, he breathes in deeply, filling his lungs with her fragrance.  No, nothing smells out of place, and her blood had tasted as delicious and as strong as ever last night.  If she’s having trouble sleeping, the cause isn’t anything tangible. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Harry mumbles the words into her hair before lifting his head up, extracting the girl from his arms just enough so that he can see her face. “If something is bothering you and keeping you up, then you can wake me up, too.”

Y/N worries her pillowy bottom lip between her teeth as her eyes become entranced by Harry’s rosemary gaze. “I know I could, but I didn’t want to.  You—” She swallows hard in an attempt to clear the thickness from her throat as her cheeks begin to burn. “You were sleeping, and I never see you sleep.” Y/N’s voice retreats into a sheepish tone at the admittance, her eyes falling from Harry’s stare to the floor between them. “You always fall asleep after me, and you’re always awake before me.  You need rest, too, H.”

While Harry would normally laugh at that simple phrase— at the fact that Y/N doesn’t know how wrong she is— Harry’s dimples remain dormant as he focuses on the concern in her voice. “I—” His voice catches in his throat, and he has to clear it before he can say anything else. “I sleep just fine.  Better, in fact, when I’m with you.” He confesses, his thumbs brushing over the exposed skin of Y/N’s neck. 

And after Y/N has extracted herself from his grip to take a sip of her coffee, after she teasingly groans while watching Harry drop a pat of butter into his own steaming mug, after he begins to crack eggs into a pan as Y/N starts to lay bacon on a baking sheet, after all that, Harry finally realizes what lodged in his throat. It dawns on him just as Y/N slips a pink apron over his bare, faintly hickey-bruised chest to protect him from splatters of grease, giggling to herself as he poses with his hand on his hip and makes a vulgar joke about how this looks like the setup to a cheesy porno. 

The vampire comes to the realization that Y/N takes notice of him. 

She notices when he doesn’t sleep.  She notices his exposed skin that could potentially be burned while cooking.  She notices the expressions on his face, reads the tone of his voice, knows when to press a matter and when to leave it be.  And she’s concerned.  She’s concerned about not seeing him sleep.  She’s concerned about him accidentally getting hurt.  She’s concerned about the swings in his moods, the shortness of his answers.  And while Harry knows her real concerns should be about allowing herself to be in such close proximity to someone— something— like him, he can’t help but feel a warmth in his chest at the thought of her worrying about him. 

As much as Harry likes to pretend otherwise, he knows he’s not easy to be around sometimes.  He can be vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate.  He can be selfish, dishonest, and manipulative.  His mood can teeter at the drop of a hat, and he changes his mind like the weather on the best of days.  And on his worst of days, sometimes Harry wonders if anyone could care for him, or even stand to be around him, if it wasn’t a necessity. 

Although he’d never admit it, when Harry reflects on his friendships, he can feel a degree of insecurity in the threads that tie him to his crew.  He’s fairly certain that if he and Mitch met under different circumstances— circumstances when both of them were human— they would likely still be friends.  Maybe not as close as they are today, but friends, at the very least.  When it comes to Niall, Xander, and Adam, however… he’s not so sure.  Yes, he cares for them more than he’ll ever care for anyone again, and his loyalty to them is unwavering, but on his worst days, Harry can’t help but wonder if they would be friends if their connection hadn’t been forged on the basis of what they are, and understanding something that no one else can.  If being vampires hadn’t placed them in each other’s lives and sealed them in a bond of venom and blood, would they even have given the others a second thought?  Would any of them have wanted Harry in their lives?  Harry wants to think yes, but it’s not a question of what he wants; the truth is, Harry is uncertain. 

But when Y/N sits across from him with a smear of ketchup on her bottom lip, smiling softly at Harry as he wipes it off with his thumb, and he can’t stop himself from smiling back, he realizes something that’s never occurred to him before.  He’s able to be cared for by someone who is drawn to him for all the reasons humans are normally drawn to each other, and not because they have a mutual understanding of what it’s like to be an other.

Of course, he knows there’s a certain degree of falsity in that; part of his charm and addictive qualities come from what he is, and Y/N, like any other mortal, isn’t immune to that.  But instead of allowing herself to be driven away by the usual uneasiness that pairs with being so close to a vampire for so long, Y/N is leaning closer to him, laughing as he cracks a bad joke, kissing him over their breakfast, and showing evidence that she— against all odds— wants to know him.  And the thought sends a fluttering below Harry’s ribs. 

He wishes, just for a moment, that he could be capable of feeling the same. He wishes he could have the decency to give this girl the proper relationship she wants, or even the decency to break her heart quickly before she gets too attached to someone incapable of seeing her as anything more than a takeout meal.  He wishes he could get to know her— truly get to know her, without any ulterior motives.

But Harry is vain, self-centered, self-serving, and inconsiderate.  He’s selfish, dishonest, and manipulative.  And he has his fangs too deep in this mortal to let her go. 

///

“Are you sure I can’t pick you up?” Harry slides his phone between his ear and his shoulder in order to snag his keychain from his pocket, fumbling for the right key before inserting it into his locked door. “I can just drop my groceries off and then swing by your cafe, love.  It’s no trouble.”

“No, really, it’s fine, H.” Y/N insists from the other end of the line, her voice nearly drowned out from the roar of L.A. traffic around her. “I already left work, and I’m nearly home.  I’ll be over at your place within, like, forty-five minutes, I think?  I just have to change out of my uniform.”

With his front door now unlocked, Harry grabs his phone from its perch on his shoulder before pushing open the door with his hand full of groceries, stepping inside his apartment and nudging the door shut with his foot. “I know, but it’s a long walk to my place, isn’t it?”

“It’s, like, twenty minutes— practically nothing.  And besides, I have to stop at the post office and mail a letter to my parents.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirks up as he rounds the corner to his kitchen, setting his grocery bags on the island before leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, his now free hand braced against the cool marble. “You still send your parents letters?  Can’t you just call them?” He asks, tapping a ringed finger against the stone.

“If you knew my parents, you’d send letters, too.” Y/N sighs into the speaker, and Harry’s inhuman ears can hear the jangling of her keys in her hand.  He can picture her searching for them like she did the night they met, digging into her purse until she’s elbow deep, her tongue tucked between her teeth in concentration.

Despite the distinctive sound of a lock turning, Harry can’t stop himself from asking about her well-being. He’s so used to doing it with his other friends, it slips out on impulse. “Are you home now?  Made it alright?”

There’s a hint of exasperated amusement in Y/N’s voice when she responds. “Yes, I managed to walk home all by myself.  Didn’t even get murdered.” There’s another thud, and Harry imagines her shutting her door, pushing her weight against it to lock it properly. “I’m pretty good at taking care of myself, you know.  I have good instincts.” 

If she’s allowed him to get this close to her, Harry thinks, then her instincts aren’t exactly the caliber she imagines them to be, but he bites his tongue to stop himself from correcting her. “I’m sure you do, darling.” He murmurs the reply as he opens his fridge to begin stocking it with the items he’d purchased earlier. “Oh, by the way, make sure you’re wearing comfortable shoes, yeah?  We’re going to be doing a bit of walking later.”

“Right.  And you’re not telling me where we’re going because…?”

“Because surprises are fun.”

When Y/N huffs in response, Harry pictures the girl with a scowl on her face, her arms crossed tightly over her tummy as she gives him an endearing glare. “Not when you’re the one who’s being surprised.” 

Still, despite her protests, Harry hears the rustling of clothing as she pulls off her work polo, followed by the clanking of her belt, the snap of a button, and the familiar rustle of her jeans being peeled off her legs. “You just worry about undressing yourself, alright?  It must be difficult, since you’ve grown so used to me doing it for you.”

“Uh huh.  I’m hanging up now.” Y/N deadpans into the phone, but Harry can tell there’s a lingering smile underneath her flat words. “I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Alright, doll.  See you soon.” Harry sets a carton of eggs in the fridge before closing it, hanging up the call and slipping his phone back into his black slacks.  

It takes Harry a few more minutes to put the rest of his groceries away in his pantry.  He made sure to stock up on all the ingredients needed to make pancakes at the grocery store, as well as picking up a carton of the fancy pomegranate juice that Y/N had mentioned she was fond of.  In fact, as he was wandering the aisles of his local Whole Foods, he’d found himself seeking out the snacks that he’d seen in her cupboards.  He knows that humans need to eat much more often than vampires do, and seeing as how all the activities Y/N engages in at his condo are rather exhausting and energy-burning, he thought she’d need proper fuel.

After he folds the reusable cloth tote bags he’d brought to the grocery store and puts them back in the pantry, Harry climbs up his glass stairs to his bedroom.  He takes a moment to evaluate his appearance in the full length mirror hanging on the back of his door, sweeping over every detail with a careful eye.  His outfit is alright for what he has planned, he decides; his black slacks and scuffed white vans are comfortable, but more importantly, his white t-shirt embossed with a Hollywood Bowl print that clings to the muscles of his inked arms and broad chest, which Harry knows Y/N will enjoy.  His curls, however, need a bit of tending to, and Harry slinks into his bathroom to add a bit more product to his chestnut locks, getting rid of the little frizz that had developed in the L.A. heat in order to fix his curl pattern.  

As for his jewelry, he leaves on his usual rings: his gold initial pieces, his mother’s opal, his ruby, an engraved band, and his lionhead ring, which shines under the bathroom lights thanks to Y/N’s careful efforts the week before.  Once those are secure, he fastens his pearl necklace around his neck, and fixes the clasp of his cross before slipping a plain gold hoop into his pierced ear.  Once he’s satisfied with his accessories, Harry spritzes his favourite cologne across his body, giving his appearance one more look over as he leaves his bathroom and passes the full length mirror in his bedroom again.  

The Rolex on his wrist tells him that Y/N is due over any moment, and he’s just making sure his Gucci wallet is securely tucked in his trouser pocket when Harry’s ears prick up at the sound of two pairs of feet stomping into his condo downstairs.  It only takes him a moment more to identify the intruders based on their step patterns, and a frown tugs at the corner of his mouth as he checks the time again before sauntering down the stairs.

“And just what do you two,” Harry calls to his unexpected friends as he rounds the corner of the stairs, his eyebrow quirked in question as he steps down from the last platform, “think you’re doing here?”

“We wanted some change in scenery.” Niall quips sarcastically, emerging from the end of the entrance corridor with his hands in his pockets, shoulders shrugging casually. “And I told Xander you might be shirtless, which got him to tag along. But you’re not, much to his disappointment. Though I do think the way you’re about to burst out of that tee suffices. Isn’t that right, Xanny?” 

“That’s not true!” Xander snaps hotly, his cheeks blazing and glare electric as Niall cackles boyishly, stepping around him and towards the kitchen, like he always does when he walks into Harry’s apartment. The tanned man glowers at the other vampire as he makes a beeline for Harry’s refrigerator, slowly pinning his gaze back onto the owner of the condo. He clears his throat awkwardly before offering a solid explanation for their sudden visit. “Adam cancelled on pub trivia night, so we thought you might be available instead.”

Harry shakes his head with a sigh as he makes his way into the kitchen, as well— mostly to make sure Niall doesn’t reach for any of the expensive liquors he has arranged on his bar shelves; they took too long to collect for him to just allow a single person to down one bottle like a shot— and leans both elbows against the marble island. “Sorry, mate.  I’ve got a date with Y/N.”

“So bring her.” Niall pipes up from the fridge, a stolen bottle of Harry’s favourite beer already in his hand. Harry doesn’t complain— it’s a better substitute than his forty year aged scotch. “She went to uni, didn’t she?  She must be smart.”

“I’ve got better things planned for us than pub trivia with two obnoxious knobheads.” Harry retorts, his lips tugging into a smirk at Niall’s responding eyeroll. “That’s not very romantic, is it?  Taking her on a double date with you two?”

“And that’s not very nice, H. I’m offended you wouldn’t go on a double date with Xander and I.” The Irishman sniffles with fake sincerity, biting the bottle cap off his beer despite knowing that Harry keeps a bottle opener in the kitchen drawer to his right. 

Xander watches the spectacle with distaste, his nose wrinkling as Niall spits the cap from his mouth into his hand. “And I’m offended you’d think I’d date someone who does that.”

“It’s not like you have standards.”

“Hey!”

“But then again, no one sets a bar the way I do.”

“The only bar you set for me was potential alcoholism.” Xander mutters spitefully.

“I’d make a great boyfriend.” Niall interrupts with airy confidence, ignoring his friends bickering and taking a deep swig of his beverage, smacking his lips appreciatively. “But humans are too fragile to keep around for long, and most vampires are fucking psychotic. Unfortunately.”

“What about Charlotte?” Harry suggests nonchalantly, hooking his index finger into the cabinet beneath him and fishing for a coaster. He shuts the drawer and skims the item across the top of the counter towards Niall, just in case the man wants to put his glass container down. This is real marble, after all. “She seems pretty tame.” 

Niall glances at the coaster, but doesn’t make any conscious effort to set his drink down. Harry should’ve known; Niall isn’t one to put a pint down until it’s empty, but the possibility is there, nonetheless. It’s not his fault he likes taking care of his home. 

Niall sighs through his nose dismissively, following it with a light rattle of his head. “Charlotte’s too...smart. She’s a bit out of my league, and I feel like she’d get bored of me easily. Also, how would you know if she’s tame or not? You rarely hang out whenever she’s around.” 

“That’s because she hates me.” Harry states flatly, as if it should be obvious. And it should, considering the young woman had not held back on expressing her strong dislike towards the curly brunette. Harry has thick skin and words never hurt him, but Charlotte has a surprisingly vicious vocabulary; if he hadn’t been amused by her anger, she would have come pretty close to genuinely chipping his ego. 

Niall chortles softly. “Well, I mean, you can’t really blame her, can you? You’re kind of a prick.”

“A proper asshole, actually.” Xander chimes in, drumming his digits against the table’s surface and giving Harry a bright, innocent smile. 

The immortal momentarily casts his eyes towards the ceiling in mild annoyance. “Yeah, well, that’s just the way I am. If her and Miss Billy Ray Cyrus can’t handle some dark humor and dirty banter, that’s not my problem. Everyone else seems to like me just fine.” 

“That’s debatable.” Xander corrects. 

“You’re just mad I fucked you once and decided that was enough.” 

“Anywho,” Niall interferes, waving around his beer in order to catch his friends’ attention and prevent a catastrophic World War V, he proceeeds to swivel the topic back onto himself, “like I said, I’d make a great partner. I’m funny, I’ve got a whole shelf full of PS4 games, I like to think my oral skills are pretty decent, and—”

“Have you ever made a girl wet her sheets?” Harry prods with entertained curiosity, cocking an eyebrow questioningly.

Niall pauses mid-sentence with his drink perched to his lips, eyes flitting around thoughtfully as he shovels through cluttered memories of drunken one night stands and fleeting relationships. He relents with a sheepish scoff, shoulders sagging. “...No.”

“Then you’re not as skilled as you think.” Harry remarks passively, titling his head to the side with finality. “And I’m willing to bet Mitch’s next stock of O negative that eighty percent of your hookups probably faked it.” 

“Oi, bet, then.” Niall snorts, grinning around the spout of his beverage as he finishes his sip. He wiggles his brows playfully, squaring his shoulders proudly. “You can’t fake a leg-shake, darling.” 

“A leg-shake?” Harry inquires carefully, pursing his lips to keep from sputtering into pompous laughter. “You mean like this?” He then proceeds to dramatically buckle his right leg, immediately debunking Niall’s ridiculous theory. “Just like that?” 

The Irish bloke’s face drops into a scorned scowl as Xander and Harry break into a round of mocking giggles. He draws into himself with childish pettiness, narrowing his eyes pointedly. “Piss off.”

“Unless she couldn’t walk right afterwards, you didn’t really do what you think you did, Ni.” 

“It seemed pretty real to me!” The blue-eyed boy rebuttals sharply, cheeks tinging bright pink in embarrassment. 

“That’s the point.” 

“This is precisely why I’d never entertain a relationship with you, even as a joke.” Xander pipes up towards Niall, smirking cruelly at his friend’s bruised ego. “I like my orgasms to be real, and I’m not willing to put up an act to spare your fragile masculinity.” 

“Your dick’s probably small, anyways.” 

“Bigger than yours.”

“Is that a challenge? I’ll pull it out right now, I don’t give a fuck.”

“Well,” Harry cuts in loudly, not necessarily keen on watching two grown men compare penis sizes in the middle of his home, “it seems you two have some issues to work out, so the double date is a moot point, anyways.” His jade eyes flicker to his watch again; Y/N should nearly be here, and he doesn’t want these two goons present when she arrives— especially not with their balls out. That wouldn’t be a decent introduction, despite being an unforgettable one. “So I’ll talk to you two later, then.  Thanks for stopping by.”

“Hold up, I practically just cracked my beer.” Niall whines in return, holding up the chilled bottle in protest, leaning his backside against the marble countertop with a decisive motion. “Y’can’t kick us out yet.”

Harry laughs once, the noise sounding more strained than he would like. “Seeing as how I didn’t invite you over, I think I can.” He retorts, tapping a jeweled finger against the table. 

“The blood bag isn’t even here yet,” Xander reasons as he pulls out a chair from the kitchen island, taking a seat and making himself at home as if Harry hadn’t just told him to get the fuck out. “So what's the rush?”

The hair on the back of Harry’s neck prickles at the crude nickname, and the older vampire shoots daggers at the younger as he pushes himself off the marble counter. “There isn’t one, except I think hearing herself be referred to as ‘the blood bag’ may make her a little suspicious, don’t you?”

“We’ve referred to her as worse.” Xander shrugs offhandedly, kicking his feet up onto the bar stool next to him.

Harry’s brows furrow as he pushes Xander’s shoes off his furniture, dusting the leather cushion off. “Referred to her as what?  And when?”

Although Xander lifts one shoulder again as a vague answer, Niall smacks his lips loudly once again as he swallows the rest of the beer, and answers in a matter-of-fact tone. “In Vegas, after you ditched us to get your dick wet.  I think Xander called her a fuckable slab of kobe beef, and—”

“I said ribeye, actually.  Nice flavour, but a little chewy.” Xander corrects the Irishman, but has the decency to look halfway embarrassed when he catches Harry’s stony glare. “And it’s not like we’re wrong, right?  That’s all humans are.”

Niall gives an affirmative nod as he sets his empty bottle down on the marble counter, completely ignoring the coaster Harry had slid to him. “Don’t take it personally, H.  Xanny refers to his own dates as McDonald’s Happy Meal Twinks— at least a ribeye steak is expensive.”

“I’m not taking it personally.” Harry mutters the words in a low voice as his jaw twitches, tensing under the sunlight streaming through his floor-to-ceiling windows. “But comments like these are why you pricks need to get out of here before she shows up, or else I’ll be feeding from one of you tonight.”

A beat of silence falls between the three vampires as the palpable tension flowing off of Harry thickens the room.  Xander and Niall glance between each other and Harry, hardly able to hold the latter’s eyes, before Niall offers a small comment.

“I don’t think Xander would mind that, really—”

“Out.” Harry points a jeweled finger at the entrance corridor with a firm motion. “Both of you.  Go bother Mitch.”

He can see the disappointment and frustration that lingers on Niall and Xander’s faces, but neither of them fight him as they rise from their perches in the kitchen and walk dejectedly to the front door.  Harry briefly entertains the idea of walking them out, but decides against it; there’s a strange buzzing sensation rising through his ribs, and he’s not quite sure what he’ll say as he bids his friends— he has to remind himself that, yes, they’re his friends— goodbye.  It’s safer, he thinks, if he stays where he is and cleans up the mess that they managed to leave behind in their short visit. 

He comes to regret that decision, however, approximately three milliseconds after he hears the front door creak open, and a familiar but unexpected voice echos down the entrance hallway.

“Oh— hi.  Sorry, I may have the wrong apartment…?”

Harry freezes with Niall’s empty beer bottle clutched in his hand, his grip contracting so hard that he hears the thick glass begin to splinter.

“No, no, this is Harry’s apartment.  We were just leaving.” The grin on Niall’s face is audible underneath his Irish accent. “You must be Y/N.”

“I am, yeah.” Harry can hear the tiny thread of surprise at him recognizing her in the human’s words, and the even tinier thread of pleasure that undercuts it.  “And you must be...Niall, I think?  And Xander?”

Niall’s smug reply grates against Harry’s frozen skin, even from down the corridor. “Harry’s told you about us, huh?  Only good things, I hope.”

“Oh, I—”

Harry forces his legs to move with inhuman speed, the beer bottle not even having hit the marble counter by the time Harry appears at Niall and Xander’s shoulders. “Hi, darling.” He says through a strained smile, digging his stony fingers into the back of the two vampire’s arms, an unspoken warning of behave. “Y’made it alright, then?”

When Y/N shines a warm— albeit, slightly confused— smile in his direction, Harry wishes that he’d been faster in shooing his friends out the door, because the action nearly knocks the unrequired breath from his chest.  

She’d dressed in comfortable and casual clothes, as per his suggestion, and is standing just outside the doorway in light washed denim overalls, with a black and white striped t-shirt layered underneath, and her familiar cotton candy pink vans on her feet.  But the detail that digs its way to the forefront of his mind— more so than her satin lips, her heated cheeks that are appled with her smile, and the tousled locks that are pulled back from her face in a low ponytail— is the shining silver cross pendant that hangs on a chain around her smooth neck.

It’s a new addition that Harry has never seen before, and while he knows he shouldn’t be surprised— after all, she’d told him how she grew up in a religious town, how she’d attended church, how she used to say grace before dinner with her friends— the jewelry still piques his curiosity.

“I did, yeah.  It’s really not that long of a walk, H.” Y/N replies, flicking her eyes between Harry and his two friends, who are still watching her every move as if she’s a specimen to be observed. “Sorry, am I interrupting…?”

The Irishman with glasses— Niall, Y/N reminds herself— opens his mouth to respond, but Harry quickly cuts him off as he pushes past his mates to take Y/N’s hand and step outside the apartment, fetching his keys and yellow sunglasses from the small side table by the door in one smooth motion.

“Not interrupting anything, doll.  Niall and Xander were just on their way out.” Although Harry is smiling at her throughout the comment, the mortal can’t help but feel like the last phrase was aimed at the pair still lingering in the doorway.

“We were just stopping by to see if we could steal Harry for a last minute trivia game, but he said he was already booked.” Niall answers with an accepting shrug, glancing at Xander next to him, who’s still yet to say anything to Y/N, though he is carrying an unreadable empty expression as he gives the girl a calculating once-over. “Apparently, whatever he’s got planned for you two is more interesting than a few beers and watching Xander struggle to remember all the battles in World War I—”

“That’s not fair,” The brunette finally chimes in, breaking his attention away from her body to meet the blue-eyed boy’s gaze. Y/N is surprised to hear an American accent fall from his lips. “I’m the only one who wasn’t there, so how would I know—?”

“And you two are already arguing,” Harry cuts over his friends’ bickering, shooting them an annoyed glance as he wraps a cool arm around her waist, cautioning them to watch what they’re saying. “Which will only get worse once you get alcohol in your hands, and that is why I’m not going to subject Y/N to a headache-inducing night of torture.” 

Y/N looks up at Harry with innocent interest swirling in her eyes. “I don’t know, H, it could be fun.” She worries her bottom lip between her teeth as a crease forms between Harry’s brows. “Don’t you think?”

Niall catches Harry’s eye, taking advantage of Y/N’s distraction to cheekily flash him his crimson irises for a split second, voice dripping with honeyed sarcasm that only he can detect. “Yeah, Harry. Don’t you think?”

Jaw tensing, Harry bends down to brush his lips over Y/N’s ear, dampening his irritation down into a smooth and silky tone. “Don’t try to spare their feelings, love.  I’ve got something fun planned for us, I promise.” His teeth graze against Y/N’s skin, and he nearly drags his lips down towards her neck until he remembers her stuttering heartbeat can be heard by the other vampires in their presence.

The two creatures gawk at the image before them, utterly baffled at Harry’s unusual tenderness. It’s very out of character for him, that much is obvious. In all the decades Niall and Xander have been acquainted with the Victorian era immortal, neither have ever seen him be so gentle and touchy with another soul, let alone a human. It feels as if they’re looking at some type of warped parallel universe version of the normally stand-offish young man. 

Xander is the first to clear his throat, throwing Harry an annoyed grimace before pulling Niall out from the condo’s entryway. “We’ll see you later then, Harry.  C’mon, Ni.”

The Irishman offers a quick goodbye, gifting the strange girl a frail wave and a parting smile before being half-dragged down the hallway by Xander. Niall wrenches himself free and shoves Xander’s shoulder playfully as they round the corner to the elevator, their quiet voices— no doubt spinning juvenile gossip— fading out of earshot.  The look in Xander’s eyes had been concerning, Harry thinks, but nothing he needs to worry about right now.  If anything, he wants to forget that encounter as quickly as possible, and needs Y/N to forget it, too.

“So,” he pastes an easygoing grin onto his face as he locks his front door, turning to the mortal with a giddy twinkle in his forest green eyes. “Shall we be off, then?”

There’s a lingering look of confusion reflecting back at him, but Y/N doesn’t press the odd encounter as Harry intertwines his icy fingers with her own warm digits. 

“Alright.” She agrees, raising a questioning eyebrow back at him. “And just where are we going?”

///

“The Los Angeles Antique Mall.” Harry announces proudly when he opens Y/N’s door, extending a ringed hand to help her out of his low-riding car. “Twenty thousand square feet of vintage collectables, artwork, furniture, and anything else you could possibly want.”

Y/N stares up at the massive building in front of them, observing the worn wood facade and the collection of what seems to be (half faded) stained rocking chairs adorning the wraparound porch.  There’s also an impressive amount of wrought iron planters with various greenery scattered between the furniture, with groups of people milling between them as they enter and exit the giant mall. 

“You brought me antiquing?” She asks, an bemused look in her eye as she turns to Harry for an explanation. 

Wrapping his large grasp around her smaller one, Harry nods enthusiastically as he begins to lead her towards the door. “Yeah.  It’s fun, actually.  I’m always up for a bit of a treasure hunt, and I thought, since you’re still furnishing your apartment…”

“You know, now that you mention it… I could use some new curtains for my living room.  Maybe a nice side table.” Y/N allows, stepping over the wooden stairs to the door as Harry tugs her along. “But I’m surprised you like antiquing.  Doesn’t really seem like your thing, if I’m honest.”

A mischievous glint flits through Harry’s jade eyes as he treats her to a grin that’s all teeth. “I’m actually quite fond of antiques, truth be told.  I’ve got a good eye for vintage collectables.  And…” He lazily tugs on the handle of the door to open it, stepping to the side to allow Y/N to walk through first. “Maybe we’ll find a nice painting to replace that god awful tapestry in your bedroom.”

A scoff of indignation falls from Y/N’s mouth as she turns on her heel to punch Harry’s sturdy upper arm, nearly getting too distracted by the ropes of muscle beneath his tight sleeve to give a response. “I like that tapestry!  And, seeing as how you’re either sleeping or fucking me when you’re in said room, I’m a little offended that my tapestry is the thing you focus the most on.”

Harry bites his bottom lip between his teeth.  If only she knew how much time he actually spends staring at it. 

“Well, there’s certainly other things I focus on…” He replies with a casual air, slipping his hand into the back pocket of Y/N’s overalls to cup her ass suggestively, guiding her along the aisles of antiques. “But nothing ruins a post-orgasm glow like poor interior design, sweetheart. S’a bit of a buzzkill, y’know?”

“So is being patronized.” Y/N deadpans, extracting Harry’s hand from her back pocket as a hot flash begins to creep up her spine. “You keep mocking my interior design choices, and your orgasms are going to get a lot less frequent.”

The vampire belly laughs as he throws an arm around her shoulders, the action as natural to him as breathing once was. “I don’t believe that for one fucking second.” He replies gleefully, smudging an open mouthed kiss to Y/N’s temple. 

“You don’t, huh?” The human girl raises an eyebrow, cocking her head to scan the towering racks of oddities all around them. “I wonder if we can find you a vintage fleshlight here?”

“Already got one, doll,” Harry rolls his eyes as he brushes his cool fingers along Y/N’s exposed collarbone, his eyes catching the cross pendant again and brimming with curiosity. “And it’s just the tip of the iceberg that is my toy chest, y’know that—” 

Y/N feels Harry’s arm suddenly tense around her, his muscles contracting as his touch jolts away from her collarbones, his hand flexing beneath the open skylights of the building. “Everything okay?” Y/N asks, all her teasing fading away, replaced with concern as she pauses her steps toward the shelves. 

“I—” Harry flexes his fingers again, slowly removing his arm from her shoulder to examine his hand.  The tips of his fingers are a bright red, crimson burns contrasting against his pink skin, and although it only takes a few moments for the marks to fade, the uneasy feeling bubbling in Harry’s stomach lasts. “Yeah.  My, uh, my hand just cramped.  But it’s fine now, I think.”

Who the fuck, he wonders as he cautiously slings his arm back around Y/N’s shoulders, wears a cross made of, not silver as Harry originally suspected, but polished iron?  

Iron jewelry had fallen out of fashion a century ago, and Harry had never been more thankful than when it did, given how his flesh scorches at merely brushing the metal. When he took his family’s trinkets as a way to remember them before he had to leave, Harry had snuck into his father’s forge in the dead of the night to dip the jewelry in gold that he’d stolen from a local merchant who cheated poor peasants out of their valuables.  It had been a tedious task, and rather dangerous due to the threat of being caught, but it had also been necessary; if he hadn’t taken the risk, he wouldn’t have his sister’s cross earring, or his father’s matching cross necklace.  His dad’s pocket watch, luckily, had been made of silver, and didn’t need a golden bath, but everything else had to be encased to protect Harry’s skin.  

Iron jewelry had been a deterrent to him in the years to come after he was turned; it wasn’t uncommon for him to find a pretty young girl from a village and sneak her away for a night of fun, only to discover an iron chain dangling from her neck when he leaned in to take a bite.  It wasn’t a permanent problem, of course, as there were plenty of other soft places he could sink his teeth into, but it had been an annoyance then, and it still annoys him now. 

Harry does his best to push the irritation to the back of his mind, he really does.  He shows Y/N around the twisting maze of antiques, and does his best to showcase one of his favourite hideaways in L.A.  He points to anything and everything that could interest her, and doesn’t hesitate when she asks him to reach something heavy perched on a high shelf, even if she just wants to examine it out of curiosity.  Harry pulls out typewriters, vintage cameras, tarnished cigarette lighters, and a pastel yellow bicycle with an attached wicker basket from 1941, presenting all of the objects with the enthusiasm of a showcase model on The Price is Right, spouting falsified information about each product in the best impression of Bob Barker he can pull off (“This ancient, rusted bicycle— once owned by the Queen of England herself— can be all yours for just one easy payment of $8.99! Taxes and shipping not included.”). 

And although all of that incites multiple tinkling laughs from Y/N, and lights a glimmer in her eye, and compels her to walk closer and closer to Harry until she lets him sneak his palm back into the backside pocket of her overalls, the mystery of her necklace still eats at the far end of his brain. And it’s that insipid, insistent pest of a thought that causes Harry to readjust his grip on the framed Monet print he’d spotted in the racks (Y/N had tried to deny how much she liked it in order to thwart Harry’s triumphant smirk, but she still asked him to grab it for her with a grumble) and spare another glance to the innocent looking cross resting atop her clavicle. 

“That’s a pretty little piece.” Harry slips into a nonchalant tone with ease, nodding towards the necklace as he navigates the two of them around a corner. “Why have I never seen you wear it before?”

Y/N brushes her fingertips over the iron cross with a gentle motion.  Her fingers don’t scorch with a mere graze of the metal, Harry notes scathingly.  Not that he expected it from someone like Y/N. 

“Because I don’t wear it often.” She replies, lifting one shoulder without a second thought. “It was my grandmother’s— not, like, originally, but she’d owned it, and gave it to my mom, who gave it to me, so I guess it counts as a family heirloom, huh?”

“Guess so.” The vampire murmurs in agreement, prickles of wonder still coasting against his skin. “So what made you drag it out today?” Did you subconsciously realize that your neck needs protection when I’m near? Harry tacks on in his head, his brow furrowing at the troubling thought. 

And at that question, Y/N’s eyes drop to the floor, as if her bubblegum pink vans need an audience for every step they take. “Uh, I was just a little homesick, that’s all.” She mumbles the reply, her shoulders sagging as a dark shadow passes through her usually dazzling eyes. 

Homesickness.  The one human feeling that Harry can still relate to. “I’m sorry to hear that, darling.” He removes his hand from her back pocket to wind it around her shoulders again, mindful of the jewelry in question. “Did anything in particular happen, or…?”

Y/N lifts her shoulders once again as she tucks her hands into her pockets, her posture closing off more and more with every passing moment. “Not really.  I don’t know, I— normally I’m fine, but when I addressed my letter to my parents today, it took me a moment to remember my ZIP code.  It’s the same ZIP code I’ve had all my life, but… I nearly forgot it.” She glances at Harry from the corner of her eye, and Harry realizes that dark shadow is guilt.  She feels guilty. “I’ve been in L.A. for less than six months, and almost forgot my parent’s ZIP code.  I didn’t think that could ever happen.”

Harry hums low in his throat, a noise of understanding and finality.  It’s homesickness, that’s all.  That’s explainable, and understandable, and should be enough information to silence the gnawing irritation in his chest. 

And yet...

“Do you believe in God?” The question escapes from Harry’s mouth before he can even think to censor it, his own eyes widening on his behalf as his grip on the Monet print nearly releases from the surprise. 

“What?” Y/N stops in her tracks, although she nearly stumbles forward when Harry’s sturdy arm catches behind her shoulders as her eyes boggle at him. “I don’t— what does God have to do with antiquing?”

If Harry didn’t have to worry about digging himself out of the whole he created, he’d laugh at the incredulous expression on his lover’s face. “I was just curious, s’all.” He struggles to keep his voice casual, steadying his feet against the wooden floor in an effort to ground himself mentally. “I know you were raised with religion, but you don’t really go to church here— not that church equals a belief, but—”

“Um, I don’t…” Y/N extends her arm to let her fingers graze over the shelf of old lunch boxes next to them, feeling each dip of every embossed cartoon character. “I don’t know.  I don’t really believe in, like, a concept of God— at least, not the one I was raised with.  But I believe in…” She trails off as she attempts to gather her thoughts, chewing on her bottom lip absentmindedly as she searches for the right words. “Something.  I don’t really know if it’s a deity, or an energy, or just coincidence, but… I think there’s something out there that guides us.”

“So you believe in souls.” Harry’s mouth presses into a flat line, his jaw clenching for just a moment as he grits his teeth and then reiterates her previous point. “The thing that allows us to be guided, that is.” 

Or allows her to be guided, Harry thinks bitterly, casting his eyes towards their path ahead of them to avoid Y/N’s prying gaze. That’s really the only reason he’d brought up this entire religion conversation— the only reason he ever brings it up: he wants to know if she believes in souls, because in order to be guided by whatever higher power supposedly exists, one needs a soul.  And Harry’s fairly certain his was stolen from him in 1837. 

“I suppose.” Y/N allows, tracing the embossed lettering of a vintage Wonder Woman lunch box. “A soul, an energy, an aura— they’re all kind of the same thing to me.  The thing that keeps your heart beating.  I don’t think it needs to be tied to a religion; there’s so many different religions, but everyone has a heartbeat, you know?”

Harry nearly laughs out loud at the irony, but manages to stifle the sound into a non-committal hum. “Does your something include heaven and hell, or is that too based in Christianity?” He asks, half out of curiosity and half out of necessity. “If someone were to lose their soul…” He knows he sounds insane asking the question, but it bubbles out of him before he can choke it back. “Would you think them damned?”

The mortal girl stares at him blankly for a moment, her mouth just barely open as she considers his words.  He shouldn’t have asked, and he knows that— he knew it the moment the first question fell from his lips.  But the more they discussed the topic, the more it nagged at him.  Y/N, with all her good nature, her listening skills, and her soft heart, are most certainly bound for whatever good lies in store when a soul actually leaves a body.  Harry, on the other hand… If the monster’s conscience were to ever leave this Earth, he knows it’s not for the metaphorical pearly white gates. And for some reason, that notion bothers him more right now than it has in the last twenty decades.

“Um…” A nervous laugh echoes from Y/N’s mouth, the smile curling the edges of her lips not quite reaching her eyes. “Okay, this topic is way too serious for me to discuss sober.  Can I take a rain check on the damnation questions?  I’m getting Sunday school flashbacks, and living through that once was bad enough.”

Harry wills a smile onto his own face, but the expression is more apologetic than anything as he grips Y/N’s hand in his to tow her down an aisle of antique kitchen equipment. “Yeah, of course. Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you with such heavy questions. I guess I just wanted to get to know my partner in justice a bit more.” 

Y/N takes it in good stride, just as she usually does, her smile relaxing the moment she sees Harry’s dimples peek out from his cheeks. “Don’t worry about it, Sherlock.  I’d expect nothing less from such an established detective.”

As the pair pass under another skylight, Y/N’s cross glints at Harry as if to mock him. 

///

Y/N isn’t lost.

To the untrained eye, the mindless path she takes through the towering and twisting rows of the antique mall may seem like the wandering of someone who has no recollection of where they came from, nor where they’re going, but Y/N is adamant that she isn’t lost.  She isn’t, because when she split from Harry to take a trip to the washroom, he’d warned her not to get lost in the internal maze of the mall.  And Y/N, with a glare in her eyes and a scathing remark on her lips, had assured him that she, a grown woman, would be able to find her way back after she was done, and “Honestly, H, just wander a bit.  I’ll be able to find you easily.”

So Y/N isn’t lost, because she refuses to prove Harry right.  He’s already a cocky asshole with a huge ego, and she couldn’t bear seeing that ego enlarge as a triumphant smirk paints over his face the moment she calls him on his cellphone, admits defeat, and asks him to come find her.  She’ll do a lot of things for that man, but that isn’t one of them.

With that in mind, she turns down a corridor of the labyrinth of collectables, trying to find any discernible items that she could use to pinpoint her location in the labyrinth.  The yellow bicycle, maybe, or one of the vintage cameras Harry had pretended to photograph her with, or even the strange five foot carving of Bugs Bunny that she and Harry had agreed is probably possessed by a demon.  A haunted Bugs Bunny could lead her to her destination— or kill her, truthfully, but either option seems preferable over the solidifying future of having to call Harry.

After another five minutes of aimless ambling, Y/N retrieves her phone from her pocket, a grimace crawling its way onto her face as she opens her contacts to click on Harry’s name.  Her finger hovers just over the phone icon, mere millimetres from humiliation, when a few out of place piano notes float by her ears and catch her attention.

Y/N tucks her phone back into her overall pocket as her curiosity takes over, urging her ears to strain towards the distant melody, as well as for her legs to follow. It’s not long before Y/N is walking with purpose again, albeit a different purpose than before.  As the music gets louder, Y/N begins to pick out more details— how the piano notes that prick her ears are slightly out of tune, how the player begins and stops and begins again, dragging out different phrases, speeding through others with no clear intention.  The minor key of the piece makes Y/N feel like she’s walking into a memory as she wades through the shelves of long-forgotten belongings, old photographs of deceased people in Victorian fashions watching while the young woman falls back in time.

The music grows louder as Y/N reaches a dark corridor with wood paneling lining the walls, and a painted sign saying “Music Room” beckons her down the passageway.  She follows with slow steps, and while she knows that maybe leaving the main mall area and losing her way down here isn’t a smart idea, the music that’s beginning to grow impossibly sweet pulls her forward.  Y/N rounds the corner to find the oak doors to the music room swung open, and when she lays her eyes on the figure sitting at the mahogany ground piano, she recognizes the silhouette of Harry’s back and shoulders immediately.

Y/N’s gaze falls from his flexing shoulder blades to his inked hands, the jewels on his rings catching the low light of the room as his lithe fingers dance over the dusty ivory keys.  He coaxes a melody from the instrument without any difficulty, as if the music had been simmering beneath his skin for ages.  Maybe it has, Y/N thinks, as she watches from the doorway with quiet wonder, and although she plans on silently observing for as long as she can, Harry only completes a few more phrases before the music drifts to a halt.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d find me.” He murmurs, clearing his throat of the rasp that had settled in his vocal chords as he played. “Thought I’d be getting a scared phone call any moment now.”

The human girl steps into the room slowly, gliding around to the cut out of the piano and leaning across the lacquered wood. “I wasn’t scared.  And I would’ve found you sooner if you’d stayed put. I said wander a bit, not all the way across the building.” She retorts jokingly, trailing a finger along the smooth edge of the piano. All of the sarcasm in her voice melts right out, replaced by intrigue. “I didn’t know you played piano.”

“I, uh, I don’t.  Not much anymore, anyways.” Harry runs his digits between the keys again, using only enough pressure to dust the top of the ivory covers. “I wasn’t sure I’d remember how, honestly, but this…” He lifts an index finger to brush the dust off the gold embossed brand name. “It looks like the one I learned on, so…”

Y/N takes a seat on the wooden bench next to Harry, her shoulder bumping against his as she leans in to smudge a kiss across his cheek. “It sounded beautiful.” She assures him, noting the hesitation in his explanation. “What’s that piece called?”

“It’s one of Chopin’s Nocturnes, in C-Sharp Minor.” Harry curves his fingers over the keys, as if he’s about to begin again, but then relaxes the digits as he exhales harshly. “I don’t play it as well as— as the person who taught me.”

There seems to be a hidden story beneath those words, but Y/N doesn’t press it; if Harry wants to tell her, then he’ll tell her.  If not… Well, she’d rather not drag a sour memory from him in the middle of an antique mall.  Instead, she drags her fingers over his thigh, rubbing just above his knee in a comforting manner. 

“How long have you been playing?” She asks softly, tracing over a black lacquered key with her free hand.  When she pulls away, her finger is coated in dust, and she wonders how long it’s been since the piano has been touched by someone else.

The corner of Harry’s lips twitch, as if her question is particularly humorous. “A while.” He answers simply, and he tilts his head to the side to press his face against the top of Y/N’s head, inhaling the scent of her favourite shampoo. 

“A while?” Y/N repeats the vague answer to prompt further explanation, but when she gets none, she switches to another inquiry. “Can you play me something?”

The moment she utters the question, Harry shakes his head adamantly. “No, I— no.  I’m not that good, love, and I don’t really play for people.”

Surprise colors Y/N’s voice when she replies, lifting her head from Harry’s shoulder to look him in the eye. “This isn’t the time for false modesty, H.” She says, tapping two fingers against his knee as punctuation. “Since when have you been humble?”

A bark of a laugh escapes Harry’s chest in spite of himself, and he curls his fingers over Y/N’s to move her hand further up his thigh. “I’m not modest!  Don’t insult me like that, darling.  S’not nice.”

“Prove it, then.” Y/N massages over Harry’s inner thigh as she issues the challenge, baiting the vampire’s ego with ease. “Play me something.  Show off a little bit.”

Harry squeezes Y/N’s hand once as a quiet groan twists his lips into a pout. “You’re getting pretty good at manipulating me, y’know that?” He mutters, poising his lacquered fingertips back over the instrument. “Fine.  Do you want something sad or happy?”

Y/N ponders the question as she leans her head back onto Harry’s shoulder, her lips finding the edge of his jaw and pecking his cool skin for just a moment. “Both.”

“Both.” Harry repeats with a snort, shaking his head in exasperation as his hands drift to a new position on the keys. “Indecisive little thing, aren’t you?”

The mortal girl lifts her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug, scratching her nails along the fabric of Harry’s pants. “Just play me something.  Please?”

It’s the simplest request with the most complicated implication, but Harry can’t find a good reason to refuse it. 

“This is, um, another Chopin piece.” He feels clumsy in his explanation, struggling to remember the details that he’d once memorized in an effort to seem impressive. “Another Nocturne, in E-flat this time.”

Harry’s fingers begin to dance over the keys, and Y/N listens in amazement as a melody that is both happy and sad begins to spiral out from the body of the piano, wrapping her inside the warmth of the music.  

Not every phrase is even— the more Harry plays, it seems, the more the music phrases, bending and shaping itself around his elegant fingers, rolling with his every movement.  As the music begins to get sadder, however, Y/N notices the change in Harry’s face, and how each phrase begins to get choppier as his fingers stumble their way over the keys. 

Y/N smudges another kiss against Harry’s jaw when his fingers trip up again, squeezing his knee with reassurance. “Keep going.” She murmurs, rubbing his leg lightly as the music stutters again. “It’s nice.”

“I—” The music halts with a jerk of Harry’s hands, which he retracts from the keys as if the ivory burns him. “I don’t remember the rest.” He mumbles, laying his stubbled cheek against the top of Y/N’s head. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize.  I really liked it.” Y/N trails her own fingers over the keys, pressing a few of the lacquered notes with idle interest.  The melody she spins out isn’t nearly as nice as the one Harry played, and she laughs at her own expense. “I’m not nearly as good.  I took a few lessons as a kid, but begged my mom to let me quit.  I wish I’d stuck with it.”

“That wasn’t too bad.” Harry’s dimples wink at her as he smiles boyishly, nodding to the keys with false reassurance. “That little tune sounded a lot like Mozart.”

“Uh huh.” The mortal girl rolls her eyes at the lie, bracing her palms against the polished wooden bench before rising from her seat. “Despite that praise, I don’t think I’ll be adding this piano to my shopping cart.” 

“Hm.  Too bad.” Her lover trails his fingers after her, reaching for her hand and intertwining her grasp with his. “It could make a pretty addition to your apartment, I think.”

“It would take up my entire apartment, more like it.” Y/N scoffs as she raps the fingers of her free hand against the side of the piano. “I don’t even think I could fit this in my living room.  Your apartment, however…” She raises an eyebrow as a grin works its way over her face. “You could fit it easily.  You should buy it.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he lets her hand fall from his palm, touching the keys one last time before shutting the cover over the keyboard. “I’m not buying the piano.”

“Why not?” Eyes widening in surprise, Y/N leans onto the instrument, gesturing with her arms the same way Harry did earlier as she shifts her voice to mimic Bob Barker. “It’s made of genuine mahogany, was once played by Beethoven himself, and can be yours, for the low, low price of—” She reaches around the side of the instrument to grab the tag tied around the leg. “Eight hundred and—holy shit, are you kidding me?”

Harry hums in response as he rises from the bench, shrugging his shoulders before crossing his arms around his tummy. “That’s actually a fairly good price for a used piano, you know.” 

Y/N blinks at him, her mouth opening and closing as she struggles to find words. “I— okay, yeah.  Sure.  So you should get it, then, if you consider that a ‘fairly good price’.” 

“I could,” Harry agrees, his muscles flexing beneath his tight t-shirt as he reaches to pick up the painting leaning against the instrument. “But I won’t.”

Her brow wrinkling in confusion, Y/N watches as Harry begins to examine the other objects in the room, turning his attention to the book-lined shelves and antique lamps. “Why?” 

The man sighs as he fingers the tassels hanging from a— in Y/N’s humble opinion— particularly ugly lamp. “Because I already have one—”

“You do?”

“—but it’s been in storage ever since I got to L.A. And while I usually love things in excess… alcohol, statement jewelry, orgasms—” He flashes a toothy grin at Y/N. “I don’t think overly-heavy instruments fall into any of those categories.”

“Why is it in storage?” Y/N asks, bemusement laced through her voice.  Before Harry began to stumble through the piece, there was a look on his face that Y/N hasn’t seen very often; a serene air swirled through his eyes, hiding something beneath it that Y/N couldn’t quite make out.  And she wants to. 

“Because I don’t have any interest in playing anymore.  Honestly, darling, I haven’t thought about it in years.” Harry laughs in a nonchalant manner, moving from the antique lamp to the creaking rocking chair in the corner. “Y’can have it, if you like.  Probably do you more good than me.”

Y/N rolls her eyes at the deflection, turning her attention away from the topic at hand. “I’m good.” She responds dryly, drifting over to the floor to ceiling bookshelf bolted to the wall. 

Her eyes trail over the exposed spines of the books, reading over the variety of titles with piqued interest.  The amount of genres she sees is countless, ranging from trashy paperback romance novels to timeless classics embossed in gold.  The farther up Y/N glances, the older the books appear, and she gets more and more curious as she glides her fingers over the rippled covers of the books within her reach.

While the novels climb up the height of the bookshelf to the ceiling, Y/N can only manage to reach halfway up the length she needs to, even while stretching on her tiptoes.  She settles down on the balls of her feet with a pout playing on her lips, her attention turning to the wheeled ladder that runs along bars bolted to the bottom of the shelving unit.  It looks rather old— like everything in the antique mall— and Y/N isn’t quite sure it’ll support her weight, despite her test of gripping a rung and pushing on it.

“Harry, c’mere,” She calls over her shoulder, hands gripping the sides of the dusty ladder as she balances a foot on the bottom rung.

Upon her beckoning, Harry saunters over, the painted print she’d selected still grasped in his ringed hand. “Yeah?” He asks, raising an eyebrow in question. “What is it?”

“Can you help me climb up the ladder?” Y/N nods her head towards the far-reaching shelves, biting her bottom lip with pleading eyes. “I want to see what’s on the top shelves.”

Harry’s gaze follows Y/N’s gesture towards the top of the library wall, a look of trepidation flickering through his eyes. “Is that really necessary?”

“Yes,” Y/N answers curtly, lifting her other foot onto the bottom rung before moving from her original step to the next. “And it’ll be a lot easier if you help me.”

Despite his protests, Harry sets down the framed print and complies with the request, grasping Y/N around her waist with firm hands as she scurries up the rickety ladder.  She can feel his fingertips pressing into her love handles over the denim, and it would be a lie to say she doesn’t enjoy it, but she refocuses her attention onto reading over the embossed titles that she couldn’t see from below.

“Y’know, on second thought… take all the time you need, dove.” Harry calls from below her, the smirk evident in his voice as he squeezes her hips once with a laugh. “I’ve got quite the view from here.”

Rolling her eyes, Y/N releases one hand from the ladder to tug a novel off the shelf, examining the half exposed cover before sliding it back into its place. “I bet you do.” She retorts, wiggling her hips just enough to tease him without losing her precarious balance on the ladder.

Although the motion is meant to be a joke, Harry can’t stop the flash of genuine fear that ignites in his chest.  Humans are fragile, he knows, and a fall from the height that Y/N has climbed to could sprain her wrist, or injure her back, or crack open her skull like an egg, or—

“Careful there, Watson.” Harry attempts to disguise the worry in his voice behind a lighthearted joke as his grip on the human girl strengthens. “Wouldn’t want an accident to happen, now, would we?”

“That’s why I’ve got you, Holmes.” A tinkling laugh falls from her lips as she risks a glance over her shoulder at him, her eyes alight with amusement, before turning her attention back to the old novels. “You wouldn’t let anything happen to me, would you?”

There’s a nervous truth hidden underneath her words, and Harry knows it, but that doesn’t stop it from making his skin itch as the casual phrase sinks into his body.  In all his years, however, Harry’s gotten quite good at hiding his emotions, and this is no different.  

Instead of giving a sincere answer, Harry hardens his reply of “F’course I wouldn’t, pet.  Y’can never be too careful.” by letting one jeweled hand drift from Y/N’s hip to her backside, cupping it gently to support her, and taking delight in the way he can feel her body tense beneath his new touch.

It takes Y/N a moment to find her breath again, and when she does, all she can muster is a hum in the back of her throat. “Mhmm.” She sighs, trying her best to refocus on the books lining the shelves in front of her as she climbs higher. “Is that why your hand is grabbing my ass, you pervert?”

“Y’know, that seems to be your favourite nickname for me.” Harry’s smirk deepens as he contracts his hand, squeezing her fleshy backside after she takes another step higher. “I wonder why that is?”

“I wonder.” The flat response echoes from Y/N’s mouth as she pulls another book from the shelf to examine it before replacing it a moment later. “Maybe— and this is just a suggestion, so take it with a grain of salt, but— maybe if you didn’t act like a pervert, you’d get a nicer nickname.”

Although Y/N’s retorts are droll and to the point, Harry can hear the way her heartbeat begins to stutter each time he massages her, and it’s that fluttering rhythm that encourages him to grasp the sides of the ladder with both hands and pull himself up a couple rungs. 

“A nicer nickname, huh?” He breathes in her ear, pressing his chest to her back both to be close to her and to give her more support on the ladder. “Like ‘slut’?” Harry stifles the groan that nearly rolls from his throat when he feels Y/N stiffen. “That’s one of your favourites, isn’t it?”

“I—” Swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat, Y/N grips the sides of the ladder tight between her hands, her skin stretching over her tense knuckles as Harry’s breath begins to hit her neck. “Maybe. I...I suppose.”

Harry laughs quietly as he takes another step up the ladder, keeping himself braced against Y/N as he begins to smear kisses along the side of her neck, mindful of the iron cross that still hangs there. “You suppose?” He repeats, his tone slightly mocking when he hears the mortal shudder. “What about your other favourites?  Y’like when I call you my pretty little plaything, don’t you?”

The honey and lavender fragrance wafting over Harry intensifies as Y/N’s blood pumps faster and faster, the only sound emerging from the human girl being a quiet whimper from the back of her throat.

“There’s another one, though… another nickname…” Letting his teeth gently graze her earlobe, Harry whispers directly in Y/N’s ear, keeping his voice low and throaty as he does so. “It’s on the tip of my tongue, baby...” He suckles sloppily along her pulsing neck, delighting in the taste of her sweet skin in his mouth. “Remind me what it is?”

Already, Y/N’s breathing has grown ragged, and he waits a moment for the aroused girl to form a response, encouraging her with every nip of his teeth.  Just when Harry is about to ask again, she manages to choke out a reply.

“Whore.” She whispers, the embarrassment in her voice overpowered by the lust running through her veins. “I like it when you call me your whore.”

“That’s my good girl.” A satisfied smile tugs at the edge of Harry’s lips as he stamps a gentle kiss to Y/N’s jaw. “That’s another one, too.  My good girl.  And because you’re my good girl…” Harry snakes his right hand from the rung of the ladder to the buttons of Y/N’s overalls, deftly undoing the side snaps and gradually slipping his hand into the space between the denim and her clammy skin. “You’re going to keep looking for your books while I have some fun.”

Y/N lets out a broken gasp as Harry’s fingertips graze over her cotton panties, and her grip on the railing slackens as a rush of heat falls between her legs. 

“Careful, baby.” Harry cautions her, his left hand wrapping around hers and resetting her grasp on the ladder. “Can’t have any fun if you let go, hm?”

“We—” She twists her head to the side, straining to look over her shoulder and towards the entrance as Harry’s digits dance over the dampening spot on her panties. “Someone could walk in, Harry—”

Of course someone could, Harry thinks, but exhibitionism is so much easier to indulge when one has inhuman hearing that can detect the pounding of an approaching heart from fifty feet away.  He doesn’t disclose this information to Y/N, however, for a number of reasons, and instead chooses to scrape his teeth along the shell of her ear once more, his ruby lips soothing the marks instantly. 

“You let me worry about that, alright?” He murmurs lowly, sliding Y/N’s cotton panties to the side and dragging his index and middle finger through her dripping folds, enjoying how she shivers against his chest. “You just focus on finding the book you want and being a good little whore for me, princess.  Let me take care of the rest.”

When Y/N reflects on this moment in bed tonight, her clammy palms twisting around the sheets as she inhabits the memory of Harry’s mint-scented breath swirling around her as he massages two fingers around her throbbing clit with a teasing touch, one specific detail will stick out to her.  She won’t focus on how her heart is pounding so hard that she feels her chest might burst, or how her fingers shake as she reaches for another book on the shelf, per Harry’s quiet but intent instructions.  The thing that Y/N will remember in wonder and— on some level, self consciously— is how quickly the anxiety that spikes through her veins at the possibility of someone walking in and finding the two of them in such a compromising position bleeds into a high like no other.

Y/N likes to entertain the idea that she’s fairly adventurous, and has been open to a lot of things, especially since meeting Harry, but this— allowing him to finger her in a music room at an antique mall, where any customer or employee could discover them— is something so outside of her character that Y/N can’t think straight.  When Harry first slips his long middle finger inside her slick center, the girl nearly collapses, and Harry’s broad chest braced behind her is the only thing that keeps her upright on the ladder.

“Y’like that, doll?” Harry’s hot breath rolls over her neck as he purrs the words, adjusting his grip on the side of the ladder as his other hand skillfully toys with the human in slow and deep strokes. “Filthy little thing, you are, letting me play with you like this.”

The sinful remark draws a mewling moan from Y/N’s mouth as her head dips back onto Harry’s sturdy shoulder, her hands dropping all pretense of searching for a book and clutching the ladder like she normally clutches her sheets, or the headboard of whoever’s bed Harry has tossed her onto. “H-Harry…” She whimpers, her eyelashes fluttering as he circles his thumb around her clit. “Fuck…”

“You pretend to be so sweet, but you and I know the truth, don’t we?” The vampire sponges another kiss along her throat as he delights in the wet sounds his fingers make, which easily become drowned out by the quiet noises of bliss leaving his lover’s mouth. “You’d let me do anything to you, wouldn’t you?”

Y/N nods fervently as she allows her weight to fall back against Harry’s sturdy chest, trusting him to support her as he thrusts another finger inside her. “Anything, H, I—” The desperate proclamation is cut off as Harry curls his digits, bumping against the spot in the pit of her tummy that sets her entire nervous system on fire. “Shit, right there, baby, right there…”

Harry’s smug voice rings in her ear as he slows his stride, dragging his fingers in and out of her hot core at a pace that’s nearly criminal. “Y’don’t need to tell me, I know.” He pushes himself forward again, flushing Y/N between his chest and the ladder with just enough room to continue his activities. “I know what you like, how you like it, where you like it… Know my girl so well.”

As Y/N adjusts to the newly close proximity, the bulge in Harry’s slacks grows more apparent, rubbing against her backside over and over with each plunge of Harry’s fingers.  She lets out a strangled whine at the feeling, carving her teeth into her bottom lip in an effort to keep herself quiet. 

“You feel me, don’t you, minx?” Harry moans into her ear, catching his teeth along the shell before dragging them down her jaw to settle his lips just above her throbbing pulse point. “You feel what you’re doing to me?  How just a single whimper from those pretty lips, and one touch of your soaked cunt makes my cock ache?”

Despite her best efforts, a ragged sob breaks through Y/N’s self-imposed gag order, and her chest heaves within Harry’s tight embrace as her head lolls to the side. “I-I want it.” She pleads, her half-lidded eyes struggling to find Harry’s emerald irises in her haze. 

Those sea glass eyes, darker than she’s ever seen them, widen with fake surprise as his mouth curls into a smirk.  When Harry replies, his normally soothing dulcet voice is filled with insincere mocking. “Oh, you want it, do you?  You want me to fuck you in here?” Dropping his voice to its usual low resonance, Harry growls the next phrase in the human’s ear. “I know you want it, you fucking slut.  But you can’t have it right now.  So if I’m going to let you cum—” The conditional phrase pulls a sound of protest from her throat. “—then you’re going to have to do it around my fingers.” 

The begging girl cries out against his neck as her walls clench around his touch, the stifled pants that she gasps into Harry’s ear urging him to speed up.  Instead of giving her what she wants, Harry curls his fingers inside her, pressing deeper into that spongy spot to elicit another broken whine from her.  When he receives it, however, it’s accompanied by an unexpected blinding burn. 

The iron cross that hangs so delicately around Y/N’s fragile throat has slung to the side in her writhing pleasure, finding its way from her flushed collarbones to the base of Harry’s icy neck.  The vampire grinds his teeth as he feels the brand begin to form, choking back the sound of agony that fights its way out of his mouth.  His left hand clenches around the ladder, his knuckles stretching white as the waxed wood nearly splinters under his palm, while his right hand stutters its pace inside his lover, prodding harshly at her G-spot as a single grunt makes it past the cracks of his teeth.

Harry knows he needs to remove the cross from his skin, but he has no way of doing so without alerting Y/N to his discomfort.  If he lets go of the rung, both of them will tumble off, and Y/N has made it obvious how much she trusts him to keep her safe; that option is hardly an option, Harry thinks, struggling to keep his mind present as he fights through the pain.  The other option— the only one, really— is to retract his fingers from between the mortal’s thighs, feign some excuse as to why, and do his best to keep her from noticing the cross-shaped burn mark on his neck that will surely disappear within a few moments of the iron being removed.  It’ll be jarring, he knows, to pull Y/N from the subspace he can tell she’s beginning to slip into, and Harry hates it, but there’s nothing to be done.  His hand contracts inside her, desperately massaging her walls one last time before he retreats to—

The sharp action drags a mangled whine from Y/N’s throat, the sound more shattered than anything Harry has ever heard from her before, and it pulls Harry’s attention from the charring sensation of the cross branding his skin to the overwhelmed girl in his arms.  As Y/N lets her entire body fall against Harry’s chest, her eyes completely shut as she gives into the pleasure bubbling in her tummy, a realization dawns on Harry, searing him nearly as much as the metal on his inhuman flesh: he can’t let go of her.  He’s in too deep— literally, obvious in the way she tightens around his fingers— and if he were to stop now, Y/N would go into a sensitive daze that he can’t deal with in a public space.  If he lets go of her now, he’ll lose the connection he’s spent the last two months making. She might get over it, given that it’s just an orgasm, but subconsciously, there’s a possibility she could resent him for it. Especially in the extremely delicate phase she’s in at the moment. 

He knows it sounds stupid, but he can’t risk that.  He just can’t.  He’ll take burning agony over that any day. 

When Harry reflects on this moment in bed tonight, his jeweled fingers carefully combing through Y/N’s knotted locks as she shifts in his arms, the bite mark on her neck freshly faded to a light bruise, her chest rising and falling gently with quiet breaths, one specific detail will stick out to him.  He won’t focus on the blinding pleasure of Y/N grinding against his hardened bulge, her body moving of its own accord as she gives in completely to the sensations Harry pulls from her.  He won’t focus on the explicit moans that show she’s given up on attempting to quiet, her voice reverberating in Harry’s mouth as he inhales every desperate breath she exhales.  When Harry reflects on this moment, the thing he’ll remember the most is how the second he accepted his fate— that he’d have to bear the pain in order to keep Y/N happy, and he feels like there’s probably some deeper subliminal message hidden beneath that realization, though he refuses to indulge it— the mortal girl tilts her head to the side and begins to kiss Harry’s neck, soothing the scorched mark with her silky tongue. 

The relief is so sweet that Harry nearly cries out a fractured mewl, letting his head fall forward into Y/N’s shoulder to hide his desperate expression.  She continues to whimper into his skin, smudging kiss after kiss on his marked neck as if she knows how badly he needs it.  Even as her orgasm begins to rise in her belly, consuming her every thought, she continues to suck bruises onto his jugular, dragging her tongue over his cool skin repeatedly after every action.  Although the iron still stings, the sensation of Y/N’s textured tongue swiping over it turns the pain to pleasure, and it’s not long before Harry has himself centered once again, refocused on the task at hand. 

He speeds up the movement of his fingers, focusing on curling them inside her as his thumb rubs quick circles over her throbbing clit.  The sounds bouncing around the room are so lewd that Harry almost wishes someone would walk in, even if only to see how good Harry is capable of making his lover feel. 

“Y’can cum for me, baby.  Cum all over my hand.” He mutters in her ear, his teeth scraping against her fragile skin in desperation. “I know you have it in you.  Show me how good you are.”

Y/N feverishly grinds against his hand, all of her senses overwhelmed by the immortal as she licks across his neck. “So—so close, Harry—I—”

“I know, I know you are.” The vampire soothes her in a tone more gentle than he thought possible, palming her soaking cunt with as much pressure as he thinks she can stand. “Let go for me.  I’ve got you.”

The reassurance is the final thing Y/N needs to fall apart, and once she knows that she can, it happens with an intensity that shocks even her.  When the coil inside her belly snaps, a guttural moan tears from her mouth, and she grasps the pole in front of her as tightly as she can while collapsing back into Harry’s chest. 

“Fuck, there we go, yeah? Shhh, keep it down for me, angel. Don’t wanna have to stop until you beg me to.” 

Her grip on the ladder does nothing to support her, but as Harry’s hushed words ring in her mind, she knows she doesn’t have to worry about that.  Harry’s arms and chest are strong enough to do it for her, allowing her to sink into her pleasure as much as she needs to. 

When Y/N slumps in his arms, her neck finally shifts enough that her cross falls back into its designated position between her collarbones, providing Harry with relief from the scorching pain he’d been beginning to adjust to.  He can feel his skin begin to heal itself the moment the iron leaves it, and with that small fear tamped down, the creature can turn all his attention to the girl in his arms. 

He slowly and carefully retracts his hand from her panties, shushing the weak squeak that rolls from her lips at the motion. “Good girl.” He mumbles into her ear, kissing her temple softly as her breathing begins to regulate itself. “Shh, you’re alright.  Y’did so well for me, darling.”

The comforting praise comes easily to him, and as he continues to hold Y/N as she regains her previous headspace, Harry begins to wonder just how far he’d be able to push her before she reaches her limits.  How far into subspace can she go before she hits the point of no return?  Could Harry successfully guide her there and lead her back?  Could she ever trust him enough to submit fully to his every request, taking solace in the knowledge that he can take care of her as well as— or better, even— she can take care of herself?  Harry wants to think yes, but he can’t dwell on the idea any longer; Y/N’s beginning to shift against him again, and he’ll never be able to earn that wholehearted trust if he doesn’t tend to her now. 

Lifting his hand to his own lips, Harry wraps his tongue around his drenched fingers, lapping at the sweet wetness that coats them down to his rings.  He hums in appreciation, stippling another tender kiss to Y/N’s neck when he retracts his fingers from his mouth. 

“Taste so sweet, y’know that?” He whispers, the question half a test to see how aware Y/N is as her head begins to clear. “C’mere, I want you to taste.”

Y/N lazily tilts her head to the side, a small smile playing on her lips as they meet Harry’s for a slow kiss.  Trailing his fingers down her side, Harry skillfully buttons the side of her overalls again, adjusting the fabric to lie comfortable against her skin.

“How are you feeling, hm?” He murmurs, rubbing his large hand soothingly over her belly as her breathing begins to regulate again. “How was that?”

“I feel…” Y/N struggles to make sense of her swimming head, resting it against Harry’s shoulder as she tries to form a coherent response. “Good.”

Harry sighs with relief, smearing a quick kiss to her cheek as he grins. “Good.  That’s good.” 

With his right hand still wrapped around her middle, he carefully lowers himself and Y/N from the ladder, keeping a tight grip on the girl until he knows her feet are planted firmly on the ground. 

As the afterglow of her climax begins to fade, a heated flush begins to crawl up Y/N’s spine to settle on the apples of her cheeks. “I, um—” The corners of her lips tug upwards with a bashful tone, and she twists around in Harry’s arms to shyly meet his canopy green eyes. “I can’t believe I did that.” 

“You didn’t do anything.  It takes two to tango, pet.  And, honestly…” Harry flashes a boyish simper at her as he yanks her closer to him by her hips. “I think I did most of the work.” 

“That’s true.” A breathless laugh stutters from Y/N’s chest as she curls her hands around Harry’s bulging biceps, steadying herself from the after effects of her orgasm, which are turning her legs to jelly. “I could, um…” She flicks her eyes from the door to the prominent bulge in Harry’s black slacks before capturing his gaze in hers again. “Return the favour?”

Harry snorts as he gives a quick shake of his head, his teeth catching on his bottom lip while he runs his hands down the back of her rumpled shirt. “Not here, baby.  How about we wait until we’re back at my place for you to show me how my sweet girl sucks cock, hm?”

“So it’s alright for you to distract me from my book search to finger me in a public area,” Y/N fakes indignation to distract herself from the ache that’s starting to pulse in her core again at Harry’s proposal. “But the moment I want to suck you off, you say ‘not here’?  What kind of double standard is that?”

Lips twitching in amusement, Harry stifles a laugh as he turns the girl in his arms, pressing her back to his chest once again before wrapping his arms back around her waist. “You’re right.  I distracted you from your book search. How rude of me.” He coos, nodding up to the shelf as he grazes his teeth against her pulse. “Think I see a pretty copy of Sense and Sensibility up there.  Y’think you can reach it, or do you need me to do it, sweetheart?” 

The shuddering of Y/N’s heartbeat contrasts with her heated reply. “I can reach it just fine if you behave yourself.” She shoots back, smacking the hand that’s beginning to wander towards her center again. “Or is that too difficult for you?” 

“It’s extremely difficult when I’m near you.” The reply, while truthful, sends a quiver down Harry’s spine, and he presses a chaste kiss to the human girl’s shoulder before releasing her from his grasp. “I’ll get the book.”

Y/N tugs the hair tie from her locks, shaking them out before pulling them back again in a neat manner. “You know, I never thought I was one for antiquing, but today was fun.” 

“Well, it doesn’t usually involve getting finger-fucked on a ladder,” Harry states bluntly, glancing over his shoulder with a dimpled smile on his face. “So I’m not really sure if today can be the marker for an average antiquing session.”

Y/N’s face boils at the brazen comment, and she tucks a strand of loose hair that she’d missed behind her ear as she swallows hard. “No.” She replies with a soft and timid laugh, shaking her head gently. “I suppose that’s true.” 

Harry hums in reply as he snags the old copy of the Jane Austen novel from the top shelf, climbing down the ladder effortlessly and landing back on the ground with a soft thud. “But I’m glad you had fun.” Harry steps towards Y/N with a satisfied air, gripping her chin between his thumb and forefinger as a teasing smile plays on his ruby lips. “And I’m even more glad we found a replacement for that terrible tapestry of yours.”

Y/N rolls her eyes as she smacks Harry’s hand from her chin before snatching the novel from his hands. “Stop being mean to Amanda!  You’ll hurt her feelings.”

A snort boasts from Harry’s throat as he recalls the day she had told him what she’d named the piece hanging from her wall, and he bends down to scoop up the Monet print while shaking his head impassively, clutching it in one hand as he snakes the other around Y/N’s waist once again. “Well, I hope Amanda doesn’t have feelings, because I’m going to burn her.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not, because I’m going to hang her over your bed, just so you can stare at her while you fall asleep each night.” 

Harry groans loudly as he guides his lover from the music room and back to the open space of the antique mall. “Please.  If anything is going over my bed, it’s a mirror, not a college freshman’s poor excuse of an attempt at interior design.” 

Y/N wrinkles her nose at the comment, shaking her head at the crude suggestion. “A mirror?  That better be a joke.”

“It was, but now that I’m thinking about it…”

“You’re disgustingly conceited.” 

“Oh please, you lo—” Harry catches himself just before the word love rolls off his lips.  Though he’s said it before when referring to certain aspects of their sex life (like how he loves the way her mouth feels, or how she loves the way he stretches her out), it just seems oddly repulsive to say at this very moment. Too intimate, almost.

Therefore, the creature bites back the offensive phrase and tugs her closer by the waist, covering up his sudden hesitation with his signature smirk. “You like that idea, don’t you, dove?”

Y/N keeps her face neutral as they pass by an older couple examining a grandfather clock. “I don’t know what you mean.” 

“Sure you don’t.” Harry laughs sharply, nuzzling his face into the top of Y/N’s hair and pressing a casual kiss to the crown of her head. “Need I remind you that your request for my interior design skills is what started this whole thing?”

“And if you had suggested I mount a mirror over my bed, this whole thing would’ve been over before it even had a chance to start.”

“You say that now, but if you were to see the way my cock looks while it slams into your—”

“Harry!” Y/N hisses, blood rushing to her cheeks as he guides her around a corner stacked with porcelain dolls. 

“Fine. No mirror.” Harry relents, a disappointed sigh falling from his lips as he palms Y/N’s waist closer to himself. “But the tapestry needs to be burned.”

“No.”

“Thrown away.”

“No.”

“Folded up and tucked under the bed?”

“Possibly.  And that’s as good an ending as you’ll get.” 

That night, after Harry has satisfied his craving for both Y/N and the sweet liquid that pumps through her veins, and has settled in for his usual nightly routine of rhythmically caressing her back to lull her into a deep slumber, and as he counts the breaths the mortal sighs between nightfall and sunrise while her soft snoring sings a lullaby to his ears, he can’t help but think that…

That yes, this really is as good an ending as he’ll ever get. 

[the-insomniac-emporium]

Wounded Love (Lady Dimitrescu/F!Reader) Pt. 3

Fandom: Resident Evil: Village Rating: T for blood/violence and language Genre: Action with a lil bit of fluff Warnings: Lil bit of blood Notes: There's an unnamed character in here who may or may not end up as recurring in my stories. I don't really have anything in particular planned for her, she's kinda just here to fill a role/allow for some easter egg type shit in the next chapter. Previous Chapters: Pt. 1, Pt. 2

{Wounded Love 3: Bloody Valentine (No, not that Valentine)}

“Mother Miranda, I must insist, if these lycans stray any further they might start feasting on the village as well! Pray tell, who will you use for research then? We can’t just-... Forgive me… Mhmm. Yes, I understand. Of course… Have a good night, Mother Miranda,” Lady Dimitrescu said, before setting her phone down with a loud thunk. Her hands shake a little, and for a moment you worry that her vanity won’t survive the coming moments. Then you make eye contact with her reflection, giving her an encouraging smile, watching as her gaze softens. “I’m afraid there’s nothing she can do, my dear. I cannot allow Heisenberg’s negligence to go unpunished, but we will have to take care of it on our own, without Mother Miranda’s support.”

“Is that wise, love? To go behind her back like this? I can’t imagine she’ll be terribly pleased if we cause chaos for one of her favored few,” you replied, clicking your tongue as you thought things over. Again you see anger cloud Alcina’s face, though she makes sure not to direct it at you.

“We are not the ones who started this mess,” she reminded you, through clenched teeth. “But we will be the ones to end it, one way or another. I don’t care if I have to gut that wretched man-thing and bring Miranda his corpse as proof of his incompetence! He has shown his lack of loyalty hundreds of times… and now he will pay.” Gulping, you rise to your feet, wanting to comfort your girlfriend. While you had understood that your injury angered her, you hadn’t (until this moment) realized the sheer intensity of that rage. How much blood would be shed before this was over?...

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

Crimson drips down the beast’s side, across matted fur, before hitting the wooden floor. A stench as awful as you had ever found filled the air, only made tolerable by the nearby presence of scented candles. What a mess, you think, glad that you wouldn’t be the one to clean it up. Why had the girls insisted on bringing the damn thing inside? Couldn’t they have simply snatched a few teeth from its jaw as a prize? Somehow you doubted that the thought had even crossed their minds. Violence was a passion of theirs, and they preferred their trophies to be as large as the effort they put into getting it.

“How close to the path did you find it?” You asked after finishing your examination of the lycan. Next to you, the eldest daughter is rapidly taking notes in a leather-bound journal. Both of her siblings stand near the fireplace, hands held out next to the flames, needing to warm up after being outside for so long. It wasn’t even that cold of a day, with temperatures averaging around eighteen degrees celsius. All the snowfall from the prior week had now melted. While you knew of the family’s weakness, you also knew that they had bundled up before leaving, and had even taken a torch with them in the hopes of using it on a lycan. Their powers had taken somewhat of a hit, temporarily, but not nearly enough to prevent them from killing a single lycan.

“Heard it howling almost as soon as we left the castle. We couldn’t smell it until halfway to the village, though. Once we could we tried to track it, only for the stupid thing to come charging at us. Must have been eight, maybe ten, meters away by the time we collided,” Cassandra answered. There’s a bit of a shiver to her voice, and you can’t help the rush of sympathy you feel in response. Being out on the path, wearing little more than a dress and scarf, had been absolute hell for you. Even if it was warmer outside now, you imagined that being weak to the cold just about made up for the difference. “There was a little more howling once we started walking back here. Louder, if not closer. Heisenbitch isn’t even trying to keep these fucking things in check.”

“Cassandra, language!” Came a voice in the distance, making everyone present look up at once. Strutting down the stairs was a clearly miffed Alcina, eyes narrowed, body tense. “Did you three really have to bring the mutt inside? Surely you advocated against this, Bela? Or did you think I wanted new bloodstains right by the entrance, where everyone can see them?” Next to you Bela winces, but doesn’t respond, too worried about angering her mother further. “And you, my dear, what on Earth are you doing on the floor? You should be resting, in an actual chair, if not lying in bed awaiting my return. There’s enough for me to worry about without you limping around on a useless leg!”

Now it was your turn to wince.

“Please, love, I know you’re stressed, but I can still help. Given enough time I could help ascertain these things’ weaknesses. At the very least I could pass on what I learned during my fight with one,” you pleaded. Then you tried to stand up, wanting to prove yourself, only to stumble, barely avoiding a faceplant- and only doing so because of Bela’s quick reaction time. She helped you to your feet, letting you lean on her, then lead you towards a bench. Begrudgingly you sit back down. “You’re only doing this because I got hurt. Helping you in your endeavor to avenge me is the least I can do.”

“Don’t be foolish,” Alcina snapped, now just a couple meters away from you. Even with that space between you, her presence was intimidating, and you almost felt like a child being scolded. “Were you to get hurt again, how would we avenge you? If you fall by your own hand, there will be naught I can do other than lock you away somewhere without any dangerous elements. What sort of existence would that be for you? I simply can’t allow it, no exceptions.” At this you pout, feeling rather disappointed. It’s not as if you were asking to carry a gun and shoot Heisenberg yourself! Not that you would be opposed to doing so, of course. “Try to put yourself in my place, my dear. Could you live with yourself if you failed to protect me?”

“I suppose I could not, love. Very well, I shall simply root you on from here, and kiss away any injuries you return with,” you replied, at last giving in. Then you found yourself smiling… and on the receiving end of a very soft forehead kiss. “Nothing will separate us, my love. None can tear apart that which the universe has stitched together.”

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

“Like I said, my Lady, I already want him dead. Did you really think that your family was the only one to suffer because of his machinations? I know half a dozen people who would love to put a bullet in that fucker’s skull, bare mims,” the huntress said, white teeth showing in her half-smirk. There was an odd coolness to her voice, like this whole ordeal was just another job, and you couldn’t help but feel uncertain about her. Could she really be the solution to Alcina’s problem? You couldn’t even judge her arsenal, considering she had been instructed to come unarmed. After all, she was a hunter of monsters, with a sizable history to her name. If not for her hatred of Heisenberg, you would never have felt comfortable letting her come within two hundred meters of your girlfriend.

“How can I be sure that you’ll succeed? The last thing I want is to have that wretched man-thing come crawling out of the filth he lives in, angry and coming for vengeance,” Alcina responded, scrutinizing gaze locked on the huntress.

“Didn’t Duke give you my file? Or at least read the good bits out loud? I’ve been in my fair share of scraps, with all sorts of bioweapon mutant freaks. Besides, I don’t plan on leaving any receipts behind. If he manages to survive, which is already one hell of an if, there’s no way he can prove that you asked me to do it. Considering he’s already seen my face, and knows I want him dead… yeah, he won’t bother accusing you, not when I’m in the picture, and certainly not when you’ve got such a big reputation for following Mother Miranda’s word down to the very last letter. So, you gonna make this official, or what?” The huntress asked, gesturing her arms wide. Although you’re still not convinced, Alcina nods quietly, seeming ready to make her decision. Regardless of how you feel about the stranger in front of you, you’re more than willing to support your girlfriend in whatever she planned.

“Very well, huntress. Show us just what you’re capable of.”

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

Flames licked at her heels, even as she charged forward, tickling like hot breaths against her skin. Behind her half a dozen lycans roared and screeched in unison. Smoke and ashes flew upwards, into the air, but could not poison her lungs, not when she had come prepared. Still, the mask was not as easy to breathe in as she had hoped, making her chest heave with effort at each intake of air. Good thing I’ll be gone soon, she thought, sparing a glance behind her as she ran. Dozens of trees were aflame, and countless glowing eyes watched from between the branches. They wouldn’t be there for much longer, not with what she had done.

Soon enough an explosion would shake the Earth. Then, finally, both the lycans who had killed her father and the man who desecrated the remains would be dead. And if a certain countess happened to pay her for her services? All the better, really. Funerals could be expensive, especially in such a remote village. More than that… there was no guarantee that she’d be able to outrun Mother Miranda on her own. A little money would make the flight out a hell of a lot nicer.

Assuming she made it that far. There was another scream behind her, this one more human, though somewhat warped by mechanics. It wasn’t a pained cry. No, it was filled with rage. Clearly Heisenberg had come out of his lair, hearing the fireworks, finding his scrap metal and werewolf army in chaos. From the sound of things- metal against metal, electricity crackling- he was coming her way.

“Fuck fuck fuck!” She muttered, desperately trying to get to higher ground. Even if the lycans succumbed to the overwhelming fire, it wouldn’t be hard for their leader to overcome. But the huntress was still too close to her explosives to risk activating the detonator. Just a bit farther, she thought, ignoring the way her lungs ached. Rocks kicked up with every step, loud enough to be heard from a distance, and made traction harder to keep. In the end she had to scramble to get up the side of a short cliff. A few scrapes appeared on her hands, making her curse under her breath.

But with one last movement, pulling herself up with both arms, she was finally far enough to be relatively safe. In one clean second she turned around, pulled the detonator out of its pouch and clicked the trigger. Just like that, a forest blazing turns into a mushroom cloud of pure hellfire. The setting sun makes for a beautiful backdrop, and the sight almost brings a tear to the huntress’ eyes. For a few moments she just enjoys the view. Then, without hesitation or remorse, she starts to walk away, mentally congratulating herself for a job well done.

Until something shoots past her head with terrifying speed. Before she can react another sharp piece of metal flies past her, grazing her arm, and there’s a blood-curdling roar from behind her. Then she’s running, fast as she can, pulse pounding harder than it ever has. One hand goes to the rifle on her back, pulling it out as quickly as she can. The area is rocky, with plenty of outcrops, perfect to hide behind (assuming there weren’t any hidden metal deposits). Quickly she ducks behind one, crouching to keep her head out of sight. Mere milliseconds later another metal spike slams into the ground just beyond her cover.

In the distance, more screams pierce the air, and something heavy drags itself across the ground. It almost sounds like a tank rolling through the woods. The thought alone worries the huntress, but she had never been one to let her fear control her. So she double checks her rifle, adjusts the scope, and pops out of cover. Less than a second later she has her target in her sights. It’s Heisenberg, for sure, more metal than man, but dripping with red. One press of the trigger sends a bullet straight for his ugly head. Unsurprisingly, it’s not enough to pierce his cranium, instead making him mad as hell.

Which is why automatic guns were invented, probably. The huntress holds the trigger down this time, though briefly, before dashing to the next piece of cover. She repeats the process a few times, hoping to kill the man before he could climb the cliff she stood on. If he managed to get up there with her… no, she couldn’t think about that, not now. She had to focus.

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

Hidden among the trees, the Dimitrescu sisters watched as plumes of smoke rose in the distance. Even though they had been aware of the huntress’ plan, they hadn’t expected this much carnage. It was certainly exciting! But they really couldn’t see much from where they were. Getting closer was probably a horrible idea, and yet Cassandra shared a meaningful look with Daniela. A split second later they were forming a swarm, rushing into the trees, leaving their elder sister to yell after them.

“Mother’s going to kill me,” Bela said, before rolling her eyes and following. Maybe she could at least keep them out of trouble?... Probably not.

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

Metal hands wrap around the huntress’ throat, squeezing hard, but do not twist or otherwise break their prey. No, Heisenberg does not intend to end this that quickly. This rodent had taken so much from him, set his plans back by decades. He was going to kill her slowly. When she still fights back, pulling a knife from her boot and trying to stab whatever she can reach, he does little else but laugh. It’s a crazed cackling that echoes through the surrounding rocky hills.

Just barely loud enough to drown out the sound of insects buzzing.

“Fuck that guy!” Someone shouted, right as a sickle descended upon the monstrous Heisenberg’s neck. The first slice isn’t enough to sever the connection, which is why it’s immediately followed by a second, from another sister, then a third, from the eldest, that finally does the job. Just like that the hands release from the huntress’ throat, and she gasps for air. Coughs leave her distracted as the sisters move to surround her. “Good thing we wanted to see the show up close and personal, eh?” Daniela asked, twirling her sickle with a little giggle.

“You idiots are just lucky I followed you,” Bela added, glaring at her sister. Internally, she was relieved that the end result was a success. Still, she worried about what her mother would think, and certainly didn’t intend to voice her satisfaction at delivering the killing blow. “Now let’s get back, before mother assumes the worst and comes to get us herself.” Sighing, she extends a hand to help the huntress up. Though their mutual enemy had been defeated, there was still much to be done. Who knew how Mother Miranda would react? Who, if anyone, would take Heisenberg’s place? There was plenty to be unsure about, and Bela let her mind wander the whole way back, hoping that things would only get better from here...

[starr-fall-knight-rise]

Humans are Space Orcs “Firefighter.”

Still back on themed stories. Hope you like :) was fun to write. 

The road ahead had been long, krill had never experienced something like this before, traveling over ground just for the experience of it all, and though, overhead he could see hundreds of hover cars cutting over the land in straight lines, the roads ahead were clear, almost no traffic.

In a way it was almost sad, though he couldn’t really explain why.

Though none of that was entirely as sad as Adam Vir’s driving. The human may have been able to fly anything with wings or a propeller, but when it came to driving a car, the man was an absolute menace.

Still, krill somehow found he liked the feeling of driving, with the sun shining through the open windows and the wind whipping past his antenna. When the human turned his music up, Krill was sent into a state of half trance leaning against the car door as wind whipped past his face and the land outside drew past in rolling hills of crops, yellow or green under the blue sky above.

He wasn’t even afraid when a rainstorm rolled overhead, and he watched raindrops pelt the windshield, rolling along the side of the car where the wind pushed them. Thunder roared outside, but it was almost comforting.

It was still raining when they pulled into the small hotel, just on the outskirts of the small city. It likely wasn’t part of the same establishment as the distant white buildings, but rather taken over as the city began to expand outward. Many of the houses here were still made of wood, and manufactured after old building codes.

Adam stepped from the car rain quickly darkening his shirt as they hurried towards the old but well-kept building.

A friendly clerk greeted them at the front of the counter smiling.

He glanced down at Krill eyes widening, “Well I’ll be a son of a gun, are you.”

“An alien, well yes my friend, he is.”

The man looked up his eyes still wide, “Wow, I it's a privilege. Never thought I’d see one of you in my lifetime, I tell you that.” The human’s smile was surprisingly pleasant, and he seemed genuinely pleased to see krill, and rill liked that. Happy humans were very pleasant, especially the ones that were excited to see you.

He never knew how to feel around humans. Either they scared him half to death, or they were more than welcoming to the point where he couldn’t imagine being in danger.

The Friendly predator behind the desk gave them a room, only one bed because Krill didn’t sleep.

“Storming pretty hard out there?”

“Yeah, some pretty serious lightning.”

The man nodded, “For sure, we don’t usually get storms this bad around here, but the farmers will be happy. We needed the water.”

Krill was mostly surprised to hear that farmers were still relying on their planets unpredictable weather to water their crops, but he didn’t bother to say anything as the two of them climbed the stairs to the third floor -- well Adam climbed, and he sort of just floated his way upwards.

The room they stepped into was old, but well-kept. There were no bugs, like Adam said there could be, and the rain drumming against the window was a rather peaceful sound. Thunder rumbled off in the distance and the occasional flash of lightning cut across the sky, but it wasn’t a bad feeling. Adam had been driving all day, so the human took his leave to rest flopping down on the bed and falling asleep almost immediately under the light of the TV. 

Krill watched the light box interested in what else he might learn about humans, while his human practiced a little bit of death behind him.

The night wore on, and at some point there was a crack of  lightning so bright and loud that it jolted adam from his sleep and krill from his reverie. It went away quickly and both man and alien went back to what they had been doing before. The TV channel stayed on, and slowly turned from nighttime television to reruns of concerts.

Krill hadn’t been expecting the music, and it lulled him into a sort of half trance.

It was only when the power went off did Krill finally awaken.

In the dark, and without a sense of smell he didn’t notice anything was wrong for the first few minutes except for the slowly increasing temperature. Something glowed orange outside the window, and it was only then, when the light broke slightly through in to the room was krill able to see a strange haze that had gathered up around them.

As the orange light outside grew brighter, a distant crackling noise reached him and the room lit up even brighter until he could see the acrid black cloud beginning to build around them. 

A strange wailing noise reached him just as he was rushing across the room.

Before he got there Adam awoke coughing violently.

The orange light outside was joined by flashing red and blue.

Adam rolled form the bed and onto his knees on the floor coughing and hacking violently.

“What’s going on!.” Krill yelled 

Adam continued to cough pulling his shirt up over his face, “Fire.” He coughed again 

“Don’t you have alarms for that!” krill insisted 

“Doesn’t matter now.” His coughing grew worse, and he tugged Krill down beside him as he crawled his way towards the window and the flickering orange light. A wall of smoke billowed up above their heads, and it seemed the closer they were to the floor the safer.  He reached up to undue the latch on the windowpane, but as soon as the window was open, and they looked down a gout of flame spit up towards them from the second story window. Adam cursed and fell back into the smokey room as fire licked at the edges of the glass.

Krill could feel the radiating heat licking away at his skin.

Still coughing, Adam grabbed Krill again and began crawling towards the door. Reaching it, he threw out a hand against the wooden frame feeling the door with his free hand.

Below them, the floor was growing hot, and Krill could hear the boards creaking.

Adam covered his hand with his shirt and quickly shoved the door open as the two of them spilled out into the hotel hallway. The smoke was thick and dark here, but no fire.

Behind them flames were just beginning to lick at the windowsill and corner of the room.

Acrid black smoke followed them into the hallway.

Adam slammed the door shut coughing and crawling along down the hallway as thick choking clouds billowed over them.

Krill watched in horror as the smoke and failing oxygen slowly choked the human.

Krill survived on carbon, and smoke did nothing much to damage him, though the fire certainly would. 

He could breathe just fine for the time being. 

As they passed, the human knocked loudly on as any doors as he could unsure if everyone else had awoken when the fire began. They had reached the landing on the second floor now.

A gathering black cloud filtered up the stairwell with a flickering red light and tongues of flame. Krill was scared, sure he was going to die. The human continued to cough and hack violently as he grabbed Krill and dragged him back into the smoke on the second floor.

A few of the doors were open here, testament to the people who had managed to escape though the door right below their room flickered and smoke continued to pour out.

With fire behind them and fire in front of them, Adam stood hand over his nose and mouth, grabbed Krill by the arm and raced forward.

The heat was unbearable and Krill screamed in half pain as they roared past the doorway and though an acrid black cloud. The heat licking at them from the side. They were halfway down the hall when the human tripped and went spilling onto the carpet.

It was impossible to see now, like they had walked into a thick fog from a fog machine.

The human continued to wheeze crawling along the floor with Krill at his back.

They had almost reached the stairs when the human slowed, grew still and collapsed.

Krill panicked.

He couldn’t see, and the roaring of  distant fire and the sound of sirens nearly deafened him.

Adam lay unconscious on the smoke stained floor.

Behind him the smoke continued to pour out but it seemed that the fire had died down.

Voices echoed up at him from the stairwell at, what he assumed to be, the end of the hallway.

Somewhere in the smoke, a blinding light, and a massive hulking shape appeared out of the darkness. He wondered vaguely if it was death come to take both of them.

He couldn't hear or barely see anything as the smoke billowed around them, but the figured dropped to its knees as other lights swirled around behind it.

It was humanoid in shape, and as it reached out he could see the five fingered hand covered in a massive glove.

Whatever it was it didn’t seem to want to hurt him, and, floating, he grabbed onto its arm.

Two more figures cut past them through the blackness moving up the hall and stopping at each door.

The bulky figure grabbed adam by the feet, adjusted him so the souls of his feet were on the ground. Then reached out grabbed him by the hand and hauled him upright and over one shoulder.

Adam hung listlessly against the creature’s back as the thing turned and made it’s way back towards the stairs.

Krill was at its back, still holding on, and what he saw was a massive oxygen tank, like the ones he had seen Adam use for diving.

Was this thing human?

They clattered down the stairs moving down as other entities were moving up. A billow of smoke cleared, and he saw one of the figures to be wearing a full gass mask.

He was pretty sure these were humans!

Humans who were walking straight into a burning building! Prepared and on purpose!

They turned the corner form the stairwell, and the hulking figure dragged them through the propped door to their right.

Smoke cleared form Krill’s face and krill could finally see the inky blue sky above them lightened slightly at the horizon by a rising sun.

He could see the creature better now, and to his shock it was most definitely human. A human wearing a thick brown-yellow uniform, helmet, gas mask and breathing apparatus with reflective strips all over their body. The grounds around the were crowded with frightened looking humans, and massive red trucks spouted gouts of water towards the smoking building.

They were dragged forward onto the lawn, and the figure knelt depositing Adam on the ground as others rushed over with an oxygen mask fitted snugly over his face.

“Are you alright?” Someone said, and he turned to find the face of another human as their rescuer turned and back towards the building.

“I, yes, I think so….. I’m a doctor…” he said not sure if he was really thinking straight.

He looked down at Adam, “Is he going to be ok?”

“Yes, he’s going to be fine.”

Krill turned to look back at the building watching in awe as the humans worked to put out the fire. Massive hoses, and some kind of chemical agent that could be thrown in like a grenade to cool the fire.

They walked around in massive flame resistant suits wearing gas masks and oxygen tanks only to plunge into the smoke and return moments later. He saw others being carried out and laid down on the grass, only for them to turn around and do it all over again.

Where any other creature in the universe might have balked from a fire, let it go on, the humans were not interested in allowing this to continue. They raced TOWARDS the fire instead of away from it, carrying unconscious individuals on their backs if they had to, and in their arms if that was needed.

Krill marveled at the sheer bravery, or perhaps, stupidity of these humans.

The flames died down and all that was left was smoke.

Adam was moved from the ground and into the back of an ambulance. Krill watched light spill from upper story windows as the humans searched every room unwilling to leave anyone unaccounted for. Krill learned in the ensuing time that the hotel manager had tried to cut cost and had bribed someone to avoid checking the alarm system.

Krill watched as a few of the strangely dressed figures pulled off their masks and helmets showing sweat and soot covered faces.

Real humans betting the odds against real fires.

Turning back, he saw Adam awake and sitting up. His face was tinged dark grey with the smoke, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was still coughing, but he was conscious. A figure appeared from the chaos.relieved from their mask and helmet.

She stopped by his ambulance, “I’m glad to see you’re awake.” the woman said, smiling past her sweat and soot stained face, her hair short and dark.

Adam looked at her, “Are…. you the one who carried me out?” He wondered 

She smiled and nodded.

His eyes widened, “Damn, the whole of my 200 lbs ass.”

She grinned, “Yep all of it.” 

They shook hands, “Adam.”

“Sofia, I have to get back to work, but I’m glad to see you’re ok.” She turned and vanished back into the madness.

Adam shook his head.

Krill floated next to him, “Who are these people?”

“Firefighters.” 

“Seriously… that’s really what they are called?”

“Yes.”

“And this is how they make a living?”

“Yes.”

“Running into burning buildings pouring buckets of water on stuff and generally putting their lives at risk on a constant basis?”

“Yep that sounds about right.”

Krill stared at the human, he had been being sarcastic for most of that, but sarcasm becomes kind of pointless when your sarcasm is correct. He turned to look at the humans finally putting out the last of the fire.

How strange.

Humans who challenged the flames. One of the most powerful and destructive forces in the universe, and their job was to stop it?

HE shook his head in half amazement half wonder half annoyance.

Humans never stopped, did they. 

[silverhandy]

I saw the devil (in me) - chapter 7

ao3 I chapter 1 I chapter 2 I chapter 3 I chapter 4 I chapter 5 I chapter 6

To Takemura’s surprise, it didn’t take much convincing to get Viktor to come with him to see the netrunner. At first, the ripperdoc was hesitant, gently suggesting that Takemura should just wait for his hand to heal, there was no need to jump into netrunning and that he’s free to stay at the ripperdoc’s place for as long as he needs to, but something about the other man’s tone made him yield and here they were, a few days later, walking down the slippery stairs on the edges of Charter Hill. 

The temperature has risen just enough for the ice encasing the steps to melt, making the simple ordeal of walking down that much riskier, but eventually, they managed without slipping. Viktor had already closed the clinic for the night and just as Takemura had before, they’ve decided to just walk the distance between Misty’s shop and Akiko’s basement. Despite the foul weather, Takemura found the experience rather enjoyable, the way Viktor shared his anecdotes and took in Takemura’s comments. He had to admit, he never knew small talk could be this easy. Takemura would by no means call himself awkward, taking great pride in being able to navigate a wide array of social settings, but the point of such conversations often escaped him; instead, he preferred to get straight to the point, without wasting time on chatter devoid of any clear purpose. With Viktor, it was different, he’d go as far as to say that the meaningless exchange felt almost natural - nothing needed to be reviewed, decided, or discussed, leaving them with an opportunity to just enjoy each other’s presence.

Takemura pushed the heavy door open, leading the way as they both walked into the familiar, dark corridor. Leaving muddy footsteps on the concrete floor, they walked further into the building, and eventually, they reached the bigger room. Takemura noticed that Akiko was no longer busy tinkering with her hardware, but sitting in front of one of the many monitors, face furrowed in concentration as she typed away at the keyboard. She lifted her eyes and waved at Takemura, beckoning him to come in before she got up, typing in some last commands before she finally allowed her hands to get away from the keyboard and started walking up towards Takemura to properly greet her client. Suddenly, without an apparent reason, Akiko stopped halfway, her smile dropping almost immediately.

Perplexed, Takemura turned his head just in time to see Viktor freeze. The ripperdoc was staring at the woman as if he saw a ghost, throat jumping as he swallowed heavily.

“Viktor.” she spat out his name through gritted teeth like it was some kind of a curse, her brows furrowed in a clear expression of disgust.

“Akiko,” he echoed, still standing at the door, seemingly not daring to step inside the basement. Takemura couldn’t quite make out his eyes from behind the tinted shades, but the man’s voice told him he wasn’t trying to match the amount of venom Akiko managed to put in a single word. Quite the opposite, Viktor’s tone was almost apprehensive, gone was his usual steady confidence he carried himself with on their way here, The silence that fell on the netrunner’s workshop was almost palatable, so Takemura opened his mouth to say something, anything to break it, but Akiko was faster.

“You got some nerve, showin’ up here.”

“Listen, I-” before Viktor could finish, the woman turned her piercing gaze to Takemura.

“I tell you to bring in someone you trust and that’s who you go for?” Akiko scoffed. “Bold choice.”

Takemura had to admit, he was surprised by her reaction to the other man’s presence but didn’t let it reach his face. A sudden irritation swelled up in his chest upon hearing her words and he didn’t even think before words started escaping his mouth:

“Nevertheless, I stand by it.” Takemura replied, his tone colder than intended. “He saved my life, more than once. If that isn’t enough, you still owe me. I do not think there is much room for discussion here.”

“Goro, I don’t think this is necessary.” Viktor’s voice came from behind him.

“I happen to think it is.” the other man replied, eying the netrunner, his silver optics glistering. Akiko was still standing with her arms crossed over her chest, a stern expression on her face. She refused to break eye contact, not allowing herself to be beaten in this small, meaningless game of wills, but eventually, let out a sigh.

“Fine.” she finally said. “ but afterward, you’ll never bring him here again. Wear this,” she tossed a netrunning suit at him. “and get in the damn chair.”

                                                              ***

“So what, you fry his brain? With no active cyberware, his output capacity for netrunning is-”

“Perfectly fine for a short dive like that.” she snarled, firing up one of the monitors.

“So you’ve done this before?” mockery rang in Viktor’s voice, a tone so unfitting to him it made Takemura cringe.

“There is always a risk of-” this time, Akiko was on the defensive, angrily smashing her fingers on the interface, not even looking away from the screen as she spoke.

“Then how about, for once, you actually-” Viktor started, but Takemura swiftly cut him off mid-sentence.

“Enough! Do not talk about me like I am not here. I do not know what it is between you two, but I would appreciate it if you could put it aside, just for a second.”

They both looked at him surprised, but dropped the banter, limiting themselves to exchanging glares and singular words as each set up their respective equipment. After a few more minutes, Akiko hopped onto the other chair, adjusting a few parameters on the screen above it before finally pushing it aside and plugging her personal link into the port.

“Let’s get this over with.” with that, her eyes rolled back into her skull, whites glistering. Takemura could see a soft glow that her eyelids didn’t manage to block and looked over to Viktor, netrunning cord in hand.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” the ripper said, pushing up the glasses with his free hand.

“You were not this hesitant when I first asked.” Takemura pointed out.

“I know, but-” Viktor started, but just shook his hand. “anyway, you’ve made your decision, I don’t really have a say beyond giving you advice.”

“Is it medical advice or a friendly one?”

“Between you and me, a bit of both,” Viktor said, but seeing the other man’s expression, he just handed him the cord. Takemura plugged it in without a word and allowed himself to lay back, resting his head on the leather headboard.

For a brief second, his vision glitched. Takemura turned his head to look at Viktor once more, but before he could say anything else, the image started to blur and then bleed over, warping the room into an unrecognizable array of colors and shapes before that, too, was replaced by pitch darkness. Takemura felt as if the soft leather of the chair he was lying on had melted away, replaced by pure nothingness as he felt himself fall, gaining momentum with each passing millisecond. He tried moving his hands, just to see if he could, if not to stop the fall, but before he managed to force his limbs to move, it came to an abrupt stop. When he looked down, the floor he was standing on lighted up with soft, blue light with each step he took. Takemura turned his head to look around, the illuminated structures rising right in front of his eyes. He could see them shifting, thousands of lines of code wriggling like a can of worms, a perfect military unit, moving into position.

When it finally settled, he wasn’t sure he was seeing it right.

The stairs he had been standing on were bare, no handle or barrier to stop an eventual fall. Looking behind his shoulder in search of Akiko, Takemura started walking up, passing the rigid structures of scaffolding around the construction site until finally, he reached a rooftop. Before he had a chance to take in his surroundings, his eyes landed on a figure standing on the edge, the red strings of code of her silhouette contrasting sharply with the blues and blacks surrounding them. The woman had her arms crossed over her chest and she was casually leaning on the railing. Had they been in a different place, Takemura would say she was admiring the sunset, but since there was nothing of this sort to speak of in this bottomless pit of data, only darkness beneath them, it was only a brief thought. He walked in closer, his footsteps echoing on nothing. With every step he took, he felt his stomach sink further as the women’s silhouette materialized in more and more detail. Her short, frizzy hair stood out in every possible direction, strands moving slightly with the nonexistent wind.

“V?” his voice came out coarse, but the syllable carried through the empty space between them. The woman stirred but did not turn, eyes fixed on something far in the horizon, something only she could see. He took a few more steps forward, closing the distance between them, and stood next to her, putting his arms on the railing. The area beneath them was no longer empty, the second he laid his eyes on the digital landscape, data started pouring together to form shapes, an intricate composition of buildings. It was only a draft of the real thing, devoid of any real detail, but it was more than enough. They were looking at a shadow of Arasaka Industrial Park.

Takemura turned his head to V, or rather to whatever digital footprint of her remained. She was still not acknowledging his presence, but as she stared far into the complex beneath them or at the sunset which beauty he could not see, she was smiling.

“Takemura.” it came from somewhere behind him. He turned, startled, and saw Akiko approaching him from the other side of the platform. When he looked back to where V was standing, he saw she was no longer there. A fleeting memory.

“Why are we here?” he asked, voice echoing against the nonexistent walls.

“It highly depends on what is that ‘here’ you’re speaking of.” Akiko raised her eyebrows, though something in her expression told him she knew perfectly well what he had in mind.

“So it looks different to you?”

“Yeah. What you’re seeing is just your brain’s attempt to visualize the plethora of data going through it. It fishes for a familiar place to ease the neural strain. Now come on, let’s go get what we came here for, no need to linger.”

                                                               ***

His vision still hadn't cleared by the time he and Viktor gathered up to leave, a slightly blurry notification popping up on his interface informing him of an incoming transaction. He accepted with a flicker of the eye and watched as his account balance quadrupled with the money he and Akiko recovered. It should be just enough to get him back on his feet, at least until he figures out what to do next, but first things first, he had to pay Viktor back.

“And Takemura?” Akiko shouted behind him right as they were about to leave. “We’re even.”

They walked back to Viktor’s apartment in complete silence, snow creaking beneath their boots as they turned each corner, both lost deep in their own thoughts. By the time they reached the megablock, it was well past midnight, but it didn’t mean the social hubs of the building were any more empty. They passed through them quickly and eventually found themselves back in Viktor’s place, shedding off their coats and throwing them over the desk’s chair almost in unison.

It was Viktor who finally broke the silence.

“Let me rewrap that for you.” Viktor gestured toward the other man’s arm. “Afterwards, we can sit down and talk, maybe crack a beer or two open. Reckon it’ll do both of us some good” Takemura nodded and watched the ripperdoc walk away from the table towards the bathroom. Takemura could hear the rattling of medical supplies as Viktor gathered everything he needed from a small cabinet above the sink. Still intrigued by whatever went down between Viktor and Akiko back in her lair, Takemura took a seat at the counter, quickly unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling the shirt’s sleeve up to reveal the bandaged arm. He didn’t have much time to ponder before Viktor finally emerged and put the supplies on the counter in front of them before hopping onto the chair himself.

There were more cuts than he remembered, places where Viktor went in with a scalpel to replace some of his ruined cyberware. The cuts were still angry red, but in much better condition than they had the right to be after such a short time, neat stitching pulling the broken skin together. Takemura knew they’re going to scar, but at the very least he still had an arm. He watched silently as Viktor worked, cleaning the wounds with an antiseptic before putting fresh gauze over them.

There was something about Viktor that made Takemura want to lean into the touch. He was used to doctors, having been injured countless times in the course of his service to the Arasakas, but there was a jarring difference between the way the ripperdoc was looking over the cuts, none of the impersonal, clinical touch that Takemura was accustomed to. He took a deep breath in, dismissing the thought and pushing it as far down his consciousness as it’d go. It was not the time for such indulgences.

“I apologize,” Takemura finally said. “Perhaps I should not have acted this aggressively. I should not have intervened between you two to reach my own goal, since it was clearly a personal matter.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m glad you spoke up before we had a chance to jump to each others' throats,” the ripperdoc said, not lifting his gaze, still fixed on the other man’s arm. “I guess I owe you an explanation.”

“I have to admit I am curious,” Takemura said, this time choosing his words carefully. “but you do not owe me anything. If you prefer to keep this a private matter, it is fine. I would not hold that against you.”

“Don’t worry,” Viktor replied, pinning the fresh bandage in place. “I have to warn you, though. It’s a long one, so we might as well move to the couch. Let me grab some beer from the fridge.” and with that, he hopped off the chair. Takemura followed and settled on the sofa, Viktor soon joining him and handing him a bottle before sitting down.

“By the 60s, my boxing career was coming to an end. You see, cyberware in sports wasn't strictly regulated until not even a decade ago and more than a few lads took advantage. New guys came in, with implants padding their brains, and with how expensive those things used to be back then, there was no way I could afford even the smallest piece of cyberware. Soon enough, I found myself patching the guys on ringside more often than throwing punches and that’s when someone from Trauma noticed me. You have to understand that for a guy from Heywood, this was an opportunity of a lifetime. Most of the guys there are ex-military, so I was an odd one, but I didn’t allow myself to lag behind. Most of the time I didn’t feel like socializing, but I brought enough practical skills to the table that the others respected me.

A few months into the program, they added another guy to our unit. His name was Takeshi and he moved to Night City shortly before that, from the Kyoto branch of Trauma. Still had a few months of basic training to do, so they placed him with us. Takeshi was off to a rough start, dropped into our group a few months in, everyone already a part of their own little clique. Some of them didn’t take too kindly to a newcomer and I can’t blame them, considering the way Trauma medics are trained to work like one organism. It takes trust to build this level of coordination, so Takeshi had a lot to prove” Viktor paused, taking a sip from the bottle. “and let me tell you, he delivered.”

“That is him in the photo, yes?” Takemura asked, gesturing toward the small collection of pictures to their right. Viktor nodded.

“I never quite dropped boxing, it was an excellent way to stay in shape for a job like that, so I’d always stay behind in the gym to practice after the place emptied in the evenings. One night, Takeshi stayed behind too, watching me for a good while. I didn’t make anything of it, figuring he’ll eventually get bored and leave, but instead he asked me for a sparring.” Viktor chuckled at the memory. “my first thought was that he was joking. The guy was way smaller than me and the insinuation that he’d be able to take me on was laughable and that’s what I did. Presumptuous, I know.” he added, noticing Takemura’s expression. “but I didn’t know any better back then. I thought we’d be done in seconds.”

“And were you?” Takemura asked, taking a sip from his own bottle. The beer had a rich, somewhat spicy taste that lingered after. He could feel his lips smirking against the cold glass, already knowing where Viktor’s story was going.

“Oh, we were. With me sprawled on the ground.” the ripperdoc let out a short laugh. “As you see, I made the mistake of underappreciating him. After that, we’d often stay behind together practicing. Soon enough, we started to meet outside of it too, often spending weekends going from bar to bar. As it turned out, he wasn’t the quiet guy I took him for, turning out to be quite chatty. He’d tell me all about his life back in Kyoto, not to mention he was quite opinionated about Night City, especially the local food, just as you are.” Takemura opened his mouth to ask how Viktor could possibly know that, but then it hit him. V must’ve told him all about the time they spent together.

“Doing a gig for Trauma was the fastest way for him to get a medical license and stay in the US for good, but he was probably the least trigger happy person I’ve ever known. Would make a great hospital doctor, with his bedside manner, but bureaucracy made it impossible for him to just hop positions like that. Months went by and we graduated, by dumb luck ending up in the same unit. Two years down the line and he comes to me, the stupidest grin on his face, telling me he met a girl.”

“Akiko?”

“Yeah. She was starting at Arasaka back then, climbing her way up the information security department. She never really liked me, but they hit it right off, another two years pass and he invites me to their wedding, even asked me to be his best man. Best party I’ve ever been to. It all seemed to be working out for us, he was happily married and we both landed great jobs. That is, before corporate started rubbing their hands all over it.”

“Isn’t Trauma a private corporation in and on itself?

“It is, but bear with me. When you’re a regular armed medic, you don’t really feel all the pressure coming from above, but the higher up you go, the more entangled you get. I’m sure you know what I mean.

“You might say so.”

“Then I’m sure you know, most likely better than anyone else, that it’s just a matter of time before those things start to get complicated. But that’s a whole different story, a less happy one, but it explains why Akiko reacted the way she did when she saw me this evening.” Viktor said, leaning back on the sofa and taking another swing from the bottle. “but I guess neither of us has anywhere else to be right now.”

“I believe so,” Takemura replied, placing his beer on the small coffee table in front of them.

“Alright then. You know, I’m not superstitious, but that day, I knew something bad would happen. I just didn’t think it'd be like this.”

[kyber-kisses]

Southern Nights (4/4)

Dean Winchester x Reader

Warnings: it’s a little angsty, very slight canon divergence and spoilers for s12. its a bittersweet ending.

Summary: After a situation with the BMoL, Dean finds himself running towards the person he fears for the most besides his brother. But even when he finds her safe and alive, he can see that something isnt right.

A/n: final part is finally here, folks! I hope you all enjoy and pretty please tell me what you thought!

Part 1       Part 2        Part 3

You were a difficult person to keep at arms length to say the least. Because no matter how hard Dean tried, he gravitated back to you, just as you did him. You had fallen asleep hours ago, but the older Winchester drifted in and out of consciousness like the tide. At some point in the night you had found your way back to Dean, cuddling up close to him despite the still warm temperature. He should have rolled away, not given in to the temptation of you being so close, but he couldn't help it. In the darkness your cuddles were like a little touch of heaven. He wished he could extend the night just so he could stay close to you longer, safe in your embrace. Your arms wrapped around him brought a peace he had never known before. Sometimes Dean thinks its you that gives him hope for the future. That there is nothing to fear, and monsters no longer exist.

He eventually drifted off to sleep like so many times before. . .it doesn't last long though.

The neon numbers on your bedside clock read 4:23 AM when Dean suddenly felt a firm hand shake him awake, the hunter letting out a groan as he attempted to snuggle closer to you.

“Dean?”

Another groan.

“Dean.”

“What, Sam? It’s four thirty in the morning.” Dean grumbled, trying desperately to fall back asleep.

“I know we planned on leaving after breakfast but we gotta go now.”

That got Dean to pick his head off the pillow and wriggle his arm out from underneath you. “What?”

“Jody just called. She found Mom-“

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Dean slowly sat up, checking to make sure you were still asleep. “So what? Can’t that wait a few hours?”

Sam let out a deep sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “She attacked Jody. Tried to kill her.”

“WHat?!”

“Shh! And yes. It might be some kind of mind control- I don’t know. But we gotta hit the road.”

“Shit. Shit okay, yeah.” Throwing back the covers, Dean was out of bed in   seconds, moving out of the room to throw his belongings back into his bag.

The two worked as silently as possible, trying not to wake you from your sleep. That type of early morning sneakiness where the sounds of everything else somehow felt amplified, like the floorboards creaking or the kitchen appliances whirring. They kept as little lights on as they could, even when beginning to load up the car.

It was only when he was grabbing the last bag and flicking off the lights,  did  Dean stop in front of the doorway to your bedroom. The moonlight slipping through the open window to illuminate your sleeping figure.

There was a whispered shout from Sam at the front door, urging him to keep moving.

“Dean-“

“Just-   just give me one second.” Dropping his bag back onto the couch, Dean  made his way back into the room. He knew you would be pissed beyond belief if he left without saying goodbye. It didn't help that he didn't even want to leave in the first place, but there were people that needed saving and monsters that needed killing. Leaving you was never easy.

Sinking down softly onto the edge of the bed, Dean gave your arm a soft squeeze. “Y/N, Y/N I need you to wake up for a second.”

It took a moment but eventually you let out a soft hum.

“Sammy and I got to go. Something happened at Jody's with mom and we can’t stick around.”

Groggy with sleep, you slowly blinked awake, propping yourself up on one elbow. “What?”

“I don’t know the specifics, but I’ll call you as soon as I know.”

“Do you need me to come with?”

“No. No you stay here. You deserve a break. Rest.”

“But Dean-“

Dean only shook his head, pushing away the loose hairs around your face. “I’m gonna call you as often as I can. I don’t know when Sam and I will be able to come back down here again-“

“That’s okay. Go save your mom.” You nodded, sitting up further. “I’ll be fine here.”

“That’s another thing. If those British bastards show up-“

“Dean, if they haven’t found me now- they ain’t finding me ever.”

The moonlight cast sharp shadows across the Winchesters face as he nodded, contemplating whether or not to say one last thing.

“I should- I should probably go.”

“Here-“ already throwing back the covers you began to get up. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No,no that’s okay.” He assured you, rising from the bed. “You go back to sleep.”

“Dean-“

“I’ll call you when we cross the border. I’ll talk to you soon.” Giving you one last kiss on the cheek, Dean rose left the room, leaving you with a bundle of emotions in your chest.

Before this you hadn’t talked or seen Dean and weeks. . . And now his sudden trip here had been cut short and you didn’t know how to feel. It sort of felt like you were being taunted with a piece of meat. Now he was leaving and you had no idea when the two of you would see each other again.

You sat in silence up until your heard the front door close shut lightly and then like a switch being flicked you threw off your covers and quickly bolted through the house. No. You weren’t gonna let him leave that easily. Not without a proper goodbye. Not when he had just helped you so much with your guilt about quitting hunting. He deserved better.

“Dean!” Throwing open the screen door you skidded to a stop on the front steps, both hunters turning in surprise as the door banged shut behind you. Dean had only begun opening the drivers door when he saw you and stopped.

“Y/N?“

screw the whole hunters shouldn't get close to people rule. This was your life and you were seizing control. Ignoring the fact that the sprinklers were currently running, you took quick steps down the stairs before rushing across the wet grass, your t-shirt and sleep shorts getting soaked almost instantly.

Deans eyes widened in sudden sunrise at what you were doing. Taking his hand off the car door he quickly moved forward to catch you as your feet slipped on the grass- at least he thought you were slipping. In reality you had launched yourself into his arms, legs winding around his torso as you hugged him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he wheezed, still slightly stumbling at the sheer force of your collision before letting his arms wrap around you.

“You don't get to get off the hook that easy.” you mumbled, a silence falling over the two of you momentarily as Dean shared a confused look with his brother from over the roof of the car. Sam only shrugged. the only sound being the soft putter and hiss of the sprinklers. Somewhere nearby a dog barked.

“what?”

“that was a lame ass goodbye you gave me.” You explained, pulling back just slightly to look down at him, wet hair sticking to your face. “Plus, I needed to say thank you.”

“For what?” Deans brow furrowed as he adjusted his secure grip on you.

“For understanding why I need to take a break. For not being upset.”

“I could never be upset at you. Plus, now I don't need to constantly worry about you getting yourself killed.” He sighed, setting you back down on your bare feet. Neither of you paid attention to the slam of the car door as Sam slid into his seat, clearly trying to give the two of you a moment alone.

“fair point.”

Dean smiled as he walked you back  towards the steps of the porch. His hand clutching yours. He only paused when your feet were securely on the steps, your faces level. Giving a look back to the car and the soft rumble of the engine filling the early morning air he took a deep breath, the streetlight at the end of the dirt driveway was already pointing him in the direction he was about to travel. He hated it whenever the two of you had to go separate ways, but that was how this life worked. “I gotta get going.”

“I know.”

Dean gave you one last look before nodding, his hand slipping from yours as he made his way back across the grass. The feeling of your eyes on him giving him slight shivers.

Just get in the car and drive, Dean.

Apparently his heart had another idea, because halfway to the running vehicle he shook his head, spun on his heel and marched back towards the porch, your own retreating figure halting to look back.

“alright, now what are you doi-”

Before you can even reach the last syllable, you find his lips interlocking with yours, calloused hands moving to your cheeks as he pulled you in closer to deepen it once he felt you kiss back with wet lips, clearly having yet to wipe the water from the sprinklers from your face. You drew your tongue over his teeth and swallowed his groan as you pressed closer together, no visible gap between you, even as your hands went to his face as well.

So long. You had wanted this for so long.

Somehow for the both of you it was both a goodbye and a reason to hold on. You felt yourself tremble. You suddenly felt like a coward in that moment. You didn't want him to leave. The sun would rise in a few hours and he would be long gone by then.

Dean pulled back slightly breathless, both sets of hands refusing to move the other persons face. Why did he have to go? Why couldn't his life be simple?

“I am so in love with you.” he breathed, taking in every inch of your face and committing it to memory. “So, so in love.”

You were stunned silent for a moment, a wave of fear rippling through the Winchester as he watched you. God. He should have kept his damn mouth shut and just walked away.

But then you smiled. It crept across your face slowly in a similar fashion as a rising sun- and then you were pulling his face in again and pressing another deep kiss to his lips.

“I love you too, you bastard.”

When you pulled back you were met with the purest set of puppy dog eyes you had ever seen, the hunter looking at you like he almost couldn't believe you existed. You raised an eyebrow.

“I don't know why you look so surprised, I thought the two of us were pretty obvious.” You joked, watching as a light laugh left his lips, the same look still glued to his face. Behind him the car honked, snapping him out of his daze.

“Right- I uh- I should get going.” he swallowed, taking a step back. “Will you be okay here by yourself?”

You gave him one  last soft smile, hand going up to cradle his cheek like the   night  before. “I always am Mo Graigdh. Don’t worry about me.”

“You ever gonna tell me what that actually means or you gonna leave me   hanging in suspense until I’m on my death bed?” Dean smiled, looking at you with big jade irises.

“Would it kill you to learn a language or two?”

“Probably.”

A light laugh left your lips as his blunt response. The kind that made Dean feel like he had been wrapped in sunlight.

“Well, if it matters that much to you- there’s this fun thing called the internet. It might help.”

“Haha   funny.” Letting go of your hand, Dean pressed one final kiss to your   knuckles. “Anyways, go back to bed. I’ll talk to you in the morning.”

“Okay. Be careful.”

Walking back across the grass towards the car Dean gave you a salute and a wink. “Always am.”

Leaving was never easy but the older Winchester kept his composure until he   was behind the wheel. As he put the vehicle in drive and headed off down the dirt driveway he gave one last look to the rear view mirror, seeing you still standing on the porch, illuminated by the porch light as you watched them go. Dean didn't know when he would see you again, but he hoped it was sooner rather than later.

The older Winchester maybe got five minutes of silence before Sam spoke up from his spot in the passengers seat.

“Dean?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you remember that conversation we had about a year back?”

Dean paused before peeling his eyes off the road to glance at his brother. “Sammy, you're gonna have to be a little more specific than that.”

Sam chuckled, glancing down at the road map in his lap. “You know, about ever wanting something more? With a hunter? Someone who understands the life?”

There was another pause as Dean focused his eyes back on the road before humming a soft response. To the east the clouds were beginning to ligthen, telling them the sun was beginning to rise and a new day was slowly rolling into motion.

“. . .is that Y/N?”

another pause.

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.”

SPN Taglist: (Still Open)

@familybusinesswritingbro@a–1–1–3 @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @music-is-all-i-need @agusdoti @callmekda​​ @jordangdelacruz​​ @orphiceseum​​ @andthatsmyworld​​ @marvelfangirllll​​ @fandomnerdespressourself​​ @gladiosamicitias @castielsangelsx​​ @lxstgxrl-ck​​ @tis-i-the-wayward-idgit @amendoise @phoenixuprisingsstuff​​ @ericalynne007 @kaitlaitlaitl​​  @totallyluciferr​​ @supernaturalenchanted​​ @dolanfivsosxox@supernatural-ocs @emptycanvasposts​​ @akshi8278 @defenderrosetyler​​ @heyyy-hey-babyyy​​ @supernaturalenchanted@emptycanvasposts @vicmc624 @all-will-be-well-love@busy-bee-angel-misska @starsandmidnightblue​​ @lilulo-12fanfiction @beanie-beebo​​ @xoxoaudreymarie​​ @greenarrowhead​​ @mrsjenniferwinchester​​  @mysticalfuncollectorus​​ @brebolin​​ @biahblue​​ @noahandthegiraffe​​ @hhiggs​​ @mila-dans​​ @mrsmaybankhere​​ @malindacath​​  @littleagxs​​ @deanwanddamons​​ @idksupernatural​​​ @i-make-questionable-choices​

[occasionally-writing]

Condo Cleaning Day...Or Not?

A/N: Well, the first one to get done was the TineSarawat one XD Warning, it does get a little nsfw but not enough to make it the explicit rating. I’d most likely rate it maybe...a T going into an M? So yeah XD I really hope you guys like it! :D 

Summary: Tine proposes a cleaning day for their condo, but when Sarawat decides not to focus on their plans, they’re almost halfway done when he messes with Tine’s plans and gets his own way.

Word Count: 3208

Tine knew it was time to have a cleaning day. Ever since their exams had started, he and Sarawat barely had time to do much of anything besides study. Whatever time they had to themselves would either be sleeping, eating and showering. Tine couldn’t even remember the last time they kissed or did other...things. Shaking the thought from his head as he pushed the blanket off his form, Tine rubbed his eyes and stretched, moving his gaze to the sight of his still sleeping boyfriend beside him. They were both lucky enough to have their exams finished and now they could relax, except they couldn’t do that just yet. Rolling off the mattress, Tine brushed his bangs free from his eyes and moved towards the dresser, pulling out a fresh pair of joggers and a clean t-shirt. Throwing them over his arm, Tine barely had time to move before arms wrapped around his waist and a face was buried into his shoulder.

“Wat...come on, I was just about to take a shower. We’re going to have a cleaning day and get this condo back into shape,” Tine sighed, not bothering to hide the shy smile that rose on his lips as he felt a sleepy kiss being pressed against the back of his neck as Sarawat placed his chin on his shoulder. Letting out a groan as he heard what Tine said, Sarawat grumbled something illegible and buried his face deeper into Tine’s neck, nuzzling the sensitive skin. Feeling a shiver ride down his spine, Tine bit back a squeak and squirmed around in Sarawat’s grip, meeting him face to face with a stern expression, trying not to show how red his cheeks were beginning to color. “None of that! Come on, let me go so I can shower.”

“Can I shower with you?” Sarawat asked, his voice still deep with the signs of sleep. Squinting his eyes as he heard this, Tine stared into his boyfriend’s eyes, obviously trying to see if he was up to something. Letting out a yawn, Sarawat leaned forward and pressed his face into Tine’s chest, wrapping his arms back around his waist as he cuddled closer. Rolling his eyes, Tine rubbed Sarawat’s back and with a groan, agreed for his boyfriend to be allowed to shower with him. Shooting him a warning that if he did anything to him, Sarawat would find himself out of the shower faster then he could comprehend. Letting out a whiny answer, Sarawat pouted but pulled out a pair of black boxers and a tank top before he followed Tine into the bathroom. “Can I at least wash your hair?”

To Tine’s surprise, nothing happened in the shower. Sure, Sarawat was a little touchy, but he didn’t do anything inappropriate and respected the rules Tine had placed before they went in. Slipping on his pants, Tine pulled the towel that was around his neck off and moved to ruffle his hair with it, pausing when the cloth was taken from his hands and a soft hand wrapped around his wrist. Not saying a word as he was sat down on the floor near the couch, Tine watched as Sarawat sat down on the cushions behind him and placed the towel on his head, gently ruffling his hair dry. Letting out a hum, Tine leaned back against Sarawat’s legs and closed his eyes, not minding the soft touch Sarawat was giving him until it was over and his hair was mostly dry. Taking the towel from him, Tine stood up and stepped in between Sarawat’s legs, placing the towel on his head and returning the favor, letting a soft grin rise on his face when he noticed the warmth in Sarawat’s eyes as he watched him. Holding onto Tine’s waist as his hair was dried, Sarawat completely relaxed and before long, his hair was no longer dripping wet and Tine drew the towel away.

“I’ll take the towels back to the bathroom. Can you start on the dishes downstairs? I’ll follow you once I’m done,” Tine instructed, throwing the damp towels they had around their waists and on his neck over his shoulder. Letting out a huff as Tine ruffled his hair and stepped away from him, Sarawat grumbled as a pout laid on his lips, staying there until he pushed himself off the couch and moved down the stairs, heading towards the kitchen. He knew there would just be arguing if he ignored Tine’s request and although he wasn’t too fond of cleaning, he knew his boyfriend was right because as soon as he got downstairs and took a good look around, all Sarawat good see was dirty dishes and dusty hardwood floors. Rubbing the back of his neck with a grimace, Sarawat made a face as his bare feet caught all the dust and crumbs on the floor and was glad when he made it to the mat they kept near their sink. “Sarawat? I’m done putting the towels on the rack...holy shit, was the floor always this dirty?”

“I know...I didn’t realize it either. We’ll clean it once we’re done with the dishes,” Sarawat mumbled, biting back a snicker when he noticed the face Tine was wearing as he walked over the floors. Making it beside his boyfriend, Tine prepared the hot water and dish soap for Sarawat before he took his place near the drying rack, pulling the dish towel they kept hanging on their oven door handle. Stopping the faucet once the pan of dirty dishes was full, Sarawat poured some dish soap on the cloth and began washing and rinsing, handing the wet dishes to Tine once he was sure they were clean. Stopping for a moment so he could dry his hand and connect his phone to the bluetooth speaker they kept on one of the cabinets, Sarawat put on his Scrubb playlist and turned just in time to see a bright smile rise on Tine’s face. “Thought we should listen to music while we work.”

Nodding softly, Tine watched as Sarawat took his place by his side again and the two continued to work on the dishes, their rhythms beginning to match as they met each other’s pace. Once all the dishes were out of the pan, Sarawat drained it as Tine threw the towel over the dishes and rubbed his damp hands on his t-shirt. Doing the same, Sarawat shook his hands around as Tine moved to pick up the broom and dustpan. Taking them for his hands, Sarawat took cleaning the floor as his duty so that Tine could move his focus to their bedroom, where he knew dirty clothes were laying around on the floor and their full hamper of clothes that needed to be washed. Nodding as Sarawat explained this to him, Tine moved to go around his boyfriend until his waist was grabbed again and Sarawat placed a noisy kiss on his cheeks. Smacking him softly, Tine mumbled something and dashed away, shaking his feet off once he was on the stairs, Tine gave Sarawat one last look before he stomped up the stairs, ignoring the chuckles that were escaping his boyfriend’s mouth. 

“Shit...I guess we really did make a mess…” Tine muttered to himself once he made it upstairs, his eyes immediately falling on all the dirty clothes that took refuge on their floor, an obvious mix of both his and Sarawat’s just strewed about. Rubbing the back of his neck with a barely held back groan, Tine knew that he was the one who proposed a cleaning day, so with a heavy breath, Tine got to work, grabbing an empty basket so he could pick up their clothes and toss them in something that would make them easier to hold. He honestly found that he didn’t care that he was mixing their clothes, since the both of them just wore each other’s clothes anyways. Finally seeing the floor around their bed, Tine took in a deep breath and wiped at the beads of sweat that was just beginning to dot around his forehead. “There...now to get this stuff in the washer...along with the rest of our clothes in the hamper.”

Lifting the basket of dirty clothes easily and placing it on his hip, Tine moved towards the bathroom and shut the door behind him with his foot. Placing the basket on the dryer, Tine carefully tossed in their clothing, knowing he would have to make a double load due to how much their clothing accumulated. Opening the door again, Tine kicked the empty basket back into their room and watched as he slid just enough to hit their mattress before he closed the door again, turning his attention back to the filled washer. Measuring out the proper amount of laundry soap, Tine poured it in and adjusted the settings to the perfect water temperature and how big the load was. Closing the lid, Tine pushed the start button and watched as the washer began sensing it’s contents and the water began filling. Propping himself on the dryer, Tine kicked his legs a bit as he listened to the soft tones of the Scrubb playlist Sarawat still had going in the kitchen, the music just being loud enough to hear even when he was upstairs. Leaning back as he hummed out the ending lyrics to the song, Tine closed his eyes and didn’t notice the steps that were coming upstairs and the way the bathroom door opened until hands were on his waist and a body was in between his legs.

“S-shit! Saraleo! Don’t do that!” Tine yelped, his body jumping in shock as he was frightened from the sudden appearance of his boyfriend. Chuckling softly as a flush began to fill Tine’s cheeks, Sarawat shuffled forward more and moved his hands, letting them trail up his boyfriend’s body until they cupped Tine’s face, his thumbs tracing soft circles under his eyes. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tine shyly leaned into Sarawat’s touch and sighed, not minding how the dryer he was sitting on was kind of shaky due to how the washer was running through its last cycle. Leaning in, Sarawat kept his gaze on Tine’s, their lips just about to touch until both of them flinched when the buzzer went off on their washer, alerting them that the clothes were done. Letting out a small snort when he noticed the look Sarawat was giving their appliance, Tine knew that if looks could kill, the washer would be dead by now. Gently pushing Sarawat back, Tine hopped off the dryer and moved to pull the damp clothes out. “Wat, open the dryer for me, yeah?”

“Fine,” Sarawat huffed, a pout heavily marking his lips as he did as his boyfriend asked and opened the lid. Shooting him a thankful smile, Tine continued to unload the damp clothes in the dryer before he pulled out to cling free sheets, tossing them in as well. Closing the lid, Tine noticed the way Sarawat sat on their toilet seat, his arms crossed loosely on his chest as he waited for him to get done. Rolling his eyes at his boyfriend’s childish yet endearing behavior, Tine quickly turned the dryer on for an hour before he got to work putting the last set of clothes in from their shared hamper. Pouring the laundry soap in, Tine closed the lid and kept all the settings the same as he started the washer, turning his back to it so he could give Sarawat his undivided attention. Noticing this, Sarawat perked up a bit and threw his arms around, basically gesturing that he wanted Tine close. “Come here.”

Biting his lip, Tine slowly moved closer to Sarawat and took his place between his open legs, letting his boyfriend wrap his arms around his waist, his own hands landing on Sarawat’s shoulders. Burying his face in Tine’s stomach, Sarawat sighed and rested his tired body, all the cleaning they’ve been doing putting a number on his energy levels. Threading his fingers through Sarawat’s hair, Tine stayed silent as he felt his boyfriend relax, his body growing lax against his. Peering behind him, Tine stared at the washer as it was on it’s last cycle before they too had to move to the dryer. Hearing the buzzer, Sarawat whined and tightened his hold around Tine, not wanting to let go. Gently pulling at Sarawat’s hair, Tine pinched his ear which effectively made Sarawat let go so he could attend to the clothes. Pulling them out, Tine stopped the dryer for a moment before he moved the clothes to the dryer, grinning when he noticed there was enough space for all their clothes to dry together. Dropping a few more dryer sheets into the machine, Tine closed the lid and fixed the timer on it so the dryer could run for another hour. 

“Okay, the dryer won’t be done for another hour, what else do we have left to do?” Tine asked, placing his hands on his hips as he tapped his foot in thought. Groaning from his place on the toilet seat, Sarawat pushed himself up and draped his body over Tine, not caring the way his boyfriend let out a gasp of surprise or how he almost dropped him on the ceramic tiles. Shooting Sarawat a warning look, Tine made his way out of the bathroom with Sarawat still attached to him before he stopped and took a good look around the room. Noticing the old bedsheets, Tine made a noise and shook Sarawat off him, moving towards their mattress so he could remove it. Throwing it in the direction he knew Sarawat was in, Tine bit back a chuckle when Sarawat let out a hiss when he was smacked in the face with their dirty sheets. Pulling a new pair from the decorative boxes Tine had noticed on their last furniture shopping day, Tine threw the plain grey sheets over the mattress and tucked them in, throwing the top sheet on for good measure. Fluffing the pillows up, Tine let out a breath and belly flopped on the bed, keeping his limbs open like he was a starfish. “I think we deserve some rest while we wait for the dryer to be done.”

Not hearing a word from Sarawat, Tine furrowed his brows but didn’t get a chance to move as a body dropped on top of his, pinning him effectively to the bed as Sarawat shifted around until his face was buried in the back of Tine’s neck and his arms were snug underneath Tine’s bed, looping around his waist. Letting out a slight groan when Sarawat’s body finally settled and his weight was placed evenly, Tine wiggled around and huffed when his boyfriend let out a whine and tightened his grip hard enough to where it was beginning to get uncomfortable. Slowly stopping his struggle to get free of his koala like boyfriend, Tine held still and just breathed heavily, burying his face in the light sheet. At least the sheet was fresh and smelled clean. Noticing that Tine stopped struggling, Sarawat loosened his grip and just slacked into Tine’s warmth, seeming like he didn’t care that he was practically squishing the other boy. 

“We can’t stay like this forever. The clothes will be done soon and we’ll have to gehehet...S-Saraleo!” Tine gasped, his breath leaving him when Sarawat nipped at his neck, soothing the mark as he pressed a soft kiss to the skin. Trembling slightly as he tried to register what just happened, Tine thrashed around until he was able to knock Sarawat off him and he could move onto his back, not staying free for long as Sarawat sat on his hips, staring down at him in amusement. Biting back his need to curse at his boyfriend when he noticed the amusement fade into something more fond before Sarawat leaned down and brought their faces close together. “Wat…” 

Swallowing the lump in his throat, Tine held his breath as Sarawat leaned further down until their lips were close enough yet not touching and just freezing there. Waiting long enough to the point that Tine felt his patience wearing thin, Tine stared into his boyfriend’s eyes and let his breath out slowly. Gaining whatever confidence he had in his heart, Tine pushed his body up until he could press their lips together, stunning Sarawat enough to where he froze, his lips barely moving against Tine’s. Smirking as he noticed this, Tine went to move away but gasped when the back of his neck was grabbed and Sarawat forced their lips back together, now responding to the kiss as he snapped out of the shock Tine had put him in before. Pulling away when he had to breathe, Tine laid his head back against the mattress and panted, squirming lightly when Sarawat placed butterfly kisses all around his face before his attention was going back down to his neck, nuzzling his nose against the sensitive skin. 

“Tine, can I…?” Sarawat whispered, moving his lips up to the shell of Tine’s ear so he could whisper the last of his sentence. Feeling a warmth immediately filling his cheeks as he heard what Sarawat wanted to do, Tine went to protest but only whimpered when Sarawat kissed the spot behind his ear, effectively silencing him. Pulling away so he could stare Tine in the eyes, Sarawat reached out and cupped Tine’s cheeks, trying not to show how much he truly wanted him just in case he scared his boyfriend off. Noticing the look of pure love in Sarawat’s eyes, Tine bit back a sound that would most likely embarrass himself and just nodded, wrapping his arms around Sarawat so he could lean down and press their foreheads together softly. Nuzzling their noses together, Sarawat pressed one last kiss to Tine’s lips before he trailed them down, Tine feeling ever kiss Sarawat put on his body, even over his clothes. Reaching the waistband of Tine’s joggers, Sarawat glanced up at his boyfriend and waited to make sure that Tine was really okay with him doing this. Feeling his heart swell as he noticed Sarawat waiting for his consent, Tine took in a shaky breath and smiled shyly, nodding and reaching out, pushing his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. “After I’m done, we can finish the cleaning, okay?”

Nodding softly, Tine shivered as his pants were tugged down slightly and the slightly cool air met his nether regions. Not having to wait long for Sarawat’s touch on him, Tine let out a barely muffled gasp and reached out, taking Sarawat’s hand in his as he squeezed his eyes shut, the only thing he could truly feel was Sarawat all around him. And if he was truly being honest, the rest of the cleaning of their condo was the last thing on his mind as Sarawat pressed a kiss to the spot under his navel and he was suddenly in his boyfriend’s mouth, the heat making Tine let out another gasp as the remainder of their supposingly spring cleaning day left his mind and was replaced with every thought of his boyfriend.

[techni-kolor]

"Anyway, I suppose that's enough complaining. I apologize for taking up your time, Martin. I'll allow you to get back to work now."

Martin felt his jaw drop open in complete disbelief, staring at the awkward expression on Jon's face, and attempting to process everything that he had just said.

Everything, being the very concerning information that Jon was running an extraordinary high fever, and had been getting progressively more ill with what sounded like a horrible list of symptoms for well over a week now, all said in exactly the same way as if they were out of office ink and not that he was near burning up from an untreated case of the flu.

"Jon, that doesn't. That isn't– That doesn't sound good. Maybe you should go see a doctor?" He finally managed to say, having to force the words out from behind the absolute wall of disbelief that Jon, his intelligent, sharp boss, could be so dense as to not realize when he was actually, seriously ill.

Jon frowned in response, his watery eyes narrowing even further than where they were already squinted against the lights, and his flushed cheeks creasing.

"It's just a cold, Martin. I really don't think there's a need for that. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression with the complaining, but it really is inconsequential."

Martin's brain stuttered out a few incomprehensible syllables about obliviousness, and research, and about an Archivist with a lack of basic observational skills, before managing to form actual words.

"Jon, that's not a cold." He finally said, the sudden realization that Jon's survival instincts were slim to none near hitting him in the face. "You'd be lucky if it isn't the flu."

"I appreciate the concern, however–"

"It's not just concern." Martin said, not even letting him finish the sentence. "Well, I mean, I am concerned. But for a reason, Jon. That's bad. All of that is really, really bad."

Jon stared blankly back, not even protesting the interruption for once, and simply staring unguardedly.

And the expression on his face could have broken anyone's heart.

With the red, swollen rims around his eyes, and deep flush across his cheeks he looked so much younger than his actual age, and the feverish, watery tears clinging to his lashes only added to the effect, making it look almost as if he had been crying.

And if that didn't yank on Martin's heartstrings enough, the sight of his curls flattened down with damp sweat made it look as if he were a wet cat, caught in the rain begging for scraps, without shelter, or warmth, or even just a kind hand to stroke it.

And the look on his face. The unmasked look of utter exhaustion, and actual emotion instead of his typical front of irritation, could have melted a heart far harder than Martin's.

All combined with the, honestly hellish, symptoms he had described suffering from, Martin was halfway tempted just to bundle him up and take him straight to the A&E himself.

"Jon," Martin started, not quite sure where to go. "You need– you need to see someone about all that, especially before it gets any worse."

Jon's expression deepened into bleary confusion. "But you all had this cold. And I don't believe anyone else visited a clinic for it."

Martin felt the tide of sympathy wash back into the harbors of disbelief.

"Jon, none of us had a near 40 degree fever."

"I was wearing a cardigan the last time I checked my temperature. It probably threw off the reading a bit."

"That isn't– that doesn't."

Martin paused, and inhaled a slow, deliberate breath. Not for the sake of irritation, but for the sake of still not finding the depths of Jon's total obliviousness surrounding basic self care yet.

"Please– please, promise me that you'll go see a doctor soon. Even if it's just at the walk-in clinic, or just a quick check with your GP, okay?"

Jon looked, if possible, more perplexed under the fever flush. "You really think I should see someone?"

"Yes, Jon." Martin burst out.

Taking another, deliberate, breath, he said slower. "I know you have trouble with–" He paused for a word that wasn't 'basic life tasks outside of work', "Self care. But this isn't just a cold anymore, and truthfully it would make me feel better if you were going to see a doctor."

"I might need a stronger fever reducer." Jon mumbled, almost to himself.

Martin nodded, as if that wasn't just the absolute bare minimum at this point.

"Please promise you will see someone, alright? The clinic, your doctor, honestly the A&E at this point, just someone."

Jon frowned deeper, and under the angry red flush which seemed to be getting worse by the minute, Martin could see the utter lack of comprehension in his glassy, feverish eyes.

"Or I could just take you tonight?"

Martin said it so suddenly, that the offer took even himself by surprise. But as the idea solidified even a bit, it made more and more sense.

"It's far past actual work hours at this point, and everyone else has already gone home. It's time that you'd be going home anyway too, so there isn't any time you'd be missing, and in all honesty, I'm not sure if you should be going home alone right now."

Jon just stared at him again with that rapidly hazing over gaze. "Now?"

Martin nodded, cementing the snap decision more and more as he thought about it.

"Yes, now. There's a clinic just a few blocks down. They take walk-ins all 24 hours, and it's still a weekday. And truthfully I'm not really sure I could sleep tonight knowing that you're going home for the weekend while you're this ill without at least some medicine, if not someone to take care of you."

A faint bit of his customary irritation and stubbornness finally rose up behind Jon's eyes at the idea of being unable to care for himself, but it only lasted a few seconds before was crushed almost instantly by what looked to be complete and utter exhaustion.

And by the massive fever, he clearly had.

"Alright."

"Alright?" Martin repeated, not fully processing the answer.

"Alright, I'll go to the clinic." Jon mumbled.

"Right, yes. Of course." Martin said, parsing through all of the sudden logistic changes of him actually agreeing, and canceling his nightly plan of a microwave dinner and old reruns by himself.

As if it actually was important to spend another night alone at his flat, while Jon stood, burning up and stifling what sounded like a horribly painful coughing jag, right in front of him.

"We can walk there, if you're able to?" He asked, mentally planning the route. "It's only a few blocks, and then they can look you over, and I promise you'll feel so much better once you've seen a doctor and you're not so feverish."

Jon nodded, beginning to look almost painfully miserable as the conversation went on, his professional persona finally fully crumbling at the idea of not trudging through any more days of what Martin would consider to be an absolutely horrible case of the flu. Or maybe bronchitis, Martin winced, as he let out another crackling, half choked back cough.

"It'll help?" He asked. "I won't feel– feel as ill?"

Martin felt a flicker of not just concern, but genuine empathy rise up in his chest at the raspy, stuffed up tone to his voice and the exhausted circles under his eyes that were so, so deep.

"Yes, of course, Jon. You're going to feel much better."

Jon nodded again, and allowed Martin to steer him towards the door, even allowing him to carefully hold under one of his tiny shoulders as they made their way out of the archives. And, not that Martin would ever tell a soul, but he leaned just the tiniest bit into the touch, with his fever hot skin pressed against Martin's hand.

"You're going to feel so much better, Jon. Just let me help you, and I promise you'll feel much less ill really soon." He said softly as he carefully led Jon up the stairs and towards the flashing sign for the clinic.

"You're going to feel much better soon."

[efrmellifer]

Advenientia

“You seem distracted, Lord Commander,” Lucia commented.

He blinked once, then again. Drawing his mind back inside, reminding himself he was supposed to be working, not letting his mind wander, wondering and fretting.

“There would be no use in lying to you. I am,” he sighed, eyes drifting to the bit of sunlight on his desk. “I’m worried, more than anything.”

Lucia slouched her way out of her proper posture, no longer at attention, but not exactly at ease, either. She stood on a cocked hip, one eyebrow rising even as she took on a concerned tone. “And what about this time?”

Again, Aymeric sighed. “About Etien, though I doubt that comes as a surprise. The last few months, she’s been like a furnace needing fuel. From what I understand, it takes a lot of energy to be carrying multiples, especially when the odds were against her conceiving anyway.”

Lucia just nodded.

“But now, the poor thing is hardly eating, and this morning when I kissed her goodbye, she was so much colder than she had been.”

There was a heavy silence, Aymeric returning to worrying and Lucia processing what he had told her.

Finally, she spoke. “In that case, I think the thing to do is call the midwife. Better to be proactive over nothing than ignore something serious.”

Another few grounding blinks from Aymeric. When he opened his mouth to reply, his linkpearl went off.

Even through the grainy audio, a mix of pain and panic were evident in Etien’s voice.

“Aymeric? I really don’t feel well at all. Can you… can you make yourself available?”

He looked at the papers strewn over his desk, then up at Lucia.

She just nodded to him in response.

“Of course I can. I will be at your side in but a few moments’ time.”

The line closed.

“Thank you,” he said on the tail of another sigh, handing the metaphorical reins over to Lucia. “It would appear I will be calling the midwife. If anything significant occurs… if, Fury forbid, something happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

As Aymeric walked, he muttered to himself, little half-prayers and flustered cursing as he waited for the midwife to answer. All told, he wanted to run through Saint Valeroyant’s Forum, or even better would be to use the aether system, but he needed to have time to call I’rixa.

After what felt like an eternity—he was halfway up the stairs to the Pillars—he heard her answer.

“Good day, what can I—”

“Etien is sick,” he said, the words coming out in a rush. “She has eaten little for the last three days, and her temperature is low. Now she has asked me to attend her. How quickly can you get here?”

“Within the next bell,” I’rixa replied, sounded a little ruffled herself. “Keep her warm and as comfortable as you can until I get there. Please. And take a deep breath, m’lord. By the end of the day, you may be a father.”

He swallowed. “Right.”

He kept walking, picking up the pace just a little bit,. He was passing the Athenaeum Astrologicum now. Not long to go.

Aymeric practically tripped up the stairs into the house, throwing off his coat as he made his way to the bedroom.

Etien was stood at the window, dressed in her nightgown.

It was, as they had joked what felt like so long ago, left completely open to give her room. Well, not quite completely. She had one button done, the very top, just under her collarbone.

This was, as well as Aymeric could remember, the first time that that button had been fastened. He laughed softly, and she turned from the window, making her way over to him.

She looked pained already, and hindered by her own body, but she wrapped her arms around him, purring and nuzzling him.

“Thank the Twelve you’re here,” she murmured.

She was still a little cooler than he had gotten used to, but she seemed less pale and peaked.

“Or, really, thank you for being here,” she continued. “For coming so quickly.”

“Of course, dearest,” he responded, his knuckle drifting down her jaw. “Is there anything I can do? I already called I’rixa.”

“Oh, she’s coming?”

“This sounded serious. I thought it best she come and make sure you were well. You, and them.” He laid a hand on Etien’s stomach, pulling it back like he’d been burnt when the texture of her skin shifted below his hand.

“What in the seven hells was that?”

Her teeth were grit, her ears flat, and her forehead pressed to his side. “I think they’re coming, too.”

Aymeric rubbed Etien’s back. “All right. I have every faith you will handle this with your usual aplomb. And I’ll be right here with you, as long as it takes.”

_

By the time I’rixa arrived and had been ushered to the bedroom, Etien was reclining in bed, all the nice linens stripped from the bed and sitting folded on her vanity’s chair. Her hair was braided, and she was completing the final stitches of the second blanket.

Finished just in time.

The midwife bustled in, hand immediately coming to Etien’s forehead, then her cheeks.

“Stick out your tongue.”

Etien’s lips parted,  her tongue lolling out.

“Wider, please.”

Her mouth stretched wider, followed by a melodious ‘aaaaaaa’ that turned to a high-pitched whine.  Etien’s eyes screwed shut, tears slipping from the corners as her hands settled on her belly.

I’rixa’s hand slipped under Etien’s, feeling the contraction of the muscles below the skin.

“This is probably for the best,” she noted, half-turning toward Aymeric. “Any longer, and they might have been too big for her to deliver the usual way. And then we would be hauling her to the infirmary. And we don’t want that, do we?” she asked, returning her gaze to Etien. “Deep breath, and out like you’re trying to make a candle flicker, but not go out.”

Etien breathed in, and let her cheeks puff out before she began to properly control the exhale, a steady stream of air making I’rixa’s shirt flutter.

“Excellent job. Oi, papa, come encourage your girl. She’s got a long night ahead of her, and I think she’ll be wanting you close by sooner rather than later.”

Aymeric started from where he was leaning against the wall, trying to stay out of the way, and came to the side of the bed.

He took Etien’s hand from where it lay on her stomach still, winding his arm around hers.

“Aymeric,” she whispered on the tail end of her breath.

“Yes?”

She squeezed his hand. “Are you excited?”

“I am. But for now, I want to focus on you, and making sure you come through this as easily as possible.” He looked up at I’rixa.

“Do you want me to call Whitecape?” she asked.

Aymeric was silent, his lip bitten as he considered.

She had to stop herself before she accidentally let slip the almost-rude ‘are you scared?’ Of course he was scared. His wife was in pain, and they had both been taking extra precautions to make sure she stayed safe. They were so close to the finish (of this stage of it all, anyroad), but this was the point where it could all go wrong very quickly. His love for Etien was written plainly on his face as he debated the question, looking down at her. This fear was born of love. And as the midwife, I’rixa was the one in charge, the one with all the knowledge. So she changed the wording of the question, and therefore its spirit, but not its message.  Whatever would make them all feel secure.

“Would it make you more comfortable if we had him here?”

He looked up at her again, jaw slightly slackened before he closed his mouth and swallowed. “Are you confident you can do this without his help?”

“I am secure enough in my training and capabilities that I can at the very least decide when we’ll need to call for intervention, if we must. All right?”

Aymeric started to nod, but then he turned to Etien. “Etien? What do you think?”

“I think… we can at least start.” She took a sharp inhale, followed by a shaking huff. “Last thing we need is everyone finding out what’s begun here.” She laughed, fixing her slightly-sweaty grip on Aymeric’s hand. “I’m in no state to entertain.”

I’rixa patted her side, then let her hand rest on Etien, waiting for the next contraction. “Thattagirl. Then we should be about it.”

_

When the controlled puffs of Etien’s breath gave way to a drawn-out sigh, overshadowed by a high, mewling cry, the atmosphere in the room brightened significantly, even though the sun was closer to when it had set than when it was going to rise.

I’rixa was quiet for a moment, giving Aymeric a moment to sweep back the fraying strands of Etien’s braid and kiss her forehead while she settled.

Then, I’rixa delivered the news. “You have a daughter. A miqo’te. Got some strong lungs on her, listen to that.”

“Can I hold her?” Aymeric asked.

“Ordinarily I would tell you yes,” I’rixa replied, “but your lady love here has a ways to go, I think, so we require a third, and maybe a fourth, pair of hands before we can hand Baby over.” She wrapped the newborn up in one of the receiving blankets, and held her there. “So, maybe it’s time we called in Whitecape? And perhaps someone who can keep Etien calm while you’re busy with the baby. I’ll stay here, and she’ll be safe. Both of them will.”

Nodding, Aymeric started getting ready to head out. But first, he gave Etien another kiss. “I will return shortly. I hate to ask this of you again, but you must be strong while I am not with you.”

She blinked slowly, a small smile arcing her lips. “I think I can manage it. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.”

He ducked out the door, his footsteps echoing down the hall until the door opened and shut.

_

When Aymeric came back, Whitecape trailing after him and his relief at Etien’s side on the way, Etien was hazily half-asleep in bed.

“Has anything changed?” Aymeric asked.

“Nothing yet. I’ve untethered Baby, and she’s doing well.” She nodded to Etien. “She’s still laboring, but also obviously tired.”

“And I was called because…?” Whitecape asked from where he still stood in the doorway. “I have no training in obstetrics.”

“True, but we expect twins. I wanted someone like you on-hand in case there might be excess bleeding. That, and you are familiar with her usual health, I figured?”

“Well,” he said mildly. “My experience with her is usually when she is in a much worse state. The last time I had to treat her—other than prior to consulting with you, that is—she was carried to me still-unconscious from Ghimlyt Dark.”

“I see.”

“But I suppose I understand your rationale. So here I am, at your disposal.”

“If you wanted someone who’s familiar with my health, you could have called Y’shtola,” Etien mumbled. “She knows my aether signature, too. And she’s a miqo’te.” She turned slightly, onto her hip, to better face Aymeric. “Aren’t you supposed to be holding our daughter?”

“I’m waiting until Estinien gets here.”

Now she smiled. “Oh.”

“Well, you won’t be waiting very long,” he said, stepping past Whitecape.

“Hello, Estinien,” Etien cooed.

He stood next to Aymeric, taking her hand from him. “How nice we get to recreate this scene in your home, instead of the infirmary this time.”

Etien giggled, exhaustion clear in her voice.

“And with an addition to the menagerie,” Estinien noted. “I take it you’re the midwife?”

Introductions were made, and then it was just Etien and Estinien, since I’rixa had led Aymeric off to the side to lay his newborn daughter into his arms, and teach him how to properly hold a baby.

“He looks like he was made for this,” Estinien said, almost sighing. He rested one leg on the bed, half-sitting. “And you… how does it go? Chocobos sweat, men perspire, new mothers glow?”

“Estinien,” she scoffed.

“Did slaying primals prepare you for this?”

“I doubt anything could have. It’s hard.”

“Well, you look to be in capable hands, and I know you have loving support through it.”

She nodded slowly, lightly squeezing his hand. “I am and I do.”

“So all that leaves is the work that, like usual, only you can do.”

“I suppose so.”

Her grip on his hand tightened, followed by a hiss.

Estinien was off the bed, out of his relaxed position, in a flash. “Are you all right?”

“I think it’s time for the next one.”

“That would make sense,” I’rixa commented, returning to Etien’s side. “You got a little of your strength back, and now we’re ready. You did it once, let’s see you do it again, hmm?”

_

Another heavy sigh signaled the grand finale, followed by the fanfare of another cry.

“Incredible,” I’rixa breathed. “A son, Lady Borel. An elezen. They must have been from two eggs. That’s remarkable. And he’s a good size, too. Came just in time.”

While Whitecape did the cutting of the baby’s cord, I’rixa tilted her ear to Etien’s stomach. “Just the afterbirth now. We counted aright, and the twins are beautiful and healthy.”

Etien sighed heavily again. “Thank the Fury.”

“All She did was give you strength,” Aymeric enthused. “The rest you did almost completely on your own. I’rixa has been invaluable in her assistance, however.”

Etien nodded. “Thank you. But I couldn’t have done it without you, either,” she said softly, bringing his hand to her lips to kiss, then laying his palm against her cheek to nuzzle.

As it all came to a conclusion, final examinations being made of Etien and the twins, Estinien took his leave.

“I can come back tomorrow, or sometime soon, to receive the proper introductions. For now, I think I had best let everyone rest.” Aware he was being watched, he gave the happy couple a close friend’s goodbye rather than a lover’s.

He kissed Etien’s cheek chastely, a continental sort of gesture, and clasped Aymeric’s hand before wishing everyone a good night and trudging down the hall, clearly exhausted.

Aymeric helped bathe the newest infant, making him ready to be swaddled in the blanket his mother had so lovingly knit just for him, while Etien finished putting her nightgown on again and I’rixa explained another few things, like feeding.

“I’ll be at the inn for a few days now,” I’rixa explained to the two of them when she was done imparting knowledge, and making ready to hand Etien one of her children. “If anything should go amiss, call for me.”

Etien nodded, then reached out for the baby.

“Oh… she fits here so perfectly,” she cooed. “Her hair is so dark. It’s like yours,” she said to Aymeric, giving him a sunny smile.

He sat on the edge of the bed, holding the bundle of their son. “Indeed? Do you think so?”

“Well, we haven’t seen what it looks like grown out yet.”

I’rixa took her leave with a final wave goodbye.

“Someone down the hall should be able to help you out,” Aymeric noted as she left the room. He was aware his manners were lapsing, but at a moment like this? He had other priorities.

He looked at Etien, looking about the same as she had after fighting primals. Tired, yes, bone tired. But beautiful in her victory. Maybe this wasn’t the same as saving the realm from the Empire or gods, but still he was proud of her.

How glorious her triumph. How perfect their reward.

“Do you want to switch?” he asked her, slightly moving his arms to gesture that she could take their son and he would take their daughter.

“Do you think we can?”

“We shall have to get good at it eventually, no reason not to start learning now.”

It was awkward, but they managed, getting the babies settled in the arms of the other parent with minimal upset.

“Already, she’s your little girl, hmm?” Etien asked, running her finger down the soft angle of her son’s nose.

“Our dear little Betula,” he sighed. “She’s so precious, how could she not be?”

“I completely understand,” Etien murmured, beaming down at the boy. “Did you happen to find a name for him yet? I would be loath to fill out his birth certificate with ‘Baby Boy de Borel’.”

“I think I like Landric.”

“Landric, hmm?”

Aymeric nodded. “A name for nobles. It means ‘strength of the earth.’ A little unconventional for an Ishgardian, but he was born of the Black Shroud’s brightest.” He looked up at Etien again, checking to see if she had understood him, and smiling when it was clear she had. “He comes from good soil.”

“I like it, too.”

“You know, earlier you asked me if I was excited, and now I’d like to ask you the same.”

Etien looked up, brows dipping as she thought. “I am. It isn’t that it’s a hard question. I asked you that?”

He laughed lightly. “It has been a long night for you. For both of us. Aye, you did. I told you I was, but I wanted to make sure you got through the ordeal before I started worrying about my own excitement. So now, I most certainly am.” He paused, watching Landric begin to suckle. “And are you happy, my dearest?”

Now Etien’s eyes misted. She had done so little crying during, only a few tears slipping out in the throes of the worst pain, but now they flowed freely down her cheeks.

“Yes.” She sniffled. “I’ve thought about this for years, and now it’s real.”

“It’s going to be work. Another job for the both of us.”

“I helped you save Ishgard and build up the Firmament. It’s another thing we’ll work at together. And what could I want more than that?” She laughed lightly. “Everyone has been asking if I was ready for this new adventure. Didn’t you want to go on an adventure with me?”

Aymeric chuckled, too. “I did say that.” He laid Betula in her cradle, and took Landric from Etien’s arms, to do the same with him. “Now, we need to rest, so we can begin the next day of this adventure as fresh and ready as possible.”

Etien blinked slowly. “Of course.”

A few days later, the announcement appeared.

Please join Ser Aymeric de Borel and Etien Mellifer de Borel in welcoming their twin children, Betula Adrielle Mignonne de Borel and Landric Aurchefan de Borel.

[scullysexual]

Mommy Make It Better.

Told you I wasn’t ready to part from abif. It’s not necessary for you to have read the main fic. It’s a sick fic :)

 -/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

It’s still dark out when she wakes up. A nudge against her bare arm, a chorus of Mommy, Mommy, Mommy exiting the mouth of a four year old.

Groggy eyed and weary, Scully is greeted by the worrisome look across her daughter’s face.

“Mommy, I pooped myself.”

Scully groans, her head falling back onto the pillow in exasperation.

“Emily, we taught you how to go to the toilet—”

But Emily is furiously shaking her head, tears threatening to fall from her eyes.

“I didn’t mean to,” Emily’s almost crying. “My tummy hurts.”

It dawns on Scully what’s woken Emily up and she instantly regrets being mad. She sighs, knowing this can’t be ignored.

“I didn’t know what to do so I came here,” Emily explains. She chews her lip. “Are you mad?”

Scully sits up, wondering where she even begins.

“No, I’m not mad, baby.”

She turns to Mulder who continues pleasantly sleeping beside. A tap and he’s waking up.

“Mulder, I need you to run Emily a bath. She’s not well.”

Mulder mutters something in response.

“I think I got some on my bed, too,” Emily tells her as Scully grabs Mulder’s discarded t-shirt and puts it on.

“Okay,” she says, half expecting that to be the case. “You stay with Daddy Em, I’ll be back in a moment.”

She turns on the main light when she reaches Emily’s room, clocking the mess in the middle of the bed, and goes to the windows first to open them.

It was the first time everyone was dealing with this type of illness from Emily. The most they had the deal with was a cold.

She’s halfway through stripping the bed when Mulder calls from the bathroom.

“Scully, what do I do with Emi’s pyjamas?”

“Don’t put them in the hamper!” she calls back.

Carefully grabbing the bedclothes, Scully makes her way back into the hallway, pulling out a spare basket and throwing the bedding into that.

“Put them in there,” she says, holding the basket out to Mulder.

Her next objective is the medicine cabinet.

“Do you feel like you want to throw up, Emily?” she asks.

Emily nods and for good measure, Mulder pulls the jug towards her, telling her Just in case.

Scully searches the cabinet, not finding what she’s looking for.

“What are you looking for?” Mulder asks.

“Thermometer.”

Coming up with nothing, Scully abandons the cabinet and moves back towards Emily instead. She places her palm against the child’s forehead, feeling the heat and sweat seeping through.

“What’s wrong with her?” Mulder asks.

“She’s probably got a stomach bug.”

Emily’s eyes widen in fear. “Is that bad?”

Scully shakes her head, “No, it just means you’re not gonna feel good for a few days.”

Emily nods, yawning.

“Are you going to wash my hair?” Emi asks.

“No, this is just to clean you up.”

Scully heads back to Emily’s bedroom to remake the bed again. She’s tucking the corners in when Mulder enters holding Emily now dressed in clean pyjamas clutching her jug.

She takes the toddler from him, asking.

“Did you put the diaper on her?”

“I don’t need diapers anymore,” Emily protests as Mulder nods.

“I know baby, but it’s just in case.” Potty trained or not, Scully doesn’t want to give Emily another bath or change her bedding again tonight.

The window is closed, the fan and night light turned on. Scully places Emily down onto the bed, tucking her in. Mulder offers to the find the thermometer she was looking for and Scully asks him to bring some water up as well.

“I want Quacky,” Emily says.

Scully produces Quacky, tucking the duck in next to her.

Once everyone is settled, Scully sits down on the rug, running her hands through Emily’s hair.

“How’s your tummy, baby?”

“It still hurts,” Emily tells her.

“You want medicine or do you think you’ll be okay?”

Emily thinks for a second then shrugs. Scully shouts down for Mulder to bring some up anyway.

Mulder returns with the items and hands them to Scully.

“I’m gonna stay with her,” Scully tells him. “I’ll need to wake her up to take her temperature and that’s gonna be easier if I’m in the same room.”

Mulder nods. “Well, wake me up if you get tired.”

“I’m not gonna get tired,” she’s quick to respond.

He gives her a look.

“Scully, we’re in this together, you don’t have to do this all by yourself.”

It’s not about that.

Scully sighs. “Look, she’s gonna sleep all day tomorrow and I can sleep with her.” She smiles a little. “One of us needs to be able to function tomorrow.”

He looks down to Emily who’s eyes have shut though her breathing has yet to even out.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“Yes, I’ll be fine.”

He seems to give in, saying goodnight to Emily and telling her to feel better soon. “Wake me up if you need me,” he says, walking out the door.

“I won’t,” Scully says, kicking him out and closing the door.

She’s turning off the light when Emily speaks.

“Do I have to go to pre-school tomorrow?”

Scully grabs the thermometer and sits down on the rug again.

“No, we’re both having a day off tomorrow. Open up.”

Emily does just that and Scully places the thermometer in her mouth.

When it beeps, she takes it out. The number is what is expected: 101F. The puts the thermometer on the side and grabs the bottle of water.

“I had a dream about Elmo and Cookie Monster. It was scary.”

Scully hands the bottle to Emily.

“Is that what woke you up?”

She nods.

When she’s drank enough water Scully takes it off her.

“Are you gonna sleep here, Mommy?”

Scully smiles, nodding, taking Emily’s hand in her own.

“Yeah, I’m gonna be here,” she says, playing with Emily’s fingers. “You should sleep baby, I need to wake you up soon.”

With the jug not too far out of reach, Quacky next to her, and Scully still holding onto her hand, Emily’s eyes shut and soon her breathing evens out.

Scully stays with her through the night, the onset of tiredness creeping in when the sun rises behind the blinds. Every forty minutes is spent waking Emily up and checking her temperature, another five is spent Emily throwing up.

She falls asleep sometime after the second check, her legs curled up beneath her on the rug, the rest of her body slouched against Emily’s bed, Emily’s fingers tangled in her hair and holding onto one of the strands.

Mulder pries Emi’s hand away, the action waking Scully up.

She’s sore. Her body screaming at the unnatural position she fell asleep in.

“Hi,” she says when she sees Mulder.

He’s placing the jug back down, clean.

“Hi, you should’ve woke me up.”

She stretches and stands, every muscle crying out.

“I’m fine.”

They leave a sleeping Emily where she is head downstairs.

The coffee has brewed when they get down there and Mulder passes a cup to her.

“Thank you,” she says taking a sip and letting the caffein do its work.

“How is she?”

“Um…she threw up twice, went to the bathroom once.” She takes another sip of her drink. “Hoping it only lasts two days at the most.”

Mulder finishes putting his bagels in the toaster and leans against the counter.

“I can stay off if you need me, too,” he begins but Scully’s immediately shaking her head.

“We’ll be fine. She can sleep in our bed today.”

The bagels pop up, Mulder smiles. “Okay.”

Scully takes another sip, she’s sleeping in their bed today, too.

They fall silent, only the sound of a butter-knife scraping across bagels in the room. Until-

“Mommy, where have you gone?” Emily shouts from what sounds like the top of the stairs.

Scully places her coffee down and moves towards the kitchen doorway.

“I’m just downstairs, Emi. I’ll be back up in a minute!”

Mulder chuckles. “Sounds like you’re wanted.”

Scully hums in agreement, preparing herself for more sick and shit and that greets her today.

She takes one final sip of her coffee before Emily’s asking her where she is again.

“I’ll call you later,” Mulder says as Scully makes her way back upstairs. “Tell Emily I love her.”

When she enters the room, Emily is sat up and pouting.

“You left me,” she says, sounding unhappy.

“I know,” Scully responds, bending down to pick Emily up. The child grabs hold of Quacky and her jug. “I was just downstairs but I’m back now.” Scully takes the thermometer off the shelf.

“Where are we going?” Emily asks, her nose snuggles against Scully’s shoulder.

“My room.” She puts Emily down on Mulder’s side of the bed and climbs into her own side. “Mommy needs sleep, too.”

Mulder calls twice that day but Scully misses the first call, having spent the morning sleeping. She catches the second call, the one where Mulder tells her he’s picking up takeout and if he should get Emily something. Scully says against it and tries Emily with a bit toast later in the day, managing to eat half before she says no more.

The third day Emily is as right as rain. She’s stopped throwing up, her energy has returned, and only has to make a visit to the toilet every so often.

Yet it turns out to be Scully’s turn to be ill.

[theoriginalladya]

Snowball fight for Team Lachlan.

from this list

On AO3 here

Thank you so much for asking about Lachlan!!!!  It’s time to actually get writing and posting for him, I think!  :D

Under cut for length.  Enjoy!

~~~

 The moment they set foot on the island, Lachlan senses the difference.  Like the quick drop in temperature when a cold front passes through, it’s instantaneous and noticeable.  Eyes closing, he inhales slowly, deeply, leaning heavily against his cane and for just a moment. A gentle breeze toys with the ginger locks, teasing them into a swooshing cascade that cover his right eye. And in the distance, echoing throughout the valley, he swears he can hear ‘Hielan’ Laddie’ playing on the pipes as the troops march off into battle …

A strong yet gentle hand at his shoulder pulls Shepard back to the present with a start.  Breath hitching in the cold winter air, he blinks over at his companion as the connection breaks.  “What?”

He’s met by a warm smile and an easy shake of the head as Kaidan replies, “Just … checking.  You seemed like you were a million miles away.”

Lachlan relaxes and takes comfort from the concern in those whiskey-colored eyes.  How long has it been?  The mental math brings a smile to his whiskered jaw.  Almost eleven years?  Aye, that’s a time, but we’ve known one another far longer than that.  With a smile, he slides his hand behind Kaidan’s head and pull him in for a quick but thorough kiss.  When he releases him, the smile is still present.  “Aye, I was,” he replies honestly, “but not where you think.” Using his free hand, he gestures to the scenic view around them.  “Have you ever seen a place so beautiful?  One that bleeds history like this?”  

The castle of Eilean Donan stands open before them, awaiting their arrival.  Tucked away in the highlands of Scotland, it is the ancestral home to Shepard’s mother’s family, a place he’s wanted to visit since his youth, having grown up on stories and traditions that the MacRaes passed down through generations. The reapers never made it this far north; there was no need, and so it survives unblemished for the most part.

Another cold gust of wind blows across the loch, and Lachlan snuggles deeper into his heavy jacket.  With the war over now and his wounds mostly healed, he and Kaidan have come to visit Fiona MacRae Shepard’s homeland.  A journey years in the making, it has more impact now, after all they endured to get here.   

“Can’t say that I have,” Kaidan says as he looks around the grounds.  

They have directions on where to go; their visit is a private one, specific to the Savior of the Galaxy himself and his companion. The reapers may not have reached here, but there is no less pride for the man who saved them all from extinction because of it.  

Carefully, Lachlan and Kaidan head toward the main gate. The grounds are covered in snow – a storm blew through the night before, blanketing the castle and surrounding area beneath a layer of frosty fluff that brings the place alive – but the groundskeeping staff have cleared a safe path for them.  Still, they take it slow and easy; not their usual SOP, but a new ‘normal’ since the end of the war.

Once inside the keep, they are met by a guide who gives them a tour of the interior and explains the history of the family and the place as well as answers whatever questions they have.  Lachlan is amazed to discover that many of the tales his mother used to tell came directly from MacRae area.  For the first time since he was sixteen, he finds strength in his connection to her.  

The tour lasts for a couple of hours, at which point Lachlan and Kaidan are released to roam the grounds as they please.  Somehow, and despite Lachlan’s lingering injuries, they find their way up to the castle battlements and spend some time walking. They exist together in silence, taking in the scenery, listening to the world as it lives around them.  About halfway through, they come to a stop for Lachlan to rest. Leaning heavily against the wall, he stares out over the lochs at the highlands surrounding them.  What was it Anderson said up on the Citadel at the end? Seems like years since I just sat down…  Lachlan breathes in fully, deeply.  I understand, my friend.  I understand.  

When he opens his eyes again, he asks in a voice filled with wonder and awe, “Can you imagine?”

Kaidan stands beside him, similar stance with his arms braced against the brick.  “Imagine what?”

Turning, a hint of mischievousness in his blue eyes, Lachlan grins over at him.  “Imagine playing here?  Outdoors? Listening to the notes echo up and down the valley?”  He lifts an arm and circles it around them to indicate the general geographic area.

Kaidan chuckles softly.  “I know you and your imagination, so I should probably say, ‘yes,’ to that.”  Facing Lachlan, he eyes him cautiously.  “Do you want to start playing again?  Your cello, I mean.”

Lachlan sighs as he straightens, balancing himself with one hand on the wall and the other on his cane.  His gaze drops to his left hip and leg, the source of most of his troubles these days.  “I would like to, yes,” he replies.  “Am I capable of it?”  He shrugs. “That’s another story just now.”  

“Give it time; it’ll heal.”  

The words are soft, gentle, reassuring, but Lachlan suspects Kaidan knows more about the severity of the injuries than he lets on.  “Haven’t I given it enough time?”  His fist closes around the top of the cane, frustration eating away at him.  “Between surgery and physical therapy, haven’t I covered all there is to do?”  Kaidan has the patience of a saint; practically a requirement to be married to Lachlan, but after months cooped up in hospital, that is put to the test more frequently.    

“Everyone heals differently, and you know that.”

Another point that leaves Lachlan bent out of shape. Huffing softly, he counters, “What about the synthetics?  Why don’t they speed things up like they used to?”

“They are.”  Kaidan sighs and runs a hand though his hair before facing Lachlan again. “You have no idea just how close you came to losing your life, do you?”

Lachlan opens his mouth to respond, but it’s the slight warble in Kaidan’s voice, that hint of a crack, that keeps him silent and has him turning back to the wall to stare out over the lochs once more.  “In all honesty,” he says after a minute or two, “I didn’t expect to live.”  A shudder shakes his too-thin frame.  

Kaidan moves beside him in an instant, arm sliding around him, hugging his waist and pulling him close.  They’ve had this conversation only once, back in the early days of his recovery when it was still an open, raw wound like so many others. These days, it still lingers where the rest have mostly healed.  “Have I mentioned today just how thankful I am you did?”

Their eyes meet and Lachlan stares at him before leaning into the embrace and huffing softly.  “Didn’t say I didn’t want to.”

Kaidan lifts a hand to Lachlan’s cheek.  “No, listen.  You could have died at any time along the way.”

“I seem to recall I did.”

The biotic’s lips press into a momentary tight line before he continues, ignoring the comment and pushing forward.  “But you didn’t,” he stresses.  “You kept fighting, you kept going, and we defeated the reapers.”

Lachlan’s hand rises to cover Kaidan’s, squeezing gently. “You don’t approve of my dark humor, do you?”

“It isn’t a matter of approval,” Kaidan argues. “It’s a matter of truth.  You’re the one who got us here, and you managed to survive that.  Way I see it, that’s a good thing.”

Kaidan’s left eye twitches, a small, subtle movement that settles into a tightness all too familiar, and one Lachlan knows well. “Migraine?” he asks quietly, changing the topic without warning.  When Kaidan looks confused, Lachlan runs his thumb gently over the tightness.  

“I’m fine.”  

Lachlan doesn’t argue; it never gets him anywhere if he pushes it anyway.  Instead, and typical of him, his mood jumps from one extreme to the next to the next, seemingly of its own free will.  “Yeah?” He waggles an eyebrow at his husband as his own lips curl into a smirk.  “How fine is that?”  He leans on his cane and takes a step backwards, continuing, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, you are quite fine in my book.  Number one, as a matter of fact.  But …?”

Rolling his eyes Kaidan turns away, but not before Lachlan notices the twitch at the corner of his lips.  Good.  Okay, I can work with this.  Let’s get things back on track …  “Hey,” he calls out in mock indignation, hobbling after him carefully, “where do you think you’re going?”

Kaidan doesn’t turn around and instead uses one hand to point East.  “Sun’s setting.  Dinner will be soon.  Can’t miss that.”

“Pfft.  There you go, thinking with your stomach again!”  

Kaidan snorts.  “Occupational hazard.”

The stairs down are a bit of a trick, but Lachlan navigates them fairly well, all things considered.  As they exit out onto the grounds, he hears the tell-tale sounds of a bagpipe starting up – not nearby, but close enough the notes travel across the water to fill the area.  A grin forms as the notes find a familiar pattern.  Scotland the Brave.  “You going to slow down and wait for me?” he calls out, humming along with the familiar tune as he keeps moving.

“You going to quit belittling dinner?”

“Hah!  That depends.”  Outside of the castle, they head onto the bridge that will take them to the carpark. Kaidan is still some distance ahead, but Lachlan knows how to get his attention again in a more creative fashion; something he’s wanted to do since their first trip to Noveria together all those years ago.  As he hobbles along, his free hand scoops some of the snow lying atop the walls of the stone bridge, shaping it carefully.  “Hey, Kaid?”

Kaidan stops, nearly on the other side, and waits. A few heartbeats pass, but there are times when Lachlan can be just as patient as the other man, and this is one of them.  Finally Kaidan turns around to face him … at which point, Lachlan launches the snowball. It lands squarely in the center of the biotic’s chest.  As Lachlan grins, Kaidan’s eyes widen … darken …

Lachlan ducks the snowy missile Kaidan launches at him in retaliation, just barely missing it.  In the same move, he makes another for himself.  Several minutes pass of back and forth, expertly aimed missiles, occasional hits and misses; of both men laughing and simply enjoying the fact they are still alive despite years filled with doubts, concerns and uncertainties. Finally, they call an end to the battle and wind up in each other’s arms – Lachlan dodging awkwardly on his bad hip before losing his balance, and Kaidan diving over to catch him – both soaked through, red-faced, but in a far improved mood than before.  

Leaning in, Lachlan trails a few kisses along Kaidan’s jaw while murmuring, “So, dinner?”

“Mmmm.”  Kaidan shivers when Lachlan reaches a sensitive spot just beneath his collar. “Dinner first, yes.”

Lachlan pulls back, flashing his trademark grin. “Can’t wait to see what you have planned for dessert…”  

[wheresmynaya]

Two Ghosts Ch.21 | Brittana

Yes, you’re seeing that correctly LOL. I’m determined to turn 2020 around, at least through writing fics! I will also (try very hard to) update weekly. 

Available on ff.net (x) ao3 (x) & below the cut!

The wheels of the plane from New Haven barely hit the tarmac before Quinn is texting Santana and Brittany to ask if they want to grab a coffee. Santana figures Quinn must be dying to know what happened with Alex because she sure didn’t call Quinn up to tell her. She also highly doubts Brittany had the time to do it either.

They’ve both been…busy.

Not like that, they’ve just had their own things to deal with. You know, private feelings.

Like knowing Britt still loves her after all these years and Santana wanting to do things right this time. Brittany had teased Santana about being courted, but Santana kind of liked the idea of taking things slow. There were still so many things about Brittany she didn’t know and the thought of learning her all over again sounded nice.

Brittany P. – You free to meet up with Q?

Santana sees the text from Brittany and it makes her smile. It’s so reminiscent of their high school days when Quinn would message the Unholy Trinity group chat but Santana and Brittany would text each other on the side to confirm what they wanted to do first before replying. They’ve grown so much over the years, but the text just shows Santana that some things never do change. Do they?

Santana L. – Yeah, hbu?

Brittany P. – Yup!

Santana swipes into the group chat and sends a text agreeing to meet up which is closely followed by Brittany saying the same. Quinn’s all too quick to provide the when and where before Santana sets off to get dressed. She’s nearly made it to her closet when her phone goes off again. It’s a private text from Brittany.

Brittany P. – I’m glad you’re free. I’ve kinda missed your face.

Santana feels a heat rise up the back of her neck and cover the apples of her cheeks upon reading the text. She quickly types out a reply, trying to keep her cool.

Santana L. – It’s only been like…2 days?

Brittany P. – 2 days too long!

And just like that, Santana feels like a silly school girl again blushing over a cute text from Brittany. She remembered at time back in high school when Brittany would make it her mission during class to break Santana’s bitch face with an onslaught of cute texts that she would totally make fun of if they had come from anyone else but Britt. Sometimes she’d send corny pick-up lines or puns are just straight compliment the crap out of her. Either way, Santana never stood a chance.

She was like putty in Brittany’s hands.

Apparently after all this time, she still is.  

She ruffles up her hair and positions the camera towards her. She gives it a cheeky grin and snap the selfie before sending it off to Brittany, followed by a text.

Santana L. – Don’t want to deprive you of this beautiful mug.

Brittany texts back almost instantly.

Brittany P. – hubba hubba!

A picture of herself sporting the cheesiest of grins accompanies the new text and Santana laughs at the combination. She makes a point to set the picture as Brittany’s new Caller Id later.

\\

When Santana steps outside, she’s surprised by how cold it is. With years of having to wear a Cheerios skirt no matter the weather and 5 years worth of living in New York, Santana was pretty immune to the cold but today seemed to be a dramatic drop in temperature.

Then again, now that it was December could she really be that surprised? She let that thought sit with her for a moment as she slid into her Honda. December already? Time was flying by, the school years was nearly halfway over!

What is she going to do after?

She hadn’t really given it too much thought. She figured she would head back to New York, but things were changing. It wasn’t just her future anymore, it was Brittany’s too. And maybe she’s jumping the gun a little, fast-forwarding that far ahead after she told Britt she wanted to take things slow, but that talk would have to come up eventually, wouldn’t it?

Santana shakes away the thoughts, they’re too heavy for the lack of caffeine in her system, and sets them on the back burner for now before she goes to start her car. She twists the key in the ignition and surprise surprise it doesn’t roar to life.

“Seriously?” Santana frowns and tries again but it’s no use. Her little Honda refuses to start up. She lets out a sigh and glances over to the empty spot in the driveway where her mom’s SUV is usually parked if Maribel didn’t happen to be at work right now. Santana rolls her eyes and tries to start the car one more time before giving up.

It feels a bit like déjà vu; Santana’s car refusing to work right before the first Unholy Trinity meeting at the beginning of the school year which ended up making her late. She had felt so bad for making her friends wait for her and here she was about to do it again. Back then she had to figure out her useless car on her own, but again, things were different.

Santana heads back inside for warmth and fishes her phone out from her purse before making the call.

“Hey Santana!” Brittany greets enthusiastically, albeit slightly out of breath. The sound makes Santana’s mouth go dry, remembering other times where Brittany sounded just as breathless.

“Hey Britt! Are you…running?”

“Kind of,” Brittany answers through a chuckle, “What’s up?”

“Do you think I could catch a ride with you to meet up with Quinn?” Santana asks a little nervously, “My car is being a piece of shit again and refusing to do the one thing it was built to freaking do.”

“It’s probably just mad at you for still not taking it in,” Brittany teases her, “But yeah, I can totally pick you up! Be around in 10?”

“Thanks Britt,” Santana grins, “I’ll see you soon.”

“Kay bye!”

It’s ridiculous to think how all of a sudden Santana’s heart starts beating a little faster and her movements become more fidgety in anticipation for Brittany to come over. She really wishes she could get a grip, but after everything that happened on Thanksgiving and their talk after seeing Alex it’s hard to control. She couldn’t get over the fact that Britt still loved her and they still had a chance to make things right. She couldn’t believe it, after all the years of struggling and pushing away those feelings, there was still something there for them.

Britt had said that her body wakes up whenever she’s around Santana and now Santana totally gets it.

Santana’s body wakes up around Brittany too and she has missed that feeling so much.

\\

There are a couple knocks at the front door, but she doesn’t have to check to know that it’s Brittany. Other than the fact that Santana knew she would be coming, Brittany still taps the same signature rhythm with her knuckles.

“Hey, I would’ve-“ Santana’s words get caught as her eyes land on Brittany.

Her blonde hair falls from her messy bun in cute tendrils, something that’s prone to happening whenever Brittany breaks a sweat. In fact, she glistens and steam rises from the top of her head against the cold air. Santana wonders how the hell she isn’t freezing, but she can’t comprehend much as her eyes start to rake up Brittany’s body on their own.

She’s dressed in baggy red sweat pants and a black sports bra that’s damp with sweat and it’s barely covered by the pathetic excuse for a t-shirt. The material is so thin it’s practically see through and Santana can literally count each one of Brittany’s abs.

Santana’s swallows dryly because woah.

Brittany’s still got it. Then again, did she ever really lose it? Apparently not, she just got hotter.

There’s a muffled chuckle that brings Santana’s eyes to meet mischievous blues. Brittany smirks and adjusts the strap of her duffle bag on her shoulder. Santana didn’t even realize she was carrying it.

“Hey Santana.”

“Sorry, hey Britt. Come in,” Santana gestures, not wanting Britt to catch a cold with the lack of clothes she has on, “Why are you so…sweaty?”

“My dance class ran a little late so I didn’t have time to get ready there,” Brittany explains, “Could I change here?”

Santana begins to picture Brittany’s lithe body breaking it down in dance class and god since when did she become such a desperate mess? She blames the lack of sex and Brittany.

She thinks how they kind of go hand in hand, but she quickly pushes that thought away.

“Yeah, sure. Go ahead. Did you want to shower too?”

“I should,” Brittany says, “Class was really intense today.”

“I can see that,” Santana comments without thinking but covers it with a smile, “Go shower. I’ll tell Quinn we’ll be late.”  

“Thanks,” Brittany grins and presses a kiss to Santana’s cheek as she walks by.

Santana turns and watches as Brittany head up the stairs, a dopey grin filing her face as her eyes land on Brittany’s perfect ass.

\\

That dopey grin is replaced by something of annoyance as Santana and Brittany sit across from Quinn at Starbucks a little later. Brittany is busy talking about her class and how they can incorporate some of the elements into their set for Sectionals since it’ll be coming up soon, but Santana can’t focus with how Quinn keeps glancing between her and Brittany so analytically.

Quinn’s itching to say something, Santana can tell, but she won’t interrupt Brittany when she’s speaking so passionately. She stays engaged and listens intently, but Santana knows the minute Brittany stops it’ll be fair game and she’s not ready for all that.  

It makes Santana nervous; not because she wants to hide whatever is going on between her and Brittany, but because it’s too new to hash out over lattes. It was literally a day ago that they were even suggesting picking up their thing again, so Quinn would just have to wait until they sorted everything out themselves.

Santana holds out a little hope though. Quinn’s a lot more mature now than she was in high school, softer even, but she’s still the same ole’ Quinn in some aspects and Santana really doesn’t want to lure her out with talking about relationships.

But of course it’s a difficult topic to dodge when Alex is brought up. Santana and Brittany explain everything that happened at Frank’s and where Alex is now. It was already hard to miss the similarities between Alex and Santana, but it’s even more so now. It’s common knowledge so Santana’s glad that neither Quinn nor Brittany decided to delve into that. Instead Quinn says how thankful she is that Santana and Britt were around to help Alex and she’s a little upset that she missed out.

Quinn talks about being mentors and wanting to have a positive impact on the squad, something that was hit or miss when they were all in school because Sue could be so horrible and it wasn’t a secret that Mr. Schue had his favorites.

They could all agree that they wanted to do better if they could help it. When Quinn says she thinks Santana and Brittany did a great job with Alex and would make Ms. Holliday proud, Santana nearly gets choked up if she weren’t so badass. Ms. Holliday helped her and Brittany through so much so to be compared to her is a lot for Santana. If it weren’t for her, it would’ve taken her way longer to come to terms with her feelings. Maybe she never would’ve?

She owed Ms. Holliday everything.

Brittany thanks Quinn for them though and nuzzles into Santana’s side for a hug like she can sense Santana’s struggle. Santana’s grateful but she can’t help but smile at the scent of her shampoo wafting from Brittany’s hair, reminding her further of their new closeness. She catches Quinn’s analytical eye again and quickly turns up the snark.

“Who knew the holidays could turn you into a big softy, Quinnie.” Santana comments as Brittany pulls away. She already misses the warmth but she miraculously keeps from frowning about it.

Quinn just rolls her eyes and smirks, “You’re one to talk, Satan.”  

\\

After a refill, Quinn goes on to ask how everyone’s Thanksgiving went. Santana really feels like Quinn is trying to set her up here. Or maybe, Santana’s just feeling a little paranoid because Quinn always has that look like she knows something you don’t.

It seems that Santana’s the only one that’s trying to make it a bigger deal than it is, because Brittany easily fills Quinn in on how great it was to spend Thanksgiving with Santana and Maribel. She excitedly goes over the events of the night, but thankfully leaves out the more intimate details.

“I’m glad you didn’t have to spend it alone, Britt,” Quinn comments genuinely then looks to Santana, “It sounds like you guys had a lot of fun. I knew including Britt would be a good idea!”

Santana bites her cheek and narrows her eyes. She knows Quinn isn’t trying to be a pain in her ass on purpose judging by her tone, but the way she’s always silently rooting for them is embarrassing and makes Santana feel jittery. But more importantly, Brittany wasn’t aware of the fact that Santana had been considering inviting her to dinner and she doesn’t want to that to hurt Brittany’s feelings or for her to misunderstand.

Santana just wasn’t brave enough at the time and if Maribel didn’t invite Brittany over, then she and Santana wouldn’t have had such a great time and they would’ve never had the chance to reconnect like they did. There was no way of knowing Thanksgiving was going to have such an impact on their progress, but it doesn’t keep her from regretting her lack of bravery.

She hates that it still has the ability to dictate how their relationship pans out and unfortunately, that’s just another thing that hasn’t changed.

Santana scowls at how fast her thoughts are moving and she’s about two seconds away from saying something witty to take the attention off of her when she feels Brittany’s hand slip over her knee. Her knee twitches at the unexpected move, but she soon relaxes at the gentle squeeze Brittany gives her.

The gesture instantly softens her up and she glances over at Brittany who remains looking at Quinn like nothing’s happened, but it’s all the reassurance she needs for now.

“Oh no, Maribel invited me.” Brittany clarifies and squeezes Santana’s knee again, “We ran into each other at the grocery story. Not literally, but she did need help reaching something from the top shelf. She invited me over, but I didn’t want to impose. Santana was the one who convinced me to stay.”

When Brittany puts it that way, it eases more of Santana’s nerves. She didn’t even consider the amount of courage it took her to ask Brittany to stay. She always loved Brittany’s ability to turn her negatives into positives and she ducks her head in a quiet thanks.

Quinn smiles at them, but it’s more loving than her usual Queen Bitch Smirk. It makes Santana roll her eyes although her stomach flips from the fluttery feelings brought on by the feel of Brittany’s hand on her. She’s sure now that Quinn is on to them, but she doesn’t want to get into that right now.

“Shut up, Q.” Santana grumbles as she subtly overlaps Brittany’s hand with her own before taking a sip of her latte with her free one.

Quinn just laughs and waves her off, “I wasn’t saying anything.”

\\

They spend the rest of the time talking about Sectionals and developing a game plan. They’ve been preparing for awhile now, maybe just before Thanksgiving break let out because they knew the squad would start to get less focused the closer the break came. For the most part, they felt ready and were confident that the squad felt it too.

“The Cheerios have placed first every year since 2003,” Quinn said, “At least, that’s what Sue said. I’m not sure how accurate that is.”

“I believe it,” Brittany replied with a shrug.

Santana just inhaled deeply and said sarcastically, “No pressure or anything.”

“We’ve got this in the bag,” Quinn answered confidently, “For one, we’re the only squad with 3 coaches.”

Brittany wagged her finger at Quinn, “True. That’s 3 times the awesomeness.”

“And we’re probably going to be the only hot coaches there too,” Santana shrugged nonchalantly.

“Also true,” Brittany nodded then sent a wink Santana’s way, “The hottest.”

Santana felt her cheeks flush, but she just smiled back smugly and dusted off her shoulder, “You know it.”

“Not really important,” Quinn chuckled causing Santana to screw up her face in disgust.

“Are you kidding me?” Santana looked astonished, “Looks are everything in the Cheerleading world, where have you been? Remember all those ridiculous diets Sue put us on?”

“Santana’s right,” Brittany added, “Our squad is a reflection of us, we have to set the example. Although, those diets were really unhealthy so let’s not tell the squad about it.”

“Oh we won’t,” Quinn clarifies, “These next couple of weeks are going to be pretty intense. Our girls are good but we can’t let them get too comfortable.”

“Let’s make them do wind sprints tomorrow,” Santana suggests devilishly, “Make them run off all that food they had over Thanksgiving.”

“Greens, beans, tomatoes, potatoes,” Brittany starts rapping and it makes Santana and Quinn laugh.

“This is our first competition as coaches and it’s important we make a good impression,” Quinn adds after their laughter dies down, “Afterall, we want to make it to Nationals, right?”

Santana briefly remembers Sue’s tape and the arrangement that brought them all together and the bonus that was promised if the squad were to place at Nationals. She had almost forgotten the real reason she was back in Lima, that it had nothing to do with Brittany, and it made her sit a little straighter.

She needed to stay focused too. She and Brittany both needed to.

“Of course,” Santana says and she’s surprised to hear Brittany’s voice in time with hers, mimicking the same words.

Always in unison, even without meaning to be.

“We have to be on point then,” Quinn adds a little more solemnly, “For Coach Sylvester.”

Santana can see the storm clouds rolling in above Quinn’s head and she wonders what that is about. She knew this was a job and they had to meet certain expectations in order to get paid, but she didn’t think Quinn would take it that seriously. Then again, she and Sue had always had a different dynamic. Maybe she really did want to honor her legacy by winning.

“We will be,” Santana replies anyway and gives Quinn an encouraging nod, “We don’t know how to be anything else but flawless.”

\\

After saying their goodbyes to Quinn, Santana and Brittany are back in the car on their way to Maribel’s a little while later. Brittany had passed Santana the aux cord upon settling in and they decided on taking the long way home since the queue was so good. Santana had missed many aspects of Brittany, but being able to ride around in the car with her as they bobbed their heads to songs they use to sing for Glee Club is probably something she missed the most.

Brittany really was the easiest person to get along with, they just fit together so perfectly.

“You know, I don’t mind driving you around while your car gets fixed. You have great taste in music and your car dance moves are the best,” Brittany says after belting out the final note of a Whitney Houston song. She’s a little breathless again from the dramatic runs and the bellyaching laughter, but that’s when Santana finds her the prettiest.

She’s so wrapped up in staring that she nearly misses the words that follow.

“You are going to get it fixed, right?” Brittany asks and chances a glance at Santana to find her biting on her bottom lip. She might’ve forgotten to call Burt’s shop while she was waiting for Brittany, mostly because she was too busy running upstairs to touch up her make up before she arrived.

She smiled guiltily, “Yes?”

“San,” Brittany sighs as they come up to a red light. It was meant to sound frustrated but it was more endearing than anything. Santana hasn’t heard Brittany call her San in years and it makes her heart flutter wildly. Brittany gives her that you’re exhausting but I love you look and it has Santana’s guard instantly dropping.

“What?” Santana laughs as Brittany lifts a brow, “I will!”

“You better,” Brittany warns and her voice dips low.

The rumble of her tone has Santana biting her lip again and she presses further, edging over the middle console.

“Or what?” She asks challengingly.

Santana lingers there and she knows the exact moment Brittany’s head starts to cloud with thoughts, she can see it in darkening blue eyes. The glow of the red light illuminates them both, masking flushed cheeks, but Santana is confident they’re there. Suddenly, the heat coming from the vents is way too hot but it only seems to increase the longer Brittany stares heatedly back.

Santana remembers this look a little too well considering how long it has been. It was the same look that led to many spontaneous make out sessions in a dark parking lot when they were meant to be on their way to somewhere important. Back when they were young and reckless and couldn’t keep their hands of each other. The windows of Santana’s little Honda would be so thick with fog that she’d have to turn on the defroster afterwards just so she could see.

Brittany would just sit topless and doodle love hearts until it went away.

“You don’t want to know,” Brittany manages to reply in a whisper as she leans in and it’s like she’s daring Santana to close the distance.

And she would, she totally would! Their lips are so damn close now and the scent of her cherry lip smackers and peppermint gum is just so Brittany and it’s flooding her senses. All Santana has to do is lean just a little bit further and they’d be stopping traffic. She would give not one single fuck if it meant having Brittany’s lips on hers again.

But then their faces illuminate in green and Brittany’s the first to break the trance as the car behind them beeps their horn.

Santana settles back in her seat, tossing shy glances in Brittany’s direction, crossing her legs a little tighter as they continue their journey to Maribel’s.

She waits a few minutes before clearing her throat a little, “Maybe I’ll get Burt to have a look at it tomorrow before practice, see if it’s worth repairing…or whatever.”

She’s thankful that Brittany’s success in getting her all flustered can’t be detected in the tone of her voice and takes that as a small win.

“That’s my girl,” Brittany teases lovingly and reaches over to squeeze at Santana’s thigh.

Santana just about melts into a puddle on the spot because she wasn’t expecting Brittany to say something like that. Brittany can be so smug sometimes, but trying to fight from swooning at Brittany’s words is hard. She knows she can’t give Britt the satisfaction no matter how right she is in wanting Santana to take her car in, but being her girl?

Santana hasn’t been anyone’s anything in so long, at least not to anyone that mattered. She had forgotten what it felt like to be wanted in that way, even if Britt only said it as a passing comment. It makes Santana feel whole in a totally different way and she loves it.

She loves being Brittany’s girl.

[lppsidefics]

Meihem Fanfic: Victim Parallel

Chapter 2: Instincts

><><><>< 

As the time passed, Mei retrieved a small paperback novel from her satchel and parted it open, pulling out the handmade snowflake page marker. Occasionally, she paused to give her ward a quick evaluation, checking his vitals and temperature, before returning to her reading.

Nurses had come and gone, but Bastion never stirred.

It was hours of waiting, reading and sitting. Mei didn’t know exactly how many, but it had been long enough that her back felt stiff and her legs tingled with sleep. Folding her book and setting it aside, she stood from the waiting chair and stretched her arms behind her head. She gave a moan as parts of her back popped and cracked, and then she dropped back into her seat.

She opened the book again and was about to refocus on it’s text when the door opened quietly. Dr Winston ducked into the room, scanning his sights over the monitors before noticing Mei’s presence. “Mei-ling? You’ve been waiting here this whole time?” She only responded with a nod, closing the book entirely. “Have you taken a break? Eaten lunch?”

Mei shook her head, and the Doctor approached the hospital bed, placing the flat piece of a thesis cope to the patients chest and listening intently. He checked the watch on his wrist, and then draped the tool over his neck before checking Bastions temperature.

“His condition is good, but he might not wake for a while…” Winston made his way around to the waiting chairs, gesturing a hand towards the open hospital room door. “…why don’t you take a late lunch. I’ll monitor Bastion for the time being, and I’ll call you if there’s any changes.”

“But, Dr Winston, I should really be here if he-”

Mei tried to argue but Winston gave her a gentle nudge, insisting that she should go. “There’s no sense in starving yourself Mei-ling. Please, just take a little break. I’m sure Bastion wouldn’t mind.”

“Well…” Mei pondered, but then relented and stood from the chair. “…maybe just a quick meal from down stairs. Then I’ll come right back here.” She looped her satchel over her shoulder, slipping her book into it’s pocket, and started for the door.

“We’ll be here when you return.” The grizzly doctor assured with a smile, and sat in the chair Mei had just been sitting in.

“Thank you Dr Winston. I’ll be right back Bastion!” She called back into the room, and then turned to head towards the elevator. Mei boarded the lift, pressed the lobby button and cheerfully rode it to the first floor. She then hurried through the lobby and passed the tall courtyard windows, the late days sun warming her skin as she went by. The hospitals cafeteria was just around the corner and she joined the line formed just outside the it’s entrance.

Rising onto her toes, Mei peeked over the crowd of people. It was mostly doctors, likely just getting out of surgeries, and the rest were volunteers like herself. The line was long enough to stretch out into the hall way, where the outside light beat down onto the back of her head.

The person in front of her stepped forward, and she did the same, but it wasn’t the leap ahead she was hoping it would be. With a sigh, Mei-ling crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, wondering just how long the line would take to move. Her gaze moved to the window where cars swished by in the street outside.

Flashing alarm lights reflected off the mirror like buildings as an ambulance sped into the E.R. loading dock, and a set of men dressed in white scrubs rushed a stretcher into the hospital. Mei watched but payed it little mind since it was on the other side of the hospital…

…The other side of the hospital. On the other side of the road. Her sights dully swept over the row of buildings. Beside the E.R. center was a selection of small businesses. A laundromat, a pawn shop, and a small sandwich shop.

Mei’s eyes stopped on the restaurant, taking a moment for it to register what it’s purpose was, but with the passing of another car she blinked at it. Bringing a hand up to her chin, she considered the time spent in this line verses the time it might take to cross the street.

As the man before her in line took a uselessly tiny step forward Mei decided to risk it, seeing as the queue was still all the way out into the hallway. She walked into the lobby again, but this time, exited the building and crossed the parking lot.

Stopping at the crosswalk Mei glanced in every direction, adjusting her glasses to see the intersection traffic lights. Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited for the light to change from red to green, the need to hurry almost overwhelming her.

The cars in the road all slowed to a stop, the crosswalk light blinked green, and Mei gave one last glance around before launching out into the street.

But as Mei reached the halfway point on the crosswalk, she could hear the squealing of tire against tar-mat. The sound was suddenly right behind her, and she quickly spun to face the fast approaching threat.

Barreling around the street corner, a large, iron plated truck spun and smashed into the hospital building, hurling debris and metal in every direction. The busted horn blared, and the unending noise impaired Mei’s hearing further.

As her blurry vision returned, Mei found herself face down on the concrete in the middle of the road. She scoured the space around her with a flat patting hand, searching along the dusty street for her glasses.

Finding them, she shakily replaced them onto her face, and then began patting along her own body, checking for wounds. By some miracle, the truck had missed her, and the flying hazards only knocked her down onto the ground. Mei wasn’t injured, just very disoriented, and realizing this, she quickly lifted into a sitting position.

People crowded, gathering along the sidewalk and lingering just outside their stopped cars. They were speaking, but Mei couldn’t understand the mess of words. Some had started recording on their phones, while others just gawked at it like a scene from a movie.

Mei’s eyes scanned over the destruction, also having trouble believing it was real, but then attempted to peer through the smoke obscuring the drivers side. She waited for a moment, watching for a sign of survival, but beyond the commotion the crash had attracted, there was a distressing lack of activity coming from the truck.

Sirens wailed somewhere in the far distance, barely audible at all over the earsplitting horn that still persisted in a continuous mewl, and Mei had a feeling they wouldn’t reach the location in time. The truck was definitely on fire, the black smoke was evident enough of that, and the danger was only growing more urgent.

Jolted into action, Mei crawled to her feet and started towards the iron clad truck. “Heaaaay!” She screamed, stumbling as she tried to make her way to the drivers seat. “Are you alright?!”

Coughing in the smoke, Mei pulled the collar of her sweater over her face and reached her hand out in front of her, searching for the trucks outer wall. Her fingers came in contact with the hot metal, and retreated in a pained flinch.

“Āi-yō!” She hissed, but then reached out again, gliding her finger tips along the truck until she reached the drivers side window. The smoke was thickest here, rising from the engine in a steady stream, and swirling into a blinding fog.

Gripping onto the door handle, she yanked at it, but the lock mechanism was bent out of place and successfully trapped the person inside. Mei cupped her hands against the glass, squinting her eyes to see inside, but the window was layered in dirt, and dust, and… soot?

Without time to question it, Mei balled her fist and started beating it against the window, trying to scream over the horn’s bellow. “Is anyone in there?! Bù ānquán! You have to get out!”

The flame from the engine was getting higher, and Mei could feel its heat licking out across her cheek. Sweat poured down her face, but she didn’t stop her assault at the window until there was a metallic shaking noise coming from the doors handle.

Slowly, the broken cry of the horn died, and the jostling sound from the handle became a tearing one. Mei quickly took a few steps back, stumbling onto her rump in her retreat, as the trucks door slammed open, breaking off at its hinge and collapsing to the ground.

Mei watched in horror as a massive man, practically the size of a small car himself, stepped out of the burning crash, wearing a shark mask over his face. Her mind was caught in the surreal image of fire and colossus, and she was suddenly unable to breathe, frozen by fear.

Wheezing behind the mask, the Shark coughed against the hazy air. He moved one of his gigantic hands to the back of his neck and stretched it as if he’d just woken up from a long nap, giving a guttural moan as the stiff joint popped. Then, he reached back into the wrecked iron truck, and dragged a lumpy black duffel bag out onto the ground. The weighty thing clanked when it hit the concrete beside Mei-ling.

The big bag was the size of Mei’s entire body, and if the Shark-man had dropped it less than a foot to his left, then the weighty thing would have crushed her beneath it.

It was then that the Shark noticed her there, huddled like a child next to the giant, and he gave a grunt as if to greet her. The behavior only further frightened her, though it didn’t sound aggressive at all, and Mei gulped before lifting a hand for a meek little wave. “Nǐ hǎo…” She mustered, trying to hide the terror in her voice with a friendly smile.

The sirens Mei had heard in the distance were now echoing closer, and now the red and blue flashing lights could even be seen through the thick black smoke clouding around the truck. Police cruisers surrounded the disaster and Mei had expected them to hurry towards the blazing vehicle, and do some daring rescue of whoever else could be inside the vehicle, but instead, they created a barrier around the intersection.

The Officers drew their guns on the armored truck, and a man wearing a bright blue coat stepped ahead of the rest with a mega-phone in his hand. “You are under arrest for larceny and destruction of public property!” The man announced, and the Shark’s head snapped to the side, glaring at the officer he couldn’t actually see passed the thick screen of fog.

“Drop your weapons, put your hands in the air, and come out where we can see you!”

With heavy steps, the Shark-man came towards Mei, staring down at her through shielded eyes. She thought he was going to attack her, and raised her arms as a feeble attempt to defend against him, but he stopped just short of her, his height looming over her seated body.

“Move.” The man commanded in a deep husky voice that Mei couldn’t quite understand.

Mei’s timid voice cracked as she tried to respond, “W-wha-” but she couldn’t squeak out the words, and before she had the chance to try again, a disturbing bubbly voice interrupted her with deranged laughter.

The Shark moved quickly to shelter her as the iron clad truck blasted into bits and cinders, the sky filling with sparks of fire. Glass shattered on the building above, and the shards rained down onto the street, but beneath the giant man, Mei was completely protected from the deadly shower.

When the shock wave ceased, the Shark moved away, and Mei looked up at him with confusion. “…Xièxiè.” She muttered, but the man said nothing.

[its-flicked-switch]

All The Things She Said

5k | MSR | Post-MS4 

Mulder takes Scully home following their conversation on the dock.

:

—

"Words are like eggs dropped from great heights; you can no more call them back than ignore the mess they leave when they fall."

― Jodi Picoult, Salem Falls

—

MULDER

She stirs when the car hits the rough gravel drive. He can sense her initial unease and subsequent relief as she shakes off the reminisce of sleep and orients herself. Normally, he would tease her about drooling on the upholstery or complain about his inability to hear the NPR due to her obnoxiously loud snoring, but tonight he says nothing as he eases the mustang up to their front porch. Shutting off the ignition, he reaches for her hand, bringing it to the center console and giving it a light squeeze — a silent request for her to stay put until he comes around to open her door. It's not something that he normally insists on doing, nor is it something that she would regularly allow, but tonight calls for chivalry. Tonight, he knows that she will not object.

Scully has always been fiercely independent. In the early stages of their relationship, she resisted being waited on, fussed over, or coddled, often doing so with a single, pointed glance that required little to no interpretation. All these years later, her eyes still hold the same fire and intensity they did when they first met, but tonight, as he opens her door and takes her hand, all he sees is resignation. She's exhausted. They both are.

No words are exchanged as they make their way into the house. They move in a silent rhythm that comes from years of intimacy: every look, touch, and gesture relaying meaning and underlying conversation. Words come secondary because, after all this time, they are often unnecessary.

They pause briefly in the entryway to unload their pockets, ridding themselves of their phones, keys, credentials, and weapons. Slowing his movement, Mulder angles himself to watch Scully as he places his keys next to hers. Her tailored coat is still damp from the rain, making it difficult to remove, but her efforts cease, and her body relaxes when his hands come to rest on her shoulders. He says nothing as he removes it, but he can't help but be troubled by her silence. The last time he can remember her being this quiet was when they were on the run… a time when she had given up everything to be with him, including their son.

As he turns to hang her coat on the wall, he checks the thermostat and bumps the temperature up a few degrees.

He turns to find her standing in a daze in the middle of the living room with her arms crossed over her chest as if she doesn't know where to go or what to do. As he moves to stand directly behind her, he sees a shiver move through her body. Even after two hours in the car with heated seats and all the vents angled in her direction, her clothes still aren't completely dry. While he's not shocked that she stood out in the rain to observe the diving teams, he is surprised that she remained out there as long as she did in her current condition without an umbrella.

After 25 years, one would think that he would have a handle on all things involving and encompassing that which makes Scully, Scully — but he doesn't. She's always been a puzzle. While at times it's aggravating beyond measure, her ability to still surprise him is one of many things that draws him to her.

Looking at her now, Mulder is torn. He wants to talk to her and comfort her, but he's also not sure how. If there is anything that his relationship with her has taught him, it's patience. Scully is a lot like a turtle; she's cautious and moves at her own pace. Any attempt to draw her out before she's ready often results in her closing shop or snapping, which is why even with all of the questions burning in his mind, he has remained silent.

Placing his hands lightly on her shoulders, he angles his head to speak softly in her ear.

"You need to get out of these damp clothes, Scully," he whispers. "Go jump in the shower. I'll make you some soup."

She turns to face him, dropping her hands to her side.

"I'm not hungry Mulder; there's no need to —"

But he doesn't let her finish.

"It's not just for you."

The bomb she dropped on him earlier is far from forgotten. While he's respecting her silence and her need to process everything that has happened, he can't allow her to go to bed without eating. Not now.

He can tell by the look on her face that she wants to protest. Normally what she says goes, but not tonight. She searches his face for a moment, processing his gaze and expression before averting her eyes to stare down at their joined hands.

"Mulder, I…"

Squeezing her hands lightly, he silently interrupts her, directing her eyes back up to his. As soon as she raises her head, his lips catch hers, lingering only for a moment before raising them to the tip of her nose, and then her forehead. His fingers weave themselves into her hair and caress her lower back as he pulls her body tightly against his own.

"We don't have to talk about this now, Scully," he whispers into her hair. "Not if you aren't ready."

Surrendering into his embrace, she burrows her head into his chest and breathes deeply.

Despite the day they've had, he can still smell the remnants of the hair products she uses. Taking in her scent as he kisses the top of her head, Mulder is desperate to comfort her. He wants to promise her that it's going to be okay… that he will never again abandon her and that this time will be different. But Mulder says nothing. Instead, he remains silent. Not because he fears commitment but because he knows he's powerless to make such promises. History has taught him that much.

He can feel the current of emotion running through her as his hands roam the expanse of her back. After speaking briefly to Skinner and learning of her pregnancy, her words on the dock and behavior over the course of the past several weeks makes more sense. Her words and actions were provoked… guided by a madman, pregnancy hormones, and fear.

Giving her a gentle squeeze, he releases her and turns her towards the base of the stairs.

"Go shower. Your soup will be ready when you get out."

She's halfway up when she stops.

"Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"I want chicken noodle."

"Chicken noodle, it is then."

He waits until she disappears at the top of the stairs before retreating into the kitchen. As he gathers the ingredients for the soup, he can hear her moving around in their bedroom and the sound of the water running in the master bathroom. While he desperately yearns for answers that only she can provide, he is also grateful to have some time to himself. Odds are, she is too.

He and Scully have always known that there was more to William's conception, but knowing something and having it slap you in the face are two entirely different things. Having now seen what William is capable of, the gravity of what has been done to them and to their son hits him with full force.

In the years following William's adoption, all they could do was hope that the magnetite injection had been successful in silencing the alien sequences of William's DNA, rendering him useless to the evil forces who had invested interests in him. Now, Mulder wonders if the opposite were true. Had the magnetite somehow enhanced William's abilities, eliminating all the weaknesses observed in the alien-human hybrids that preceded him? Had Jeffrey Spender actually made William more powerful? And if so, had it been intentional or incidental?

Mulder's faith in anyone carrying the name Spender borders on nonexistent, but after what he witnessed tonight, he's inclined to believe that his half brother's attempt to save his nephew was genuine, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.

When Mulder appeared behind the Smoking Man after he shot William, the confusion and shock that crossed his features was genuine, giving rise to something Mulder had not previously considered.

Having spent his entire career being lied to, manipulated, and mislead, Mulder had always assumed that the devil holding the candle knew the end game, but perhaps that was the greatest misdirection of all. What transpired on the docks has made one thing abundantly clear to Mulder.

They don't know.

The forces responsible for William's bioengineered DNA have no idea what they have created.

And suddenly, a great deal of what he and Scully have experienced over the course of the past two decades makes sense to him… even William's birth. The super soldiers who gathered to witness his birth left disinterested and disappointed. While he's not sure what they were told or what they were expecting, it's now more clear to him than ever that William has never been what was expected. How much Jeffery and the Smoking Man knew and from who is still unclear, but the more Mulder thinks about it, the more he suspects that even those behind the curtain are at a loss to explain William.

William is powerful. Far more powerful and gifted than his creators anticipated him to be.

He's a train off the tracks, and they don't possess the manpower or the technology to stop him.

With this in mind, Mulder has little doubt that Scully is right. William is alive. After what he witnessed in that hotel room, he doubts very seriously that a single bullet would be capable of killing him, and that is assuming that the bullet even struck him, to begin with. As for the Smoking Man, he should hope to be dead. If he's not, he will be soon enough.

Now that he's had some time to ponder William's actions and replay their conversation, Mulder is left with far more questions than answers. William clearly didn't need his protection and knew Mulder was being followed, so why didn't he just run or hide in plain sight as he had done previously? Was he simply curious to meet his father? Or was there something more sinister at play?

In the short time they had together, William had only asked Mulder one question, and Mulder got the distinct impression that he already knew the answer. Mulder and Scully possess the same amount of alien DNA. The markers they each possess have slightly different variations, but the percentages are the same, leading him to believe that William's ability to communicate with Scully and not him has more to do with the chip implanted into the base of Scully's skull than it does their shared alien DNA. The only way to be certain would be to remove the chip, and that's not an option. With this in mind, he's not sure why William asked him about the visions. Was he trying to tell him something? Take a stab at his paternity? Or was it some sort of test to determine how much or how little he knew? If this were any other case or any other person, Mulder would be inclined to dismiss it, but he can't suppress the nagging feeling that William had asked him that question for a reason.

Mulder's interaction with William had also awakened something inside of him that he hadn't anticipated.

Fear.

Rather than avoiding his pursuers, William had opted to kill them in a violent display of power that was not of this world. Mulder has seen and experienced a lot of weird and terrifying things over the years, but nothing, not even his abduction, death, and subsequent resurrection could compare to what he witnessed in that hotel room.

He was in awe, yet he was terrified.

How could something he and Scully created all those years ago grow to be something so viciously violent?

The conclusion he has come to is one of purpose.

Extinguishing the threat in the manner that he did was a message, not only to Mulder but to all the others who pursue him. It was a warning laced with a promise. William is not to be captured, controlled, or contained.

Monica Reyes had called to warn them.

Whoever controls your son controls the future.

Twenty-four hours ago, that warning had sent him on a mission to find his son and to be his protector. What a joke that had been.

To those still pursuing William now, all Mulder can say is — good fucking luck.

Sounds associated with a stovetop disaster snap him back into action. He's been so deeply lost in thought that he's nearly let the soup boil over. When he turns off the burner and shifts the pot over to the other side of the stove, the room quiets, drawing attention to the fact that the water upstairs is no longer running. Cursing under his breath, he wonders how long Scully has been out of the shower. Not hearing her hair dryer or any movement coming from upstairs, he begins to wonder if she has already crawled into bed when a chair is pulled out from underneath the table behind him.

Her sudden appearance startles him enough that he lets go of the soup ladle, letting it drop into the depths of the soup as he turns to face her.

A look of apology crosses her face as she sits. The past twenty-four hours have left them both a little on edge.

"The plan was to bring this up to you so that you didn't have to come back down," he says, eyeing her curiously.

She nods her head from side to side, dismissing the sentiment as she begins to unload the tray he had been preparing to take upstairs.

"You need to eat too."

Mulder isn't hungry, but he knows he can't tell her that, so instead of arguing with her, he grabs another bowl, fills it, and places it on the table across from hers and joins her.

He can tell that she recognizes her mother's recipe by the small smile that plays on her lips as she picks up her spoon and stirs. She doesn't vocalize it, but he can tell that she is touched by his gesture.

Taking in her appearance, he's surprised to see that her hair is still damp. She normally dries it immediately after she gets out of the shower, but tonight it possesses the wildness of quick towel dry. Her silk pajama bottoms and fuzzy socks explain her stealthy entry.

He's briefly curious as to where she found the socks because he's never seen them before. The long-sleeved Oxford tee she is wearing, however, is familiar — because it's his.

"I owe you an apology, Mulder," she says quietly, breaking their silence.

"For?"

"I shouldn't have said the things I said earlier. Not without explanation," she says, her eyes retreating into the depths of her soup. "William is our son… a DNA test confirmed that 18 years ago, but it also confirmed that it was more complicated than that."

"Is it?"

His question earns him a look, but she takes his point, quieting as she stares back down into her soup. He would say more if he didn't sense she was working up to something… something that he suspects has been weighing on her for some time now.

"He's…"

She doesn't finish her statement because she doesn't have to. William was never truly theirs, at least not in the way they wanted him to be.

"To think that I abandoned him all those years ago… dumping him off on an unsuspecting family, who couldn't have possibly had any idea of what they were signing up for… I can imagine how they must have felt the first time they saw him move an object across the room with his mind because I certainly remember how I felt." She pauses again, this time making eye contact. "And that was with the added benefit of knowing where it came from."

The hand not stirring is now resting on her forehead, her fingers entangling themselves into her damp hair as she continues.

"The magnetite injection Jeffrey gave him worked, at least initially. He stopped moving his mobile, and Jeffrey assured me that results were permanent. For years, I convinced myself that giving him up was my only option, but we both know that isn't true. I could have run. The gunmen created false identities for all of us, not just you, but instead of running, I signed our rights away. I abandoned him."

At this point, Mulder interjects because she knows better, and they've had this discussion before.

"Scully, you did the only thing you could to protect him. Running wouldn't have been the right choice for him, and you know that… you, of all people, know what life on the run entails, and it's no life for a child. The knowledge that he was with you would have always given them a starting point. Putting him up for adoption gave him anonymity. You didn't abandon him, Scully… you saved him."

He can tell she is on the verge of interrupting him, so he raises his hand to silence her because he's not done. He's not even close to being done.

"No. We don't know what it was like for him or his adoptive family to go through that process blindly, but I think it's safe to say that choice you made bought him time that he otherwise wouldn't have had. When he was born, they didn't take him from us because he wasn't what they were expecting, but that doesn't mean that they weren't watching."

The cameras in their apartments had only been the tip of the iceberg. The syndicate and their associates had been tapping their phones and tracking their vehicles for years, using the intel they gathered to manipulate them further. Instead of shutting them down, the syndicate had used them to their advantage. Mulder knows that Scully knows this just as well as he does, but he continues to press in order to make his point.

"Once they learned of his abilities, they would have taken him from us, and we wouldn't have been able to stop them. But now… Scully… what he was able to do… adoption was the greatest gift you could have given him. It gave him the time in the dark he needed in order to be able to protect himself. The monsters who helped to create him can't touch him now. The power he possesses is beyond their reach."

"Mulder we helped to create him. You and me. We knew… we knew of his abilities… his alien DNA. Doesn't that make us just as culpable as they are?"

"Scully, what happened to you outside of your consent…"

"He didn't force me to get into the car Mulder! I packed a bag. Hell, I drove the car! We may never know exactly what he did or how he did it but —"

"You agreed to accepting the cure for cancer, not to being impregnated with science."

She looks surprised by his choice of words, so Mulder elaborates.

"Skinner told me what Spender said."

While this gives her pause, she still doesn't let it go.

"It doesn't change anything. The point is still the same, Mulder. We knew —"

"Did we really? You and I both have alien DNA, and neither of us can change what the mind perceives."

"Mulder…"

"No. Listen to me. We knew that he possessed alien DNA and that he could move his mobile, but we couldn't have possibly foreseen this. They certainly didn't."

"Mulder, what are you… ?"

"When the Smoking Man shot William, he had no idea he was shooting William. He thought he was shooting me. Don't you see? They don't know, Scully. They have no idea what he is and what he is capable of… so how in the world can you blame yourself for not seeing it? What happened to his adoptive family isn't your fault. There is no way you could have known."

He knows that the guilt Scully carries isn't just about William. She feels responsible for the Van De Kamps' death. Raising and protecting their son had cost them their lives.

Tears are forming in her eyes, but he presses on because he has a point to make, and she needs to let this go.

"What else could you have possibly done? Abort him?"

Her head jerks up. The fire in her eyes a warning that he's hit a nerve.

"No. I would have never —"

"Exactly. The only thing you are guilty of is wanting him and loving him. None of this is your fault. Not a damn bit of it."

A single tear threads down her cheek as she releases her grip on the spoon she's been holding, letting it settle down into the bottom of the bowl.

"Do you think he knows?"

She says it so quietly that he almost doesn't hear her.

"Do you think he has any idea how much we wanted him? Prayed for him?"

"I think… I think it's safe to say that he knows that the circumstances of his adoption weren't typical."

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, she snorts.

"He's bright, Scully. How could he not be? He's an uber-Scully."

And that does it: she smiles.

Her smile calms him. Looking deeply into her eyes, he does everything in his power to portray the calmness and security that he knows she needs. There are a lot of difficult conversations that lie ahead, but they don't all have to come tonight.

Taking his cue, she retorts back.

"Oh, I don't know, Mulder. I think we can both agree that he's a little bit spooky."

"Just a little?"

Her soft laugh fills the kitchen.

There's a pause. It's not awkward, but it is pointed, a sign that she's about to shift the conversation.

"Speaking of spooky uber-Scullies…"

As relieved as Mulder is that she's bringing up the baby, he's not really sure where to start or what to say. Dozens of questions and comments immediately come to mind, but, ultimately, he decides to start with the basics.

"How long have you known?"

Her hesitation confirms what he already suspected. She's known ever since he found her sobbing in the shower last week.

"A little over a week," she says as she takes a weighted breath. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner… that I've kept this from you. I wanted to tell you so badly, but —"

"Were you afraid that I wouldn't want it?" he asks, unable to hide the emotion creeping into his voice.

"No… no… I knew you would never… Mulder, I'm 54 years old. We've never… why now? After all that we've been through and everything we've tried? Why now? I just… I had to be sure. I already took one child away from you. I couldn't do that to you again. I had to make absolutely sure."

"So you would have —"

"NO. I'm not saying that… I just… Crystal had a close friend of hers run some tests … off the books. And then I ran them again myself. I wanted answers. I wanted to understand. If this was something other than a miracle, I had to know. I couldn't give you hope only to take it away."

Reaching his hand across the table, he places it on top of hers, encouraging her to hold his gaze.

"No matter what you've found, I want it, and I want to know everything. No more secrets. Not anymore."

Scully's eyes start to water, and her voice cracks as she struggles to control her emotions.

"The last time we went through this, I never got to tell you. By the time I figured it out, you were gone, and when you came back, I was already so far along that I didn't have to tell you."

Her tears are falling freely now, and he can't stand it. Within seconds he has her in his arms, cradling her as she sobs.

"I'm scared, Mulder. I'm so scared."

She doesn't have to say what she is scared of because her fears match his own.

"What if —"

But he interrupts her because he doesn't want her to go there. He doesn't want her thinking about the long list of medical complications, chip activation, or alien DNA.

"Scully, you can't go there. You'll drive yourself crazy if you do. And unless there is something else you haven't told me, neither of us have taken any field trips with members of the underworld lately, which can only mean…"

She snorts, lightly smacking at his chest.

"I just don't understand it, Mulder. Why now? After all of this time… we never exactly —"

"I know."

They had never used any form of birth control. Not even after William. Each of them secretly hoping for a second miracle, never dreaming in a million years that it would come nearly two decades later.

Although Scully's tears have subsided, neither of them moves.

Mulder hates to break the moment, but he also doesn't want her to overthink anything. It's late, and she really needs to eat something. Neither of them has eaten in over 12 hours. Dissecting the mystery of miracle baby number two can wait until tomorrow. Right now, his primary concern is feeding her and putting her to bed.

"You're letting your soup get cold."

The feel of her mouth curling up into a smile against his shirt warms him more than a hot bowl of soup ever could.

"Oh, and yours is staying warm," she asks, pulling away just enough to look up into his face.

"My soup — is special," he tells her.

To this, she smiles and shakes her head, her expression turning more serious as she stills.

Gazing up into his eyes, she whispers, "I love you."

The intensity of her gaze puts butterflies in his stomach and makes his hands shake. The fact that she can still do this to him twenty-five years later never fails to amaze him.

He knows that she loves him. He can see it in her eyes every time she looks at him, but hearing her say it has always stirred something deep inside of him. Something that he doesn't have the words to describe.

Unable to respond with words, he lowers his head to hers, capturing her lips and running his hands through her hair and along her side. Halting his hand to stop just under the swell of her breast, he kisses her with everything he has, and she kisses him back without hesitation, pulling his body more tightly against her own as she encourages him to deepen the kiss.

With all of the storms that lie between them, this aspect of their relationship has never been a source of contention.

As much as Mulder would love for this to continue and progress into something far more intimate, he knows that now is not the appropriate time. Breaking the kiss, he places smaller kisses along the sides of her face and forehead before gazing into her eyes.

"Let's eat," he tells her softly.

Nodding, she runs her hands down his chest and raises up onto the tips of her toes to place a soft kiss on his lips before returning to the table.

After they finish eating, he encourages her to head upstairs while he cleans up the kitchen and turns off the lights.

When he enters their bedroom, he finds her in the bathroom, drying her hair. Taking a moment to appreciate her, he stands and watches her until their eyes meet in the mirror. Moving to stand behind her, he rests his hands on her hips and kisses the top of her head before turning and stripping to get in the shower.

Of all of the things currently unknown, there is one truth that he does know with absolute certainty. She is his everything, and he's going to spend the rest of his life making sure that she never regrets coming home.

When he gets out of the shower, the lights in their bedroom are off. Although it's dark, he can still make out the silhouette of her small frame curled up in the center of their queen-sized bed and wastes no time joining her. As he pulls back the covers, she relaxes and shifts her weight to encourage him to pull her into his embrace. Burrowing his nose in her hair, Mulder says the words that were caught in his throat earlier.

"I love you too, Scully. More than anything."

"I know," she replies, her voice thick with emotion.

Bring his hand up to her lips, she kisses his fingers lightly, before moving them down to splay over her stomach, resting them protectively over the life currently growing inside of her — a life they had created together.

AN: This story is a chapter from a larger work that is currently in progress. For those of you who are interested in delving further into the conspiracy, want an actual conclusion to the William arc, and are curious about the ins and outs of being pregnant at 54, the full work can be found here. 

And, as always, a HUGE thank you to my betas @kikocrystalball​, @admiralty-xfd​, and @suilven19​ for their edits and encouragement... because nobody gets there alone ;)

[bellygunnr]

trade a house or two

December 23rd, 2009

It’s frigid when you and your brother land in Boston. The night sky is overcast with thick cloud cover that tumbles over itself with some high-speed current some fifteen thousand feet above, spitting bits of snow and ice onto the tarmac and decorating your shoulders with the frost. You try to stop to catch your breath, take in the world around you, but your brother has better ideas. He gathers up his things and is off like a shot, following the meandering line of fellow passengers back into the airport. You pursue him, unwilling to lose sight of him so quickly.

He disappears inside three beats ahead of you. You’re forced to stall and wait as a larger family follows suit, shepherding themselves inside and letting the door swing shut behind. With numb hands, you coax it back open, sighing when your glasses fog up. Afraid to move, you press yourself against the wall, out of the way of everyone, to wipe them clean. The heat of the airport coaxes blood back into your hands and face, creating a tingling soreness. How cold it must have been, for this to happen so quickly. You’re not eager to brave it again.

“Gordon! Gordon, I found Uncle Isaac! Come on!”

Your brother’s voice is loud, rising easily over the din of the crowd. You locate him easily once your glasses are back on, which saps a surprising amount of tension from your shoulders. He’s a bright yellow beacon against muted blues and grays and reds, rapidly approaching. The wheels of your suitcase squeak as you walk to meet him halfway.

Uncle Isaac. You can’t help but feel excited, relieved, and a little bit guilty all at once. You’d be able to exist freely here, but your brother had been happy at home. He had had friends, a team, and an expanding understanding of where he fit in the world. You’re ashamed to admit that you have no idea what he thinks about this, but you’re glad that you didn’t have to leave him behind. You’ve tolerated, even survived, many things so far, but losing your brother-- that would have been the final straw. That would have broken you.

You hope he settles in fine here. You hope that he doesn’t hate you, or resent you, for breaking apart the fine steps of Seattle. For taking the family bonds and breaking them, even as your brain supplies evidence to the contrary.

You feel anxious and sick and cold, now, even as sweat builds up beneath your coat and scarf and coats your palms. At some point, you’ve come to a stop, and both John and Uncle Isaac are peering at you with concern. You smile despite yourself.

“I’m okay,” you sign, hoping that that’s what they’re looking for.

“It’s good to see you both in fine spirits, then,” Uncle Isaac says, smiling. “Do either of you have gloves? It’s terribly cold outside.”

“We forgot to pack them,” John admits. “So no! But it’s okay, we have pockets!”

As if you both weren’t hauling suitcases. You shrug, trying to look apologetic.

“Well, then you’re both going to wait here while I pull the car up front. It’s a bit of a walk and I don’t want either of you to get hurt,” Isaac says decisively. “Well, not here, but at the front doors.”

“Fine,” John says, frowning.

You can only nod agreement as you both fall into step behind your uncle. He’s a tall man, scraping six feet, with brown hair swept over to hide a receding hairline. He’s skinny, but looks bigger with all the winter gear. An electronic board states that the temperature outside is negative, and the snow is getting heavy.

You’re probably very lucky your flight wasn’t cancelled or aborted.

You rest your arms and head down on your suitcase as once again, you’re stopped, left to wait with your brother as Uncle Kleiner braves the outside. The flight was long, extended to a single day to three because of inclimate weather not unlike this.

“It’s good to be getting out of airports,” John says, affecting a similar posture. His voice is muffled from where his face rests into a poofy arm sleeve, stifling a yawn. “I can’t wait to lie down in a bed. And it’s Christmas break, so we won’t be starting school right away, either.”

It was the holidays, wasn’t it? You suddenly feel overwhelmed all over again. Without thinking, you reach out to grab John’s shoulder, grounding yourself on the solidness of his presence. The texture of his coat is smooth, damp where snow had melted into it. You pull at the fabric, observing how the overhead lights shine dully off it.

“You good, Gordon? You’ve been acting weird,” John says, leveling you with a look.

The look said many things. You weren’t willing to acknowledge them, so you just bury your head, even as it forces the bridge of your glasses to dig into your skin.

A heavy weight wraps around your shoulders. John’s arm, then his torso, pressing right against your frame. A hug, you register a second later.

“Come on, it’s gonna be okay, man. We’ll get to Isaac’s and it’s gonna be okay. He’s a doctor, you know. Doctors always know best, or whatever.”

John’s voice is soothing overhead, even as it cracks. You can’t suppress a snort at the humor of it, earning you a half-hearted thump of mock indignation. It’s a pleasant distraction from the crowded, noisy airport, the din of which had been grating on your brain for what felt like hours now. It made you tense and itchy, compounding with the anxiety already playing at heart.

“I kinda wish he would have just let us walk with him,” John continues. “It’s loud in here, and those lights are gonna drive me insane.”

The hum of electronics was a phantom sound that haunted you both. Right now, you weren’t willing to strain for it, so you just tighten your grip on John’s shoulder. You can’t help but admire John’s ability to weather the sheer amount of sensory input without breaking down.

Then again, he’s always been good at it. You offer him a slight smile.

He smiles back, patting your opposite arm, before turning to the glass doors ahead. “Uncle’s back. He has a big car…”

You both gather your things up, already in motion even as Isaac appears from out of his car. It is a big vehicle-- a four-door SUV of some kind, a white that gets lost in the building flurry. You can’t help but feel anxious, but you put your suitcases in the back and climb inside.

John takes front, leaving you to take a back seat. This is not as bad as Isaac seems keen to believe. You sink into the seat as the vehicle rolls into motion, smooth and guided by fierce headlights.

You don’t fall asleep on the way to your new home, like John does. You let your head fall against the cold tinted window and watch the cityscape transform beneath the snowfall, blurry shapes and street lamps. You run your fingers through your curls as you do so, a constant, rhythmic motion that steadies your building anxiety.

-

Isaac’s home is a wooden apartment slotted between stone shops, worn down on the front but pleasant inside. It’s a dusty interior with hardwood floors and old furniture, well-taken care of to your untrained eye. Curtains and plastic are fastened to the windows facing the outside, something you’ve never seen before. To keep the cold out, Uncle Isaac says upon catching your eye.

“But it’s warmer inside, so come along now,” he says, ushering you both into the kitchen. “Your rooms are upstairs. Are you boys hungry?”

“I’m not,” John says, already heading for the stairs. The clock on the wall, just above the stove, reads close to one in the morning.

You’re not hungry either, so you wordlessly climb up the stairs with your brother. The suitcases thunk out of sync with each other, creating an awkward beat to walk to. You feel a little bad for brushing off your uncle like this, but you’re tired. Everyone’s tired, really.

You follow your brother into the first room without much thought. The door to a second room is clearly ajar, but you don’t want to be alone just yet. Maybe tomorrow, or the day after.  You’re glad John doesn’t mention it.

But you tap his shoulder, fetch his attention, threaten to break the spell.

“Are you okay?” you ask as soon as he looks at you.

“Just tired,” he says, yawning. “What about you?”

“...Okay,” you say after a moment.

The wind can be heard outside as you both shuck off your winter gear, tossing it all aside with the carelessness of travelers finally arriving home. The bed, a narrow twin, creaks as John flops down into it. The frame shudders as you follow suit, huffing as the depressed mattress just sends you sliding against your brother.

“Move over,” he grunts, shoving you aside. You try to, clinging to the outer edge with the spare pillow as purchase. “Good night, Gordon.”

The bed creaks with one last adjustment. You set your glasses aside, surrendering clarity for blurry shapes, and fall asleep the instant your head hits the pillow.