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blackenedwhite97 · 4 years

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Holding Together an Erasermic x Reader Poly Story

An Erasermic x Reader Poly relationship story.

This is a direct Sequel to Two Times the Love, Two Times the Worry.

MORE ORGANNIZED WATTPAD POSTING:

https://www.wattpad.com/story/216604201-two-times-the-love-~a-poly-erasermic-x-reader

This story includes: injury to the reader, MILD sexual content, discussion of body image, post trauma mental health, mentions of mild violence, cursing and a prominent polyamorous romantic relationship.

Polyamory: the practice of engaging in multiple sexual relationships with the consent of all the people involved.

Word Count: 11.7 K

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

You woke damp with sweat, the ghost of the inferno filled cyclone burning in your palms. It was still dark in your apartment, only the faint, cool light of the streetlights slipping through the closed blinds. You had beaten the sun to rising once again, the room was still cool without the sun beating in. Through the patchwork of light and dark you could see Hizashi, curled up in the duvet, pressed into Shota for warmth. His golden halo of hair swallowing the pillow beneath his head and the better part of Shota's face. It was coldest during the earliest hours of the day; you couldn't stand being warm anymore. It felt suffocating and panic would start to boil up inside of you if the feeling went on too long.

You hated what that day had done to you, even if Hizashi and Shota acted as if it didn't bother them. Hizashi was a blanket hog on a normal day but since you needed the bedroom kept cold to keep the nightmares at bay you'd wake up to him shivering in Shota's arms. The worst part was that he would always check the thermostat to make sure the room was cold enough before going to sleep regardless. And you knew it drove him crazy when you had wiggled out of his arms in the first few weeks of being home, but you couldn't help it. The warm embrace felt like you were being caged in by fire. Everything warm felt like that fire.

You hated this. You hated being the fragile one, the one who would get upset over the thermostat or being hugged for too long. You hated that they were so good at bending to your will because everything was supposed to be about compromise. You felt like a tyrant and them, your subjects. You wanted to hold your partners at night, you wanted to feel close to them.

You crawled to the end of your bed as quietly as you could manage and padded across the cool wooden floor, changing the room temperature before you left. You kept the lights off in the apartment, the darkness feeling safer than the heat that came along with turning the lights on. There were no blinds in the main part of the house, but the sky was still an inky blue and you wouldn't have to worry about hiding from the sun for a while yet.

The nighttime was the only time you'd been able to look at the sky. It was funny, two months ago you'd have given anything to look up at the daytime sky with all your night shifts. Now the sun felt too hot on your face and the bright light would burn images of fire and smoke into your mind. The night sky wasn't so bad when the business sector downtown turned down their lights for the night. There were stars and blinking planes and sometimes the dim glow from the city would illuminate beautiful patterns in low hanging clouds. You leaned back against the kitchen table and stared out the window, out at the sky while you still could.

"You're not sleeping." It was tired and rough, but it was definitely Shota's voice.

You looked back over your shoulder to see Shota standing in the doorway, his messy hair wild with sleep. His eyes were barely open but still trained right on you. There was no hiding things with Shota, that's not how you and him worked.

"No. I can't." You mumbled.

He nodded his head and yawned, lazily dragging his feel towards you. He leaned back against the kitchen table, his shoulder just brushing yours. Normally he would have hugged you, you knew he didn't for your sake. You hated this, you hated yourself. You remember when he got hurt at the USJ attack, how really all that had changed was that he had become more cautious at work. You were pretty sure that was for yours and Hizashi's sake as well. He had handled it all so well, you hated that you couldn't.

"What's happening in there?" You hadn't noticed that he'd been staring directly at you, a soft expression gracing his features.

You side glanced at him; you couldn't hide the hurt in your eyes. Hizashi was a talker and a fixer, he tried to fix things for you and talked about just about everything with you. Shota was the listener; he'd stayed up more late nights with you just listening than you could count, just listening. Those tired eyes saw more of you than you thought you'd ever be comfortable sharing with anyone. What to tell him. You couldn't quite grasp what was happening inside of you enough to make enough sense of it to tell him. It was hard, isolating.

"I'm tired." You settled on.

"Yeah," He nodded; his shoulder brushed yours again. "sleep's supposed to be good for that."

You smiled despite yourself. He was a dork.

"Nightmares?"

"I'm tired." You repeated with a nod.

His eyes were so soft and warm, you felt like you could melt into them. He was sad, sad in the most innocent of way. He was sad for you; you could see that. You hated it. You hated that he was sad, and that it was for you.

"Sleep gets easier with time." He looked forward, towards the skyline.

"It's been two months." You whispered, a lump forming in your throat.

His hand found your thigh and gave it a soft squeeze. You stared down at his hand, the two golden bands that encircled his ring finger reflecting the streetlights. "You just need more time."

"You didn't." you folded your hands together in your lap and looked off into the skyline, a silent frustrated tear spilling down your face.

You could feel him turn to look at you. He was quiet for a moment, his breaths deepening. "After USJ?"

You nodded.

"I-" he paused, clearing his throat. "I tried. I couldn't. When you took mornings off for those first few weeks and Hizashi came home early there were still these hours where I was alone. When the silence would-"

He cleared his throat again. "Can you look at me?"

You bit your bottom lip to try and stop the quiver that threatened to escape. You didn't want to look at him, you didn't want to because you knew you'd break. You'd break more than you already had, and you were so, so tired. But you couldn't say no, you couldn't deny him something so simple, so easy as looking into his eyes. So, you did.

You turned to meet eyes that mirrored your own, they were tired beyond sleeplessness, enduring beyond pain and yet there was a warmth in them. Still, even as you broke, you looked into his eyes and felt safe. It was okay to break here; he would hold you together.

"I went back to work, back to my life because the silence that taking time gave me was filled with the sound of my own skull getting crushed. It was filled with my student's terrified eyes and the taste of my own blood." His hands found the sides of your face. "I couldn't feel that. I couldn't feel that every day and get better. But you, you need to start feeling, Y/N. You're allowed to feel however you need to, for however long you need to. You almost died, alone with a burning building on top of you."

Your tears were freely flowing now, they were hot against your skin. "I've been doing nothing but forcing my feeling all over you guys!"

"No, Y/N, you haven't." He pulled you closer to him, holding your head to his chest. "You've been hiding away. Away from the living breathing world, away from feeling what you went through. Away from that fear. You almost died; you're allowed to be afraid. And you're allowed to need us to help you."

He was being so reasonable; he was being so good to you. You wanted him to tell you to get over it, you wanted Shota to knock some sense into you. You wanted to be okay again, you didn't want to be scared, you wanted to be like you were before. A white-hot rage welled up in your chest. You pushed away from him and smacked him in the chest. Again. And Again. You pounded against him until your rage grew to a simmer and your arms grew lethargic with sorrow.

He took it, his arms reached out towards you embracing you again when your weary arms fell to your sides. You caved into him, his arms swallowing you in a fiery hot embrace. Every part of him that touched you felt like suffocating hot coals, but you couldn't pull away. You needed so very badly to be held. The two of you sat like this for a while, the dark kitchen beginning to fill with the faintest light from the sun's earliest rays.

"One day, during my lunch break I broke down in my classroom." He began to whisper into your hair. "I couldn't feed myself with the bandages, I felt so useless. I had to wait for Zashi to come and help me with the most basic of tasks, he took so much time out of his day to help me with almost everything. So, when he came in to find me crying into my unopened instant noodles he was pretty worried. He thought I was going off the deep end."

He chuckled softly to himself. "When I told him what was wrong, that I felt like a burden to him he had the gull to laugh in my face. I didn't get why he would laugh back then but I kind of get it now."

He ducked his head down so he was eye level with you as you leaned against his chest. "We love you, Y/n. We know that what happened to you was traumatic and we never expected you to just be okay. You not being okay isn't a burden to us, that's what we're here for. When times are good we celebrate together and when times are rough we hold each other together."

What last store of resolve you had tucked away inside of you left. "I was so scared."

"I know. I was too." His arms tightened around you. For the first time in weeks, you felt the cold air around you, and you were glad someone was there to keep you warm.

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

The next time you opened your eyes you were alone in bed, dust dancing around in the beams of sunlight that streaked across the room. The room was warm, but you didn't feel that suffocating panic creeping in. Instead you felt comfortable. It had been a while since you'd felt comfortable in your own bed, especially with any sort of sheets draped over your legs. They were thin, the duvet rolled up at the bottom of your bed, but they were there, and you didn't feel like they were smothering you.

The bedroom door creaked slowly open, light pouring in from the kitchen window. A white bundle of fur glided into the room and leaped up onto the bed, making itself comfortable on Hizashi's pillow. You ran your hands along her back, satisfied purrs filling the air.

"You just wanted some love, hm?" you cooed. "What are those mean men doing out there that they can't give you pets?'

You looked at her, you knew a response wasn't coming but every pet owner still waited. She melted into the pillow and eventually rolled to the side away from your hand, having decided she had had enough of your love for the time being. You rolled over and sat up, your head felt heavy and cloudy from your early morning crying session. Yet, the perpetual tiredness that had haunted you for weeks felt farther off today. You looked down at your palms, the scars on your arms had nearly all been healed away except for your palms. Two swirling scars of raw red skin twisted over your hands fading away as they reached your wrists and fingertips. You examined your left hand, specifically the missing pair of rings from your finger. You had lost the rings in the fire, the heat ruing the settings of the stones. The doctor who had healed your hands said it was miracle you got away with such light scaring.

You crouched next to your nightstand and rummaged through the drawers until you found a small ceramic box where you had put your damaged rings. The box was a handmade piece Hizashi's mother had given him, it had a serene garden scene painted across it and gold leafing around the corners. She'd given it to him when he told her that he thought he'd found someone he wanted to spend the rest of his life with, not knowing he'd have to wait for a few more years before being able to give it to you. Shota had, and still does, a criminal lack of jewellery to store in it at the time.

You slipped the rings on, they fit together like a sun fits into a crescent moon and gave them a long hard look. They held each other together. You smiled to yourself despite the waves in the bands and the missing stones and decided to go scold your two boys for neglecting the cat.

Hizashi was at the stove, and to your surprise you couldn't smell smoke. Shota was nowhere to be seen, giving you another thing to scold him about. You padded across the floor until you reached Hizashi and wrapped your arms around his waist. You rested your chin on his shoulder and bumped the side of his head with your own.

"I'm sorry." You whispered.

He looked at you, surprise painting his featured. Then he smiled and pressed a long kiss to your temple. "Don't worry your pretty little head about any of it, babe."

He turned around in your arms and hugged you against him, his goofy crooked grin sparking in the morning light. "Can you take over? Shota left and I'm scared I'm gonna start a fire."

You laughed and judging by his wiggling eyebrows he was mighty proud of himself for it.

"Yes, yes." You grabbed the spatula from his hand and gave him a firm rap on the ass. "Go sit down."

He had been attempting pancakes, the batter tasted like crayons but that was nothing a little starting entirely over couldn't fix. So, as quickly as you could, so as to keep suspicion of changing the batter off of you, you whipped up a new mixture. This one spelled of vanilla and was much more pleasant golden-brown in color. You loved Hizashi but if he tried to cook for you one more time you were going to have to do something about it. You made a round and put them on a dish on the counter that was up for grabs, adding to the pile as you went through the batter.

Just as the last pancake hit the plate the door opened, a snow-covered Shota stepping through the doorway. He was greeted by the cats who made a mad dash off of Hizashi's lap where they begged for table scraps, to get to him. He shed his boots and coat and shook the snow out of his windswept hair. His normally pale cheeks and nose rosy from the cold air. He dropped a pile of papers on the counter and reached out to grab a warm pancake.

You smacked his hand lightly with the spatula, giving him a dramatic stink eye.

"What?" he pouted, pulling his hand back towards himself.

"You left him alone to cook while I was asleep, you naughty boy." You scolded. "Do you like this apartment?"

"Feeling better?" he grinned at you, darting his hand out at inhuman speeds to grab a pancake. "Plus, you're like really good at putting out fires."

Hizashi started coughing wildly tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. That little shit was laughing at that. He banged on the table, a spray of chewed pancake pelting the table. As soon as his airway was free a long scream laugh came out, the plate on the counter clattering under the reverberation. While Hizashi found it somewhat mortifying when he accidentally slipped up and lost control of his quirk you found it highly entertaining. It was like when people snort when they laugh only he emitted intense sound waves that sometimes shook the room. Adorable.

You mocked offense and blew a concentrated stream of air at the pancake in Shota's hand, breaking the top half off. It flopped to the floor and the cats began to ravage it as if they hadn't been fed in days. Shota stared at you, a small gasp leaving his lips. There was something happening behind his eyes, something devious.

"Oooooo." Hizashi cheered from his seat at the table, clearly enjoying the show. "What will he do in retaliation?"

Hizashi's voice echoed around the apartment, no doubt the neighbours could hear the bizarre commentary through the walls. Shota's eyes lit up. Just as he started to take a step around the counter towards you Hizashi's phone rang.

"Hello?" Hizashi answered, his hand flying up in a cut it out motion.

Shota sprung forward and you tried to lunge away but he caught you by the waist and pulled you into him. You squeaked and he slapped a hand over your mouth.

"Shhhhh, he's on the phone." Shota whispered monotonously in your ear; he seemed so calm for a guy seeking revenge over a lost pancake.

"Oh, hello principle Nezu." Hizashi greeted loudly, clearly signalling you two to stop. "Yes, he just got in. Did you want me to put you on speaker?"

Hizashi gave the two of you a very stern look, which coming from the human embodiment of a disco was real rich. He placed his phone down on the table and tapped speaker, waving Shota over impatiently.

"You're lucky." Shota pecked you on the cheek and let go of you. He made his way to the table a plopped down next to Hizashi. Watching them work was weird for you, Shota never talked so much without stopping then when he was telling Nezu about reports and Hizashi was rarely so on track with his stories. It was like the opposite of running into your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, but it the same mildly unsettling feeling.

You eyed the dishes, you guessed you could do them while they were on the phone. That would be nice of you. But then you remembered that Shota needed to make up for his blatant disregard for your apartment's well-being and letting Hizashi cook unsupervised and thought better of it. Instead you thought a shower would do you well, you hadn't been taking enough of those in the few weeks. Simple things had felt hard lately, brushing your hair, do laundry, showering, even feeding yourself regularly. But today was a good day and keeping with that theme you decided to take care of yourself a bit.

The bathroom was easily your least favorite part of the apartment. Shota and Hizashi were pretty good about letting you take the reins on the apartment. Shota couldn't care less and Hizashi was happy as long as he was allowed to display his American vinyl collection and various posters. You had to veto some of them, the man toed the line of decency on a daily basis and some of those posters wouldn't have gone over well when your parents made the occasional visit. The bathroom is where all of your things combined into one big pile of disorganization.

Shota had one 3-in-1 shower gel bottle that sat in the corner of the shower, unable to sit on one of the over filled ledges Hizashi had crammed full of half empty conditioners. When you had tried to explain your friends how obsessed he was with hair they really only half believed you until you sent them pictures. He used so much hair spray getting his hair to stand up like a cockatiel that he needed to use conditioner to soften the hair before shampooing. Hizashi was also very particular about his fragrances, he'd buy a bottle of something and decide after a few uses he didn't like the smell and so it fell to obscurity in your three-foot by three-foot shower. You used to have a shower caddy you stored under the sink and hung off the door but now a days you just stole from Hizashi's heinous collection. Today the Tea-tree and Eucalyptus Healing Shampoo and Watermelon Summer's Picnic Shower Gel sounded good, you smelled clean anyways.

By the time you were done in the shower you could hear Shota ending the conversation, Nezu's soft melodic voice bidding the pair farewell.

You wrapped yourself up in your towel and padded into your bedroom, a closet filled with all of Hizashi and Shota's clothes and none of yours. Laundry hard. If you were honest you had the most clothes, Hizashi was the high fashion one but wore the same rotation of four or five outfits. Shota, to no one's surprise, owned seventeen pieces of clothing including his two identical hero outfits that were worn to shit. His pitiful wardrobe was made of three colors, black, white and one very bright pair of pink track pants. He wanted to try something new he said, Hizashi never let him wear them out of the house.

You could started to root through the closet or anything that was yours that wasn't formal or professional wear. Your riffled through a pile you had begun to make in the back corner, the pile of hoodies and jeans you'd worn a few too many times, until your hand made contact with a cool leather jacket stuffed away. You pulled it out and it unfurled from its neatly folded square. The fire had left your hero gear melted and burned; some parts even disintegrated in the fire. Your agency had rush ordered a new on for you, that was months ago now. Before you had sat around your apartment sulking and eating for months. You could still fit into it, yeah. No, you totally could.

You dropped you towel and started the process of donning the ensemble, the under shirt fit you like a glove, the familiar breathable sport fabric hugging what small amount of definition you still had. The stab proof vest was still ridiculously heavy, and you had to pull a little harder to get the straps done up at tight as you usually did. But all was still well until you made it to tactical pants. There was very little stretch in the fabric, the heavy cotton offering none what the pleather panels on the side strained around your thighs and hips.

You weren't much bigger by any means but the button was a chore to do up and you filled out places that you hadn't before and when you looked at yourself in the mirror you were reminded again that you were different than before.

A low whistle made you jump. Heat flushed through your cheeks and you suddenly felt like you needed to hide parts of you that weren't even exposed.

"Damn!" Hizashi crooned. "Hey pretty lady, you got a boyfriend?"

You looked over your shoulder to see Hizashi leaning against the door frame and despite his oversized pyjama pants and stretched out t-shirt looking at you up and down over the top of his glasses in the most sensual way.

You look back at yourself in the mirror and pouted. You felt ridiculous that you almost died and the thing you were upset about, at least for the moment, was a little bit of weight gain. You poked your lower stomach and looked past yourself in the mirror at Hizashi.

"I look chunky." You announced sadly.

Hizashi gasped as if he'd just been hit in the chest, a very melodramatic air of incredulous disbelief washing over him. He was the sweetest man in the world, if not the most needlessly dramatic. "I neg your pardon madam but I will no allows you talk about my girlfriend like that!"

You smiled despite yourself. He stepped into the room. "She is a goddess I'll have you know!"

"Zashi-"

"Ho no!" he waved you off. "She is the most beautiful women I have ever laid eyes on and I will not rest until ye too has seen the light!

"Zashi, stop-" your cheeks were positively on fire now.

"What are you yelling about?" A mess of dark curls and sleepy eyes popped into view through the doorframe.

"This beauty," Hizashi grabbed you by the shoulders. "thinks that she is 'chunky'."

He acted as if the world tasted bad in his mouth.

Shota looked you up and down and shrugged. "I think you look fine."

"Fine? Fine!" Hizashi yelped. "Get out. You're ruining everything I'm trying to do here, Sho."

Hizashi threw his hands up in frustration, waving Shota away like an eccentric artist offended by muse-less subject. Shota put his hands up innocently, looking between you two awkwardly. "She's knows what I mean, Zash."

"Be gone!" Hizashi daring not you look at him.

"Zashi, I know what he meant it's fine." You reach out a grab his dramatically outstretched hand.

"No, you're too good for him." He declares, pulling you in for a hug. "Get out!"

Shota backs away out of sight, hands still raised in innocence.

"Zashi, he-"

"Is the worst." He says, resting his chin on your shoulder. His hands slide down you back, resting on you hips. "I, however, can appreciate a stunning woman and her stunning curves."

You giggle into his shoulder and rest your forehead against his chest. "Thanks."

He's quiet for a moment, his hands slowly drifting south. "Not that you weren't absolutely bangin' before but babe, you're ass in these pants right now is unreal."

You giggled into his chest. He snuggled deeper into your shoulder and breathed you in. He was holding you like he could lose you, as much of him touching as much of you as possible. You knew the last few months had been hard on him, he craved touch. Even now you felt like if he could he'd sweep you up into his arms and never let you go, but he was holding back for your sake. He really was the sweetest man alive.

"Did you- use my shampoo?" he muttered against your hair.

"I'm trying to thin out the herd." You muttered back.

"Sho threw some out the other day." He pulled away, sniffing himself. "I stink."

He really didn't. He was always afraid of smelling bad though.

"Yeah I noticed, I could see the drain." You smirked.

He mock laughed, squinting at you in offense. "If you weren't so hot, I'd be offended."

You felt a cheeky grope of your behind before he darted away at the speed of light, with a stupid grin plastered to his face, into the washroom and locked the door. You sighed and began undressing, even his over enthusiastic pep talk not quite appeasing your dysphoria.

Instead you swiped Shota's shame pink track pants and one of Hizashi's t-shirts. When you stepped into the rest of the apartment Shota was at the kitchen sink washing the last of the dishes from breakfast. He looked up and grinned at your pants.

"You know what I meant right?" he asked.

"Yes." You laughed. The only person that could make Shota second guess anything was Hizashi, his opinion mattered the world to him. Even if he liked to pretend he as too cool to care. "I know."

"Good." He looked down at the sink for a moment. "because I mean that you looked fine because you were saying you looked bad and I just meant that you didn't look-"

You walked across the room and cut him off with a peck on the lips. If you didn't know better you might say that he was afraid he'd offended someone.

"I know." You said again.

"Good." He said again.

"So, what's up at work?" You asked, more so to change the subject than to really get filled in.

Shota knew that but was grateful you were moving the conversation along. "The students are wrapping up their internships this weekend and I have to do some onsite evaluations, Vlad is away on a mission so Zash is filling in for him this weekend. Oh shit, that reminds me. We'll have to be away this weekend. Are you- do you think you'll be okay-"?

"Alone?" you finished his sentence. A few months ago a weekend without the boys would have been like a little vacation, a you weekend. Now it seems like a daunting hurdle you weren't sure you were quite ready to launch yourself over quite yet. "Um, not sure."

You both stood silently for a moment, you could see his mind at work. He sighed. "You could- come along? I could do the students here in Musutafa this afternoon and Zash could probably get his done too and then we can head to Tokyo for the rest of the weekend. If you're up for traveling."

Your mind strayed to your woefully empty closet. You could do laundry or..."And shopping."

"Shopping?" he grimaced. Shota hated shopping, of any kind. While he could cook and even enjoyed it, it was a battle to get him to spend enough time in the market to get all of the ingredients. He'd usually end up calling you on your way home from work and give you an item or two he was too impatient to have picked up during his first trip. Clothes shopping was even worse, hence the impulsive pink track pants, he didn't give himself enough time to think it through.

"I'll shop while you work. Then dinner?" you suggested.

He smiled and hummed in agreement. "Mm, a nice dinner sound good to me."

"A nice dinner?"

"Yeah." He nodded to himself. "We deserve it."

You smiled. Out of the three of you he was the "we have food at home" person in the relationship.

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

You stared down at the little carry on style suite case on your bed. You had ended up having to throw some of your clothes in with Hizashi's laundry in the end. Your shopping plan did require you to have at least one set of clean clothes to actually go shopping in, after all. And while you were fine wearing the track pants of shame around the apartment you wouldn't be caught dead outside in the real world with them on. Besides, no one would believe they were Shota's and you couldn't do Hizashi dirty like that.

Shota, much to Hizashi's dismay, had booked three tickets for the seven a.m. train to Tokyo. He figured that the sooner you all got there the sooner you could get everything done and the more time he'd have to nap before dinner. Shota preferred taking naps when needed and since he patrolled at night usually, he wasn't prone to long nights of sleep. So, this plan only seemed rational to him. When Shota needed to wake up he woke up, he'd have to sooner or later so why prolong the inevitable, he could just go back to sleep later. Hizashi on the other hand was always savouring things, food, sleep, kissing, everything.

It was only two days, but you had too much stuff for a backpack and too little to really fill out the suitcase, everything would be rattling around in there getting wrinkled and battered. You looked around for anything else you could pack, a pair do shoes you might need, or a jacket you forgot to grab. The only thing you had left out was your hero ensemble, draped over the back of the chair that was crammed into the corner of your small room. It was from your old apartment, before you had met either of the boys and when you moved in the cats seemed to cling to it, so you moved it in the bedroom and got rid of the mulching scratching post Shota had put there. It was there chair now.

You didn't really need it, you knew that. There's a ridiculous amount of heroes in Tokyo, no way you'd be needed for anything. But you did have the space. You looked back and forth between your suitcase and the suit. It would fill the gap. Fuck. Fine. You folded it up quickly and shoved it into the carry on, shutting the bag and zipping it up before you could change your mind. You wouldn't need it. But you shouldn't be caught without it, regardless of the last few months you were still a hero.

"Hey!" Hizashi called from the front door. "I'm- Fuck!"

There was a cluster of small thuds followed by one big thud. Hizashi spewed all the naughty words he knew, and you could hear him fumbling around.

"You okay?" you called turning toward the door of the bedroom.

"Don't!" he huffed loudly. "Don't- just uh, stay in there for a second! Kay?"

The apartment tremored slightly with his exasperation. You smiled to yourself imagining him flailing around trying to pick up a cluster of things, getting increasingly frustrated as they continued to fall. He could be so smooth when he wanted to be but Hizashi was also ridiculously clumsy. None of the dishes you moved in with survived the first two years.

You heard a drawer open and shut, cutlery clattering. Then silence.

"Okay!" he breathed.

You popped your head out of your room. He was leaning against the counter nonchalantly, his arms crossed against his chest and his butt pressed the cutlery drawer closed. A puddle of water forming at his feet as the snow stuck to his jacket and in his hair began to melt. He was trying to tame a smile that tugged at his lips, he was a bad liar. There was a reason Hizashi didn't really go under cover and this was it. He was barely able to hold it together during civilian rescue simulations with students let alone pretend to be a whole other person in life or death situations. While you were sure this wasn't a life or death situation, he was still definitely hiding something.

"Hey." You smiled.

"Hello." He responded.

"How're Vlad's students?" you asked, eyeing the drawer.

"Great! Yeah, no they're killing in." He nodded awkwardly, biting the inside of his lip.

The two of you stood in silence for a long minute, you could see him start to sweat. You looked directly into his eyes, his green orbs alight with something akin to fear. You started to grin despite yourself. The calmer you were the more he started to squirm.

"Hey!" he practically yelped. "Don't you need too...take the cats for a walk?"

He cringed inwards. You shook your head and laughed. Shota must also be a part of this, or he would have cracked by now. As much as you wanted to know what on earth they were up to Shota there would be consequences if Hizashi cracked. "I'm gonna close my eyes and count to fifty."

"Thank-you!" he squeaked from his defensive corner of the kitchen.

You smiled, closed your eyes and began your count. You could hear him jump into action, literally. He was bouncing around like crazy, cutlery rattling, footfalls sporadically sounding around you, rummaging through a bag by the door and eventually the bedroom door closing and locking. You hit thirty and opened your eyes, both of the cats were staring at the bedroom door on high alert after the hurricane of the man. You could hear him being a careful and quiet as possible in your room, shuffling things around in the set of drawers that you didn't put anything in.

You busied yourself with the cats, who after witnessing such a violent storm surely needed some love. You slumped into the couch and pattered across the cushion next to you with wiggling fingers until the grey short haired jumped up and began swatting and pouncing. You ran your hands across the couch wildly until he began finally grabbed on and demanded affection. You massaged his stomach, the vibrations from his purrs running through your fingers lulling you into a half sleep as the apartment turned golden and darkened as the sun set.

Just as your eyes closed and your mind strayed into dream a kiss planted firmly on your forehead brought you back. You blinked back into consciousness and looked up to find Shota, windswept and rosy smiling down at you. "

Sorry." He mumbled. "I didn't know you were asleep when I went in for the kiss."

You smiled up at his sleepily. "Mm no, that's okay. It was a nice wake-up call."

You reached up and picked a chunk of snow out of his hair, tossing it towards the waterproof mat at the front door. "Anyone dead?"

"Miraculously no." he sniffled. "Get to bed, you're going to hurt your back sleeping sitting straight up on the couch like that."

"What time is it?" you lifted your head and looked out the big window in the kitchen, the sky was already a smooth dark blue.

"Just after eight." Shota mumbled. "Have you eaten?"

You shook your head. Shota was the caretaker of the house, while he was never antic like a mother he often found himself checking up on you a Hizashi. Particularly when it came to the basics of taking care of yourselves. It's not that you nor Hizashi were inept at taking care of yourselves, but rather Shota knew firsthand that it can be hard to even feed yourself sometimes. He spent years of his life secluded from people outside of work until he was wrangled into becoming a teacher at U.A. and from what little he talked about that time you got the idea that he was on the barely functioning level for months. "I thought I was only asleep for a few minutes, but it's been like three hours."

"I'll make something, then. Is Zash here?" he padded towards the kitchen, snow and water rolling off of him.

"Yeah. He uh-" you looked to towards the bedroom, the door still closed. "-I think he's in the bedroom."

You walked over to the door and tried the handle, still locked. You pressed your ear against the door and the only thing you could hear was the muffled sound of music and deep breaths. He fell asleep. He locked the door, put headphones on and then fell asleep.

"Sho," he looked over his shoulder at you. "we have a problem. Sleeping beauty has fallen asleep but locked the door on us."

That tired teacher look spread across Shota's face, the look he got when he had to mark essays or fill out yet another accident report for that student who wouldn't stop hurting himself. He leaned his forehead against the fridge and sighed. "I was daydreaming about that bed today."

You walked over to him a wrapped your arms around his waist. "Oh buddy, we can sleep on the pull out."

Shota groaned, placed his hands-on top of yours and muttered under his breath. "Dick."

You placed a kiss on the back of his neck and started to pull him backwards towards the living room. You pulled until the back of your legs hit the couch and then you flopped backwards, pulling him down on top of you. It was a flawed plan from the beginning; he was much bigger than you.

"We can cuddle, though." You wheezed, his body pressing yours into the couch.

He laughed and tried to turn around so he could prop himself up on his arms. "We could have cuddled in the normal bed too."

"Downer." You mumbled into his chest.

He rolled his eyes and leaned back against the couch, sliding an arm under you and depositing himself between you and the back of the couch. He snuggled his face into your shoulder and sighed. You felt him deflating into you, and in turn you melted backwards into him. He was warm but not burning. He took a deep breath though his nose a let out a long yawn.

"S'not bad." He murmured and you knew he was already falling asleep. He was like a cat, if he stayed still for long enough he could just close his eyes and be out like a light. But like a cat, he could jump up whenever he needed too.

You followed his breaths as they evened and slowed and soon you too were slipping into sleep.

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

Your eyes opened and found darkness, the phantom flames of your dreams still swirling in your mind. You sucked in a cool breath and peeled your sweating back away from Shota who was still holding you against him. You tumbled off the couch, landing on your knees. You grunted as the pain shocked your system, a cool shiver running up you body. Clarity took hold of you and you sunk back onto your legs and leaned your head against the couch. You tried to count your breaths but every time you'd get to two or three you'd get frustrated and choke on a sob before trying to calm yourself again.

A single hand found your cheek and you leaned into it, the feeling of another person grounding you. You could hear Shota clamouring off the couch as he settled into kneeling in front of you. Both of his hands wrapped around your head, pulling you into his chest where the sounds of his breath flooded your sense.

"You're home." He hummed. "I'm here."

You huffed a shaky breath into his chest, trying to let him know you knew. He just ran a hand through your hair and continued whispering soothingly to you. He began to rock side to side slowly, syncing his movements with his breaths. In, left. Out, right. You gripped on to his shirt and followed the rhythm.

"Sorry." You muttered into his shirt when you finally caught your breath.

"M'no, no apologies." He purred. He held you like this until you fell again into sleep, this time is was blank and whole. The world seemed to put itself on pause so you could rest in his arms until you were stirred you awake again by gentle hands. The world still darkened with a sky not yet stained with the early sun's rays.

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

"Hey, hi. Good morning." A pair of gentle hands brushed your cheek and jaw.

You blinked into the dark apartment, a dim light filtering out of the open bedroom door. A mass of blonde hair haloed in warm light was silhouetted in front of you and as your eyes adjusted you could see the pale gleam of light off of a pair of big round eyes. You scrunched up your face, stretching the stiff skin, dried out with last night's tears. "G'morning sleeping beauty."

Hizashi sighed and hung his head. "That's fair. Can you, can you wake up Sho? It's like quarter after six."

You sat yourself up slowly, still heavy with sleep. "Wake him up yourself, coward."

He was quiet for moment; you could picture the doggy eyes swelling across his face. "But," his voice was soft a sweet and innocent. "I'm scared."

A sharp pain spiked up your spine as you tried to roll you your feet. "I slept on the couch all night, I have no sympathy for your fear."

He sighed and audibly pouted. "Fine."

You struggled to your feet; the second half of the night being spent on the ground was probably what had wreaked so much havoc on your body. Your hips were sore, the dull kind of sore the came along with bruises. The pain in your back was sharper. Something pinched somewhere, and your spine was bent some sort of way because of it. It wasn't over whelming pain, only flaring you breathed inwards and tried to move really at all. You groaned a rolled your shoulders as you clamoured towards the bathroom for a shower you could probably get away with not having but you needed something to help calm your tense muscles.

The warm water hit your skin and even though you knew you had kept it cooler than you ever used to, it started to feel like it was burning you. Like water just edging on boiled was pouring out of the shower head. You leaned off to the side out of the way of the showerhead and turned it down more. The residual spray cooling into a chilled mist. You kept to the edge of the shower as you worked up the courage to go back under the shower head, fearful of the fire that you knew didn't exists.

The shower door opened on you and in jumped a naked Shota, hair wild with sleep and eye circles darkened. His eyes drooped low as he shut the door and promptly cursed as the cool water rained down on him.

"M'awake now." He groaned.

"Sorry." You mumbled and reached to warm up the water. He shook his head and pulled you towards him resting his chin on top of your head. You stand with your face pressed into his bare chest for a moment until you notice his breaths have evened out suspiciously. "Are you using me to hold you up as you sleep?"

"No." he breaths in, pulling away and opening his eyes again.

"We have to hurry, sir." You scold him. The water's temperature finally hitting you with the chill it truly carried. You shivered and turned the tap to the right while scanning the obnoxious amount of soaps in the shower. Shota groans and reaches across you for his single bottle of 3-in-1 shower gel and shampoo and you both begin the process of speed showering.

By the time you were both out and dressed Hizashi had burned two pieces of toast, thrown them out, opened a window, made four more pieces for you and Shota (unburned) and went to warm up the car. Shota, infuriatingly so, was a day of packer. You truly believed he was the only person in the world that could get away with it since his wardrobe was a series of identical item and the forbidden track pants. He threw everything piece of clothing he owned, save the suite tucked far far away and the track pants and took everything to the car.

By the time you three were peeling out of the parking lot, Hizashi the only one awake enough to drive, the sun was beginning to peak up beyond the skyline. You slide into a parking stall at the train station just in time to look up at the departure schedule and find a thirty-minute delay on your train. Hizashi sighs in relief, you could see the sweat pouring down forehead as he drove. You could even see Shota eyeing him worried as he was basically unraveling at the thought of being the reason we had slept on the couch and being late. Hizashi, for all of his confidence in the realm of public speaking and morale upkeep was beyond terrified of being burden. It's why he adapted so quickly with his quirk, sure it has combat capabilities, but he knew he could do more. So, despite your sore back and aching hips you clapped a reassuring hand on his shoulder as he looked up at the sign.

The terminal was empty. A handful of weekend shift workers milled about to and from train platforms but for the most part it was the three of you slouched over various pieces of furniture with your phones hanging out of outlets nearby.

"Coffee?" Hizashi jumped to his feet, his insistent squirming not enough to hold him at bay. Shota had taken to ignoring him this morning unless the matter really demanded his attention. The first and only thing Shota had said directly to Hizashi since waking up was giving him directions. You looked at Shota who was doing and awfully good job at being distracted with a day-old newspaper.

"Yeah, he wants a coffee." You answered for him. his eye twitched, he didn't want to give in, but Shota would also take a coffee IV if given the chance.

"You?" you could hear the disappointment in Hizashi's voice at Shota's persistence.

"I'll come with." You said hopping to your feet. "Guard our stuff."

"With my life." Shota dead panned, not looking up from the newspaper he was staring blanking into.

You and Hizashi explored the west terminal of the train station, there were three different coffee shops and one gift shop with a coffee dispenser. You picked a coffee shop you didn't recognize hoping it was a local shop, most chains in the area being known for burning their coffee terribly. You got some sort of iced coffee with sweetened cream and Shota was order and black coffee. Hizashi spent two minutes staring blankly the menu before panicking and ordering what you did despite having no line behind him and the barista being an absolute sweetheart. Just as she served you your final drink you spied her "Put Your Hands Up Radio" shirt and suddenly realised why Hizashi had panicked.

It was equally adorable and annoying when someone recognized him from his radio show. Adorable because most of the time they were very sweet and he, being the sweetest man alive, would turn into an actual golden retriever. Annoying because it seemed to happen at the worst times, and occasionally they would get to comfortable. You had made the conscious decision a long time ago to let it slide as much as possible but Hizashi was still your partner and you still had to bite back a bark occasionally.

You assumed that running into a fan when his day had started so rough was probably one of Hizashi's nightmares. That, and bugs. Always bugs.

"Is he ever going to talk to me?" Hizashi whined into his coffee.

"Eventually," You hum into yours. "you're too cute to ignore."

Hizashi grinned into his cup. For a man who pays others so many compliments, especially his lovers, he still blushes like a schoolboy when receiving one. You brushed against him and leaned your head against his shoulder. He draped his free arm around your shoulder and the two of you strolled back to Shota.

If you had thought getting comfortable at the train station was difficult then doing so in the train was impossible. The chairs reclined so little that it felt like you went from leaning forwards to sitting straight up. You ended up putting up the armrests in Hizashi's row and using him as a back rest, draping your legs across the two seats next to him. Shota took advantage of his now vacant row and laid down across the seats, his legs hanging off into the isle. Usually it was Hizashi would have to be reminded that you were in public to keep from sitting like an absolute mess in a chair but given that it appeared that there were only 2 other passengers on the train car you and Shota decided you deserved this. Hizashi curled his feet up and stayed completely still for the forty-minute train ride to Tokyo.

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

Tokyo was a busy as ever, the streets literally swarming with people. Musutafa was a busy place, especially on weekends, but Tokyo as on a whole other level. It was the type of place that you had to keep looking around to make sure you weren't going to get swept away by the crowd. The city felt so much taller than Musutafa, shops stacked on shops topped off with a another few stories of billboards and glowing screens. Everything was bright and vibrant and by the late afternoon your neck was hurting, and you were starting to need that nap Shota had scheduled before dinner for himself.

Shota and Hizashi had gone to the hotel with you and checked in before going their separate ways to find students spotted around the city. Hizashi still pouting as he left having not been graced with another word from Shota since stepping foot into the city. You gave Shota a sour look, but he blinked blankly at you and pretended not to pick up on it before leaving. You looked down at your phone, the battery low from having not had a chance to fully charge it since yesterday. It was quarter to four in the afternoon meaning Shota and Hizashi should be getting back to the hotel in the next couple of hours.

You looked at the set of bags in your hands, it was mostly just jeans a size up from you normal fit and a single dress you decided that you deserved. There was a shop with a double floor tall display window showcasing hundreds of pairs of shoes on the way back to the hotel and as you stared down at your worn-out sneakers you decided you might need some knew footwear as well. You could last one more quick look in a store before calling it quits.

When you got to the store front it was brighter than you remembered it, probably b/c the high afternoon sun had muted the waterfall of swaying LED lights that glimmered behind the showcase. It was a cool blue tinged white light, a few hazy multicolor strings blinking buried deep int eh waterfall. The rhinestones sneakers and patent leather heels shone in the light sending flares everywhere. The store was its own disco ball of overpriced shoes.

You stepped inside and made a b-line for the back corner filled with less glittery and expensive shoes, not that you were completely able to stop yourself from eyeing up a few pairs on the way. After a few minutes you noticed that the street went quiet, but that people were pooling into the store and stumbling back away from the windows. You squinted past the waterfall curtain of lights just as a thunderous roar rang out from the street shaking the shelves in the store.

You ran forwards on instinct, dropping your bags by you side. You weaved your way through the crowd until you reached the doorway. A giant reptilian bird hybrid creature crouched in a halo of upturned pavement, lighting humming through his legs. Fifteen feet away from him two kids, no older than fifteen stood, braced against each other. Both stood rigid, their skin hardened like stone and metal. They mirrored each other, a perfect team. A few feet in front of them the four armed hero, Fourth Kind, skidded to a halt with a trail of dust and his arms thrown up in defense.

You eyed the two young heroes, the one in red suddenly sparking images of evaluation sheets spread across the kitchen table. He was one of Shota's students. Your gut tightened around itself suddenly, now he meant something to you. Though you hadn't met Shota's students this year he was abnormally fond of them. They had brought him a lot of happiness and fulfillment and there was a part of you that felt like you owed them for that. The fire lighting under your feet was quickly extinguished when the creature was joint by a second one, this one more humanoid and spouting fire.

It felt like all the blood flow in your body had stopped, everything rushing down to the ground. You went cold as the flames flared across your vision, your palms stinging. You tried to swallow the lump forming in your throat, you needed to breath. Fourth Kind lunged forward, his sheer strength causing another explosion of pavement was one of the creatures skirted the blow.

The one wielding fire huffed and jumped forward, sending a jet of swirling flames clean over Fourth Kind's head. For a moment you felt a tinge of relief watching it miss the hero until you realized what was in its path. The stream of flames swelled into molten sphere, smoking through the air towards the two students.

Without thinking you shoved your hands forwards and up, a pillar of air rising up in front of the boys. The flames were swallowed by the currents and launched up into the sky, narrowly missing a flying figure before snuffing out. Your palms stung as if you had just touched the fire yourself but now you could feel your blood rushing through you. You stared at the boys who in turn stared back and for a moment the three of you existed in a shocked silence that fell from time.

The ground shook again, the lighting wielding creature pounding it's fists into the ground. Around his sign sparked and blew, puffs of flames and sparks flying everywhere. The three of you refocused, the two of them shoved off of each other and darted in different directions, making it harder for the creatures to get both of them. Your lip twitched; Shota taught them something after all. It's not that you didn't have complete faith in Shota but there was a part of you that feared he perhaps too distant of an instructor at times.

You were suddenly very aware of your body, every inch of you buzzing with life. Beside you a woman gasped and looked on at you, admiration sparked in her eyes. He looked at you like you were a hero... which you realized for the second time this week, that you were. You turned to the creatures and took a deep breath, shoving down the fear that lapped at your guts.

"I got this." You muttered to yourself.

Fourth Kind spared you a glance before gritting his teeth and readying himself for another attack. An idea struck you, it had been a while since you had worked with a team but you mind was starting to catch up again. You jogged forwards and prepared a gust.

"Need a boost?" you called.

"Wouldn't mind it one bit!" Fourth Kind grinned.

You swept your hands forwards, putting your whole torso into the movement, and launched him forwards. He jettisoned into the creature too quickly for it even make an attempt at dodging. You created a pocket of air just under him as he tumbled forward, diffusing it so he could land softly on the other side of the creature's prone body.

You could feel sweat forming on your brow and a part of you scolded yourself, you would have never broken a sweat this soon a few months ago. A set of a heavy wings sounded above you, sweeping dust around your feet. You looked up to find Hawks smirking above you, something a kin to excitement reaching his eyes.

"Wanna give me an updraft?" he asked, already sending himself forward. You shook your head to yourself and began stirring a current for him to ride. He never waited after asking you for some wind, that smug kid would be sure be surprised the day you decided not to provide it.

Within seconds the street began to flood with stray heroes from the area and emergency crews. Lights flashed at either end of the street, barricades no doubt being erected to stop through traffic. You tried to spy the two young heroes, losing them in the chaos of the two creatures battling with no care to their surroundings. The metallic one caught your eyes and he barrelled towards a crumbling pillar to use himself as a substitute. It was a noble effort but he was sentencing himself to death but immobilising himself. You rushed after him with the intent of clearing the building so he could let it fall. Building could be rebuilt but once lives were lost they were gone.

You ducked in and began waving people out of the tiny shop, sending them around the corner down an alley way. When the building was cleared you made sure you were clear of the fall zone. You pulled the student towards you, watching the front half of the building crumble. In a flash a figure came flying at you, four flailing limbs sailing towards you. You huffed a strong breeze at the student next to you, shoving him just far enough away from you that when Fourth Kind made contact he only took you down with him. You tried to cushion your fall with an air pocket, but mis calculated in the confusion and instead landed under the hulk of a man and rolled for a few feet settling in a cloud of dust.

"Get back in there." Fourth Kind gritted his teeth and growled, not missing a beat. "Watch the kid."

You rolled onto your knees and with as much force as you could shoved a pillar of air into his back, shot putting him back into the fray. A second wave of heroes rolled in from the street over and soon you found yourself being more a hindrance with all the close-range fighting. Instead you grabbed the metal skinned student by the collar and hauled him back into the alley.

"Woah, Hey! What's the big idea!?" he growled.

"Stay put kid!" you huffed. "It's a ridiculous amount of paperwork if you die during your internship! Plus Fourth Kind is a fucking terror."

"Hu- What?" his anger, in a split instant morphing into confusion.

"Sit still until I can find Sho- Mr. Aizawa. He'll need to report on your status." You were really, far too out of breath for how little you did.

"Mr. Aiza- who are you?" he exclaimed.

"His- roommate. Let's find your friend." You could feel the road rash blooming across your forearm and down your leg. It felt rough but survivable.

"Kirishima!" the student began shouting instantly. Almost as if by comical convivence the stone skinned kid's head popped around the alley way wall. He scuttled towards you, pure fear etched across his face.

"Phew. I thought Mr. Fourth Kind was going to kill me if I didn't find you!" Despite being covered in dirt and freshly forming bruises he was still smiling a wild toothy grin.

It didn't take long for the pandemonium in the street to come to an end, although it did take more heroes than you would have thought to take down those creatures. You and the boys crept to the edge of the alley way, watching the bustle of the situation being contained. Emergency vehicles sped by, lights flashed and faded off in the distance and heroes filtered in an out. Eventually when the crowd thinned out you spotted the tall cockatiel hair of Hizashi, he was gesturing wildly at a group of students who were trailing behind him like a row of ducklings.

"Come on." You waved the pair of students towards Hizashi.

When the two of you made eye contact through the crowd it was electric, you could see the completely foreign teacher persona fade from him for a split second and the excited puppy you knew so well replace it. He was quick to recover, ushering the line of students along with him as he crossed the street towards you. You could see his arms twitch, fighting back the instant reaction to hug you. You smiled at him and opened your arms. He gladly took the chance to give you a quick hug, it felt all wrong and too casual of course. But it was something.

"Have you seen Sho?" you asked, pulling away from him.

"He hung back a couple of blocks with some students." Hizashi nodded, suddenly very serious. "Those were- uh- things from the USJ attack."

"Oh." A chill ran down your spine as you thought about Shota and what must have happened inside of him when saw them. It was probably pretty similar to that ice cold fear that drained you of your life when those flames first roared past you. "I have one of his students."

You gestured behind yourself.

"And mine!" Hizashi exclaimed. With a dramatic set of finger guns and a discerningly charming smile considering the disaster zone you were standing in he addressed the metal skinned student. "Testutetsu, stay with me my man until Fourth Kind is free to take you back! Alright!"

That deadly seriousness gone before you really knew how to respond to it. He was good at that, keeping the end of the world feelings away. "I'm going to go find Sho, okay?"

"No need." Shota's deep calming voice called from a ways away. Behind him two students trailed, one with an incredible set of wings and a mask pulled over his face and the other with bright yellow eyes and a stupid grin. Kirishima darted towards them, smiling as if he hadn't been pelted my rubble and debris for several minutes. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine." You waved him off. He didn't look convinced as his eyes scanned your thigh and forearm. You looked down to see a lot more blood that you were expecting. It didn't hurt as much ach the growing red stains would portray. "They're shallow."

"Let's get it checked out anyways, I have to get Kirishima check out so you might as well come along." He sounded so indifferent. He was usually tired, close to deadpan but in front of his students he really tried hard not betray himself. You knew it was to help keep them calm, if he was calm they were calm. You knew that. It was just weird.

"Mr. Aizawa I'm okay, really!" Kirishima tried to wave him off.

"Don't care." Shota grunted. There he goes, caring. "You're getting a check-up. Stay here."

Shota turned away and wandered off to find some unclaimed ambulances flagging a pair down. The EMTs made their way through the line of students handing out bandages and ice packs where needed. Shota directed you to the other where a young woman helped you some antiseptic and bandage pads. She let you sit on the edge of the loading door to take the weight off your leg until they need to either load someone in or take off.

It took a good thirty minutes, but the students had been filed away with their respective Internship placements and your partners made their way to you. Once he was sure everyone that was immediately recognisable was gone from the street, Hizashi places a quick peck on your cheek and jumped up to sit beside you. He leaned into you, and you into him.

"Are you okay?" Shota asked again, this time his eyes were glued to mine. He was intense like the other night; he wasn't looking at me but into me. "I know one of them had fire."

You let out a breath. The image of the fire still sent a pang fear through you, but you could still breath, could still move. "Yeah. I'm holding it together. Are you?"

"Y-" Shota stopped for second, looking into himself. You gave him a real answer, he owed you one too. That's how you worked. "I'm holding it together."

"Good." You smiled up at him and he relaxed, the faintest of smiled spreading across his lips. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door of the ambulance.

The three of you sat there, silently. The busy world around you thinning out to a moderate crowd. Your eyes started to droop, sleep pulling at you eyelids and willing them to close.

"Hey, do you guys still want to go to dinner?" It was Hizashi who finally broke the silence. You blinked, trying to clear the sleep form your mind.

"No." It was Shota. "I just want to go to sleep."

You nodded against Hizashi's shoulder and hummed in agreement. It was quiet again. Only this time you could feel Hizashi moving underneath your head, he was trying to be subtle but even with your eyes closing you could tell he was trying to communicate with Shota. Shota pulled away from the ambulance and took a few steps away, facing the street. You watched him fidget with his pockets, he was nervous. Suddenly you were nervous.

You leaned away from Hizashi a looked to him, concern evidently across your face. He instantly went into reassurance mode, his voice awkwardly squawking once or twice, shaking the ambulance. "D-don't worry! It's not bad! Sorry we just uh-we-"

"We wanted to give these to you at dinner and make it kind of special." Shota explained. He had turned around and squatted down in front of you. In his hands he held a rather large jewellery box, six rings sitting neatly inside. Four of them simple bands, one rim on each begin made up of interlocking designs with the other. The top on one gold, the bottom silver. The last two rings were almost exactly like the two warped rings on your finger currently, the two metals matching the pairs of bands.

"We never had matching sets really, so we thought, since yours got ruined it was a good excuse to get some made." Shota scratched his beard awkwardly.

You were smiling. It was a big, dumb, lovestruck smile. It was that smile you had when your high school boyfriend showed up on Valentines days with a teddy bear. It was a puppy love smile. "I- can I put it on?"

"Oh, yeah!" Shota took yours out of the box and reached out for you hand. You gave it to him, and he gingerly slide your old rings off, making sure not to disturb the bandages around your wrist, and slide the new set on. He stepped back and look a long look at it.

"Zashi did the designing, obviously." Hizashi's ears pricked up at the direct mention of his name for Shota. He looked up at him shyly.

Shota rolled his eyes and chuckled. He started taking one of the sets of bands out of the box. "Give me your hand, Goldie Locks."

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

Author's Note:

DONE! This i think is it. This second part became a bit of beast when i really got into it and because i hate releasing un finished work I sort of had to force myself finish it. I'm worried that if I try to continue this story I'll end up killing someone because catch me only being able to write sad shit. I hope you enjoyed the read!

ALSO!!! I've been asked for some fluff and it will come, i just need to chill for a bit. Holding Together was 38 pages long and I wrote it in just over a week.

#mha #mha x reader #mha x y/n #reader insert #aizawa x reader #eraserhead x reader #bnhaxreader #present mic #presentmicxreader #erasermicxreader #erasermic #polyerasermic #bnha #bnha fanfiction #myheroacademia #myheroacademiaxreader #my hero x reader

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cutieodonoghue · 4 years

Photo

dark gray (10/?)

summary: Killian Jones operates a lighthouse in the middle of nowhere, preferring a life of isolation, until one day a woman and a baby wash up on his little island and change his life forever.

read it on: ao3, ff.net

and also catch up on tumblr!

///

Ten

During Henry’s naps, Emma has taken to reading for most of the day. So far, she’s made her way through almost thirty books, which must be a record of some kind.

If anyone had told her two weeks ago that she would become a stereotypical housewife for the better part of a month, she would not have believed it.

In the real world, she’s a police officer in Storybrooke with her father, who is sheriff of their little town. It's not a busy place, but it suits her well enough.

She gets plenty of time off and she spends a lot of it helping her mother with preparing for her classes at Storybrooke Elementary. The woman is a saint, but sometimes she does need someone to help her balance such a heavy workload.

One of the things she’s most excited about is getting to sit with her mother while she eagerly wonders about every little detail of Emma’s life. It can be annoying, sure, but her mother has to be one of the most genuinely kind people in the world.

That kindness is something that Emma takes into consideration while she pours focus and heart into her day-to-day efforts with both Henry and Killian.

Pondering what one act of kindness she could perform for Killian, Emma makes a less-than-half serving of oatmeal for herself.

Henry sits on a blanket on the floor nearby, playing with a makeshift doll that she’d fashioned out of an old shirt.

He is a cute little boy, with his little dimples and his sweet, excited babbling. But the more important thing is that he seems happy, despite everything that’s already happened in his life. She’s glad he won’t have to remember this experience. One day, it will just be a story she’ll tell him and he probably won’t believe it.

The front door opens with a squeal and comes clattering back as Killian steps inside. He looks over at her with worry in his eyes. "We've got some unwelcome company."

Emma furrows her brow. "What do you mean?"

"Every so often, a ship of pirates comes off the coast of the island. I've never dealt with them directly. Usually I have to signal back to the mainland for help, but since I've disarmed our radio, we need to make all appearances that we are not home."

Fear rushes into the peace of the morning faster than she can think to breathe. Her heart begins beating faster, whirling thoughts and worries silencing her.

She turns the stove off and moves the pot to keep the breakfast she’d been preparing from burning.

Killian already makes his way through the small house, flipping off lights and ousting the fires that keep them from freezing.

Emma nervously bites at her lip and crouches down to gather Henry up into her arms. He chatters sweetly in her ear and she smiles, setting her palm to his belly as she gives his cheek a reassuring kiss.

"Come on, baby. We're going to play somewhere else."

She steps into the living room where Killian enters in from the bedroom.

"The fires are out. Hopefully they haven't seen the smoke yet."

Emma nods. She doesn’t know what to say. Pirates weren’t on her bingo card of potential worst case scenarios, so she truly finds herself fearful and out of her depth.

Killian tips his head toward the bedroom. "Why don't you and Henry hide in there in case something happens?"

In case something happens.

Whatever dangers he thinks these pirates are capable of sends shivers up her spine.

"What about you?"

He goes over to the bookshelf, digs into a box he keeps higher up, and removes a gun and its components.

“I'll be fine, love.”

Emma wants to argue, but he comes up to her and presses a kiss to her forehead, his hand warm against her arm. She squeezes her eyes shut, not realizing that she would be so worried over something that the circumstances are so unclear over.

It hits her as he's leaving a kiss to the top of her head that he's trying to comfort her. That maybe he's worried about the end. That maybe he has no idea what’s about to happen.

She watches him as he walks away, then takes a shaky breath. "Be careful, Killian."

He turns, his eyes filled with anguished determination. "Stay hidden. It shouldn't be long."

Emma holds the back of Henry's head and walks with him into the bedroom, shutting the door behind them. She carries the baby to the bed and sits him down, taking a few steadying nervous breaths as she stands by him, watching his curious little eyes light up.

She wonders what Killian’s doing, if he's sitting out in the kitchen or if he's going to go outside. She can't really hear anything, and it produces a sinking feeling in her gut as she tries to keep Henry occupied.

After a little while, she hears shouting voices, but she can't make out the words for the life of her, and she bites hard on her lip as she gathers up Henry in her arms.

Quickly, she goes to the opposite side of the room, ducking to hide as best she can behind the bed. She holds Henry tight to her chest, determined that she will protect him at all costs.

She’s shocked when she hears gunfire and her eyes widen, holding the little boy ever tighter, especially when he whimpers fearfully. He can clearly sense that something is going on, so she puts her hand over his ear and her chest against his other, allowing him to listen to her pounding heart instead.

"It's okay," she hushes him. "We're going to be okay. Killian is going to take care of us."

Emma clamps her eyes shut. She doesn't know if she actually believes that or if she just needs to hear it from someone.

The doorknob to the bedroom jiggles before it opens.

Fear crawls along her skin, but she manages a deep breath, recalling her training as an officer. Prepared to fight, she decides she’ll put Henry under the bed to protect him before making her move and grabbing the shovel that leans against a chest opposite the bed.

She hesitantly looks up and over the top of the bed, expecting the absolute worst.

Relief fills her chest at the sight of Killian standing there instead.

She rises to her feet. "What happened? I heard shots."

"I took care of them." He clearly isn't very distressed about what happened, but he trembles a little upon closer examination.

Emma crosses the room to stand before him at the door. "Are they gone now?"

Killian nods. "For the moment at least. They've taken my warning."

Acting on impulse, she wraps her free arm around his neck, burying herself in his grasp. He tightens his arm around her and she hears him sigh.

"I was worried about you," she admits softly.

He allows her to rest in his embrace for a few solemn moments before he speaks. "How is he?"

Emma shuts her eyes and breathes him in, taking the moment to be thankful that they’re all safe.

She takes a step back, looking at Henry where he hangs over her hip. He chirps and babbles, making her smile as she tugs at his little makeshift outfit.

"He's good."

Killian smiles softly when she looks at him, reaching out to tug at Henry's foot. "That's a lad. Did you keep Emma safe for me?"

Henry makes a noise that makes them both laugh.

Emma kisses the crown of his head and smiles when he decides to collapse against her collarbone with his hands clutching at her hair.

When she looks at Killian again, he admires her with eyes she's seen more often lately.

He's been getting better with Henry, but the little boy still prefers her company to his, probably because Killian refuses to hold him for very long. He helps when he wakes up crying in the middle of the night and sometimes sings to him and plays with him in the evenings when they're all gathered in the living room with nothing else to do.

"How are you?" she asks him. "Did they hurt you or anything?"

He shakes his head, a smile playing at his lips. "I was the better arm."

"Thank you," she says again, seriously.

He nods once. “How about you, love? Are you alright?”

She takes a breath, assessing, and nods. "Yeah. I am. Just a little shaken up, I guess.”

On another instinct, she brings her hand up to his face, gently thumbing over the apple of his cheek. She feels him lean into her ever so slightly, his eyes falling shut briefly when her hand meets his face. “I'm just glad nothing happened to you."

His eyes are full of longing. It's downright ridiculous..

"Emma," he breathes out, shaking his head slightly.

She feels her chest tightening and she doesn't know what to say. She pulls her hand away and swallows at the lump in her throat.

He looks at her for a long few moments, then steps a little closer to her. He pauses and cradles the back of her head with his hand, pressing his lips against her forehead in a lingering kiss.

Without another word, Killian turns to go.

Emma takes a deep breath, unsure what that was about.

She laughs with Henry when she has him sit in the tub to take a bath.

He's happy to be in the water and he splashes her far too much, but she doesn't mind. Emma spends quality time scrubbing his hair and putting bubbles onto his nose to make him giggle.

Maybe being a mom isn't such a bad thing. In fact, she kind of likes it. A lot.

She wraps Henry up in a big warm towel and dries him off, cuddling with him on her way back to the living room.

The front door opens and closes as she's wrapping Henry's make-shift diaper over him, smiling as he watches her with curiosity. Emma pokes his belly and he flails his legs, making her laugh.

"You are a very lucky boy, Henry. And I'm lucky that I met you."

She strokes up at his hair, making it into a little wispy mohawk before she pulls him into an outfit created by one of Killian's old tee shirts.

Henry kicks his feet and clutches at her hair as she kisses all along his little face. Her heart swells warmly.

"Hey, I love you, little guy. Do you know that? I love you."

Henry just blinks at her.

"I'm going to love you for a long time," Her heart races, because she's never loved anyone like this before. "I promise nothing is going to hurt you as long as you and I have each other."

Emma gives him another kiss to his cheek and sits with him in her lap, her hand pressed against his belly while one of his hands examines her other one.

She glances up, finding herself looking at Killian leaning against the doorframe. She wonders how long he's been watching her when he unfolds his arms and crosses the room.

Killian sits beside her on the sofa and she turns to look at him with a cautious smile.

"Did you finish working?" Emma wonders as casually as she can.

He nods and looks down at Henry when he chirps.

"He's a noisy fellow, isn't he?" Killian asks, smiling a little.

Emma laughs, nodding in agreement. "He's really happy right now. He loves having baths."

Killian reaches in and strokes Henry's soft cheek with the back of his hand.

"You're good for him," Killian tells her softly. "You make a good mother."

Emma feels a blush fill her cheeks, something she thinks he must notice, because he smiles at her softly.

"Maybe the ocean brought us here for this," Emma muses. She turns her attention onto Henry. "I mean, since it'll probably never happen organically… this is my one shot at being a mom."

When Emma looks up at him, Killian furrows his brow at her in confusion.

She rolls her eyes at her own logic. "You know, because I do so much better on my own. I chase off decent guys and cling to stupid ones."

He hums thoughtfully. "And where do I fall in that spectrum?" She opens her mouth, her ears reddening and words not coming forward. He chuckles, resting his hand against her thigh. "I see."

Emma gapes at him. "It was just a kiss. I don't think that constitutes being on the spectrum. I thought you didn’t even want to consider… us being… involved."

Killian tips his head to the side in thought.

Her jaw falls open in mild surprise and she shakes her head. "We're only going to be here for another week and a half, Killian."

He stares at her for a few seconds and sighs, pushing his head down so he stares at his lap. "I know."

Emma stares at Henry. He's sleepy, his head drooped and his eyes falling shut.

"I know I keep asking you this, but, when we leave, what's going to happen to you?" she asks boldly. "Are you going to stay here?"

Killian stares at her, his gaze unfailing. "Emma-"

"If you can't tell me you don't want to come with me, then it's not worth the heartache."

Emma manages to smile at him, regardless of the tight feeling in her chest. She stands to take Henry into the bedroom to sleep. As she stares at the boy in his cradle, she thinks about the absurdity of it all.

He’s all on his own here. He has a clear cut way out if he leaves with them, but he won’t take it.

Determined, she marches back out into the living room and faces the sofa where Killian's still sitting.

"Why are you here? On this island?"

Killian looks up at her and shakes his head, wordless.

"You know that you're not cursed, right? You've had some horrible stuff happen to you, but that doesn't mean that everyone you care about has to die, or that you’re never going to have a life like you had before everything happened."

Killian clenches his jaw and stands up, clearly getting a little wound up by what she’s saying.

“Just because you're here, Emma, and just because we're friends, it doesn't mean I'm ready-"

"That’s crap. Don’t tell me you’re not ready.” Emma shakes her head. “You keep telling yourself that and you're never going to have any space in your heart to move on.”

He laughs, spiteful. “You’ve been here two weeks and suddenly you’re an expert on what I’m ready to do?”

“I want you to come home with us,” Emma argues passionately. “Okay? I want you to come home with me and Henry, and watch him grow up, and… meet everyone I love and learn new things and go new places…” Feeling weary, she sighs. “I want you to stop hiding out here.”

“I’m not…” he stops himself, falling quiet.

Searching his eyes, she waits for him to finish his reply, but he doesn’t.

“You’re not alive so you can act dead, Killian.”

Pivoting fast on her heel, she goes into the bedroom, but knows they're not done with this fight.

The couch is an uncomfortable bed, but he's gotten more or less used to it in these past few days. He drags a blanket over him and stares at the wall across the room.

His heart races and his mind is a blur as he considers Emma's frustration over his choices. Maybe he's being stubborn, but it's for a good cause. His life has been one disaster after another.

Killian thinks about Liam, how strong his brother had been up through the end of his life. Liam probably wouldn't want him wasting his life away just as much as Emma doesn't.

On a grimace, Killian shakes his head. No, Liam's gone, so he doesn't get to have opinions, and Emma barely knows him.

But still, it feels like he's falling into the deepest, darkest pit and he's never going to be able to get out. The heart of him cries out in silence, begging him to follow Emma and Henry away from this island.

She wants him to. She wants him.

It terrifies him, the thought of living a life away from here. Especially after stranding himself here for so long.

Emma might be worth it.

She wakes to the sound of Killian's voice.

Her eyes open slowly and she realizes in a jolt of awareness that he's sitting at her side, his fingers pressed against her arm to try and shake her awake.

The room is softly lit by early dawn's glow, and she'd think nothing of Killian being here, but they did just have both pirates and a pretty serious argument. His being at her side this early in the morning could be for anything, as far as she knows.

Emma pushes herself upright. Her eyes blink open wider and she forces herself to wake up as she asks, "What's going on? Is everything okay?"

She places her hands between her thighs and looks up at Killian, who sits in silence. He wears a dark expression on his face, something sorrowful knitting his brow.

Suddenly, he slides his fingers down her arm until he finds hers. Emma's eyes meet his in surprise and he smiles slightly.

"There are reasons," he tells her. "Reasons I didn't pursue you when I had every opportunity." He scans her face with determination. Clearly, he's trying to fight something in his mind. "But I'm tired of waiting on the demons from my past."

With her heart in her throat, Emma notices that there are dark circles under Killian's eyes, as if he'd been up all night thinking about the weight of the world that rests upon his shoulders.

If he’d been up all night thinking about this, then what she’d said to him must have been meaningful.

“I… don't..." Emma pauses. She shakes her head. This is something she never would have expected. Her fingers fit easily between his and she stares down at them with her heart still racing. "Killian, I don't want to get hurt when I can leave."

He smiles a little, his eyes absolutely flattering her with the way they light up with adoration. "I don't know if I'm ready to leave, but I know I want to keep you in my life."

She tilts her head, resting it on her shoulder. "Killian-"

He smiles as he mirrors her, clearly captivated by something about her.

"I'm terrified of what it means, but I want to be with you, Emma." Killian says solemnly. "When we kissed, it exposed something." Her gaze shifts back to his. Her heart races at the words tumbling from his lips. "I never thought I'd be capable of letting go of my first love, of my Milah, to believe that I could find someone else, that is, until I met you."

Her heart squeezes tight and she feels tears for no actual reason prickling at the surface of her eyes. She knows he's being serious, because of that deep, meaningful look in his eyes.

Emma takes a deep breath, like the moment before taking the plunge, and leans in close to him. He's warm and kind when he kisses her, not demanding a single thing from her.

And as she kisses him, for real this time, she feels something she isn’t sure she’s had in a very long time. She feels hope so tangible that she almost worries that it’s too good to be true.

#cs ff #cs au #my writing #captain swan #dark gray

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the-darklings · 5 years

Text

—𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒉𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔;

pairing: quentin beck x reader

word count: 1.9k+

summary: “They say the Devil’s in the details.”

notes: I’m Boo Boo the Fool and it is known. Beware some spoilers for far from home. Enjoy!

‘unravelling’ miniseries: | 01 | 02 | . . | 04

gif credit (x)

Life can be over in a moment.

For you, it was over in a blink. It hadn’t felt like dying—not really. It had felt like...weightlessness. Freedom. As twisted as it sounded. For you it was a breath, for the world it was five years.

When you came back the world had moved on; a cold, foreign place that made you constantly feel out of step. And then the news about your dad…

Biting back a sigh, you approached the familiar figure with no small amount of wariness.

“You okay, kiddo? I know this all seems sudden.”

Peter’s wide-eyed stare greeted you and he stuttered, his expression faltering upon seeing you. “(Name)? Oh. Y-You’re here too? I mean—yeah, it makes sense. I just haven’t seen you since…”

Since the funeral.

The memory was still bitter and far too fresh in your mind, but you knew it was even worse for Peter. Tony, for all his faults and virtues, was like a father figure to Peter. His death had affected the boy on a level you suspected it affected very few. You knew how much it stung to lose a parent, and had protested loudly when Fury insisted on bringing Peter in for the Elementals situation. The kid deserved some time away from all this—from the chaos and death, especially since his grief was still so fresh.

“I’m sorry,” you muttered apologetically, meaning every word. “Everything has been crazy since the battle, and I know that’s no excuse, but there never seems to be enough time to check in.”

Peter’s face was like an open book, and you almost winced at the flicker of hurt you saw in his doe-like eyes. “No, no—it’s okay. I completely understand. You have all this to deal with,” he finished off awkwardly, gesturing his hand vaguely towards the temporary base you had set up. “Though—I was wondering if m-maybe…”

“Out with it, Peter,” you said with a wry twist of your mouth and held back a smile at the embarrassed shuffle he did. “What do you need?”

“I was just wondering if you could please talk with Mr Fury and explain to him that—that, I just want to enjoy my trip,” he rushed out, an almost desperate edge to his words. “And I appreciate him needing my help—really, I do, it’s a real honour—but I just need...time.”

Your face creased with worry and you place your hand on Peter’s shoulder, stepping closer. You expected him to push your hand away the same way most flustered teenage boys would, but he only leaned into your touch and your heart clenched at the sheen of raw pain suddenly reflecting in Peter’s eyes. Sometimes—too often—this boy was so amazing, it was hard to remember that he was still just a boy. Still growing, still developing. That just because he could fight toe-to-toe with some of the strongest and best out there, his heart was still young, still barren of scars and heartache.

Though, you suspected that had changed now.

He was no longer that same wide-eyed, awestruck kid Tony had introduced you to with a snarky grin and a pointed look in your direction.

Peter was a good kid though, and it twisted your stomach just thinking how isolated he must be feeling. How torn apart.

“Peter,” you addressed him, the syllables of his name full of worry, “Do you want to talk? It’s normal to not feel okay, kiddo. Talk with someone. Even if it’s not me, then your friends or aunt.”

He looked up at you, eyes shining, and shook his head weakly, “No, they won’t—they won’t understand. Would it...would it be okay...if you? Would you mind? I don’t want to bother you.”

“You’re never bothering me, Peter.”

“But the Elementals—”

“Have people far more capable and powerful than me dealing with it,” you cut him off, giving his shoulder a squeeze and a small, warm smile. “If you want to talk right now—”

“Mr Parker, there you are,” a familiar voice interrupted loudly from behind you, and you turned sharply towards it. “It’s good to see that you haven’t left yet.”

Fury stood in the archway to the base, his arms folded behind his back and face stern. Quentin stood beside him, his eyes focused solely on your hand on Peter’s shoulder and a slight tilt of his head. You caught his gaze, blinking at the way his expression softened upon seeing you, a slight smile curling his mouth.

“I need to talk with you, Mr Parker,” Fury instructed easily, turning away without waiting for a reply. “Right now.”

“Actually Peter and I were just—”

Fury halted, his eye focusing on you, and surprise marrying his features, “Chit chat can wait for later, I think. I don’t know if any of you noticed, but we have a big problem to deal with, and not a lot of time or manpower to do so. So Mr Parker, if I may?”

Peter stuttered weakly, eyes shifting from you to Fury in a slight panic. Giving his shoulder a comforting squeeze, you offered him a brief smile, “We’ll speak later, kiddo.”

Peter nodded, his relief palpable, and moved after inpatient Fury who was already turning to walk away.

Chewing thoughtfully on your bottom lip, you watched them walk away silently. You were so focused on their retreating backs, you almost missed Quentin coming to a stop before you, his blue eyes thoughtful.

“Didn’t realize Fury was back yet,” you spoke, confusion apparent in your voice when you looked up at the man in front of you. “I thought he was going to be out for another few hours?”

“He must have come back early,” Quentin replied easily, almost eerily calm, but there was something strained about the smile he was giving you. “He strikes me as an elusive man.”

You hummed in agreement, absentmindedly wondering why Fury was so insistent on Peter regardless of his wellbeing. The thought made your stomach twist into knots.

Just because someone can fight, doesn’t mean they should.

“You care for him.”

Your eyes swung from the archway towards Quentin who was peering at you intently, and you felt something in your stomach do a little flip at the burning intensity in his gaze.

He didn’t need to clarify who he was talking about. You already knew.

“He’s a good kid,” you finally found your voice, words hushed, a touch bitter, “A really good kid. And everyone expects so much of him. Too much. They place all this responsibility on him and expect there to be no side effects. He’s a hero—he was born to be one, there is no arguing that. But he should be allowed to be himself too.”

The bubble of irritation that had kept smouldering inside your chest all day seemed to have finally boiled over. By the time you finished your little rant, you needed a steadying breath, your heart beating just a few beats too fast.

“Sorry.”

“Never apologize for caring about people and their feelings,” he told you seriously, and you couldn’t help but feel like there was something being unsaid. “Not enough people do.”

“That’s deep, Quentin,” you joked with a tired smile, “I wish I could change things but...well...”

You shrugged helplessly, feeling angry on Peter’s behalf and your own too. That no matter what you did or achieved, your voice still mattered little in the grand scheme of things.

You were so lost in thought, you didn’t feel Quentin take a step closer. Not until his warm fingers brushed against your face, the pad of his thumb skimming under your eye delicately.

He observed you shrewdly, his eyebrows heavily furrowed, “You look tired, honey.”

A pleasant shiver raced down your spine at his nearness, at his touch, and the low baritone of his voice as his eyes slowly traced over your features.

He pulled back swiftly upon noticing your startled expression and cleared his throat, looking away from you, “Sorry, habit.”

Habit?

“Sorry I—I should probably go and find Peter and—yeah.”

Casting your eyes down, you moved to walk past him but his warm fingers wrapped around your wrist, halting you and making your eyes fly up to meet his.

“Come away with me.”

With the shadows of the underground tunnel dancing across his features, Quentin looked equal parts mesmerizing and unsettling as he leaned closer. His voice and face were compelling enough already, and the look in his eyes wasn’t helping either. Heavy and focused entirely on you.

“To the city,” he added softly, thumb scraping lightly against your inner wrist. “You haven’t healed properly yet and you’re overworking yourself constantly. And I—I admit that I need to clear my head as well. Everything seems to be happening all at once and I—”

His voice cracked and he closed his eyes with a weary sigh, “It’s been very difficult. And—and you’re the closest thing I have to a friend in this world.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, trying to force casualness into your tone, “In that getup? We’re bound to grab the attention of the circus.”

His laugh was a rich sound of pure mirth and the sharpness of his grin made him look positively devilish.

“I can change clothes easily enough, I think.”

Sighing, you nodded your head in agreement, loosening your shoulders, “You’ve been working harder than any of us to protect this world, Quentin. You deserve a break. The least I can do is accompany you.”

He lifted your wrist then—fingers still comfortably warm around it—before taking your hand in his, and laying a lingering kiss against the back of it. The exact mirror image of your first meeting.

You tried not to focus on the heat of his lips, or the scratch of his beard when it brushed against your skin. And especially not at the way he glanced up at you, his eyes burning with triumph and a thousand nameless things.

“I’ll see you soon, honey.”

(You failed.)

. . .

The kid.

Peter, Peter, Peter.

Quentin liked him enough. He was smart, at least. That was admirable in and on itself. An awkward mess but most kids were. He sure was.

Admittedly, under different circumstances, it might have been fun to mentor a smart one like Peter. At least he would make the conversation interesting, unlike most people.

And he was long since aware you knew the kid as well. Your face was a frequent one at the Stark Industries. Though he had never seen you himself—what a pity—being usually stuck inside one of the labs, wasting his days away, he still knew.

But he had underestimated just how much you cared, and how much Peter acted like an imprinted puppy when you were concerned.

You began as a complication that turned into a work in progress to—hopefully—a masterpiece when it was all said and done.

He couldn’t afford...complications.

No, no. He had been denied too much—all his life, over and over again. He deserved this. He deserved something gentle and good for once.

And he would take it because you weren’t denying him—were not pushing him away.

They say the Devil’s in the details.

Now, Quentin only needed for everyone to play their roles to perfection.

He needed for your delightful, fascinating self to lose that remaining shred of wariness you still clung to.

“Patience,” he murmured under his breath, remembering your circus comment with a sharp, delighted smirk. “We’re just getting started after all.”

. . .

an: someone please protect my son Peter. I want to wrap a blanket around his shoulders and tell him it will all be okay. Also yay, for Quentin being Peak Bastard™. And in case anyone is wondering, yes, that wasn’t actually Fury. Thank you for all the love and the support so far, we’re here right now because of it. You’re all amazing. <33

tagging: @val-kay-rie @t-swizzle-owns-me @sorryyoureoutofmyleague @songofcosplay @rooftopexy @leilei-draws @go-commander-kim @kusooi (thank you, everyone! hope you enjoyed it!)

#quentin beck #quentin beck x reader #mysterio x reader #marvel #marvel imagine #quentin beck imagine #marvel fic #spider man #spider man far from home #mysterio #ffh spoilers #spffh spoilers #*SIGHS FOR TEN YEARS*#when will i change?#fic: unravelling series

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bluehhj · 5 years

Text

listen to me — chapter 49

LISTEN TO ME — 0049

listen to me masterlist;

WORDS: 2.5K

a/n: hi guys, a late Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. sorry for the delay!! I planned to come back here for Christmas, but I traveled with my friends and just got back the day before yesterday. I'd post as soon as I arrived, but then I rewrote some parts several times because it just didn't look good enough and it wasn't pleasing me so much and so I'm posting just now.

but anyways, good read!

Jeongin blew out a breath after closing the bedroom door. Then he spun around until he met Jisung's face just as he cleared his throat and began to blink repeatedly, wiping away the unshed tears. Yang licked his lips awkwardly and took a few cautious steps toward the bed.

"Are you alright?" it was a question to which the answer seemed rather obvious, so the doctor amended the next second, "I mean physically."

Jisung needed a moment to deal with the lump in his throat before he could say anything. The pain did exist, but not in his shoulder or in his head. It was in a place that not even the best doctor in the world could cure it, so Jeongin didn't need to know.

"You responded very well to the anti-inflammatory administered in your serum," he smiled faintly, crossing his arms against the coat, so white it was glowing. The stark contrast to his rosy strands made him look like the kind of boy who drew multiple glances wherever he went, but Jisung could barely take his eyes off his own hands. "I talked to Ms. Baek just now and she said the wound healing on your shoulder is going to be fine. It's likely that I can discharge you in a couple of days at the most."

Jeongin's intention was to make Han at least a little excited that he might be able to get out of that cold room and breathe happier airs again, but the effect was completely the opposite.

Jisung didn't want to be okay — not while Jinah was in a coma. It seemed too unfair that he could leave so fast at the same time that his girlfriend wasn't even expected to wake up.

Feeling the other boy's discomfort increase, the doctor decided it was best to end his attempts to increase Jisung's mood, since he was clearly not getting the slightest success.

"I'll call some of your companies back, okay? Excuse me." however, before he turned the knob, Jisung's low voice reached his ears.

"Tell my mom and friends that I appreciate them being here, but I don't want to see anyone now," he paused. It was hard to say when all he wanted to do was cry until he couldn't take it anymore. "I need some more time alone."

Jeongin didn't hesitate to nod. "As you wish."

And isolated between those four pale walls, the task of holding back tears finally became untenable.

♡˖°

After Yeji raised the white flag and disregarded — for now — the idea of tucking Yoorim into one of the police station's stuffy cells, Hyoyeon chose to stay in the hospital, as her professional intervention would no longer be so helpful and, moreover, she wanted to be available to Jisung if he needed it at some point. As such, only Hyunjin, Yoorim and Yeji headed toward Mr. Heo's building supply store. The couple settled into the boy's car, while the policewoman chose to go in her own car so as not to mix with them any longer than necessary.

Alone and in complete silence until then, Hyunjin stopped at a red light and turned his face to look at Yoorim, who was leaning his head against the closed glass. The girl's thoughts seemed far away, but Hwang didn't need to know how to read minds to be sure what made her ramble so much.

"I'm sorry" with an audible sigh, Hyunjin dropped his shoulders and also allowed the sadness to affect him, almost as if he could feel twice as much as Yoorim was feeling. "As much as I try to stop these encounters between the two of you, they still happen, and all I can do is keep apologizing like it's going to do something... Sometimes I wonder if this is really the best for you."

The younger one remained still for a few more seconds, until a similar sigh left her lips and she straightened in the passenger seat. "In parts, I can understand her."

"Yoorim..."

"But she's really right, Hyunjin-ah. You had a perfect family before you met me, it's normal for Yeji to feel annoyed to know that I was the cause of most problems."

"There is no such thing as a perfect family, baby," affectionate as usual, Hyunjin sent her one of those loving looks that could heal any injury. "Maybe mine really had an unwavering image of business parents and kids to be proud of, but only after stepping out of line did I realize it was all just well-placed masks. A perfect family doesn't deny one of their own members just because it is what it is, not what they want it to be."

"But if I hadn't entered your life, things would still be fine for you guys."

"You just look at what you think you did bad in my life and never pay attention to everything you did good." Hyunjin refocused on the street when he saw the green light, but he didn't stop listening to the conversation. "It's okay that my parents fought so hard about it that they ended up getting a divorce and now neither of them talks right to me, but I'm much happier that way, because otherwise it's likely that today I'd be preparing to take on a company that I don't want to, besides possibly being dealing with a contract marriage with an investor's millionaire daughter" he made a disgusted face. Just the thought of facing such a stressful situation made his head ache and his stomach roll. "I also understand Yeji and I know she didn't want to see our family fall apart like this, but she spends so much time blaming you that she doesn't realize how liberating it was for both of us," in the rearview mirror, Hyunjin noted the dark car behind them. "Our parents never allowed her to be a cop, even though she loves so much what she does."

Yoorim thought of every time she heard an excited Hyunjin talk and talk about biomedicine as if it were the most amazing thing in the world — she loved to hear every word, even if she didn't understand various scientific terms and got lost in some parts — and allowed herself to feel a little bit of peace.

"Maybe I would even rebel at some point and say I wasn't going to take over any company, which would cause a disaster anyway," Hwang shrugged with no concern. "For these and other reasons, I always say you don't have to feel bad about anything, baby. Because being with you was also my choice and I never regretted it.

"I never regret anything either, even though I have to put up with Yeji." Yoorim set her head back and smiled slightly. "It was like finding an oasis in the middle of a desert, you know? You do me good."

"Yeah, I know..." Hyunjin also smiled, but then he remembered something and his features became serious again. "But putting up with Yeji doesn't mean being forced to accept her pushing you into the hands of a responsibility that was never yours."

Yoorim's smile faded as she realized that now Hyunjin was no longer referring to the Hwang family, but to her own. "That's why she always wins our discussions." with another tired sigh, she looked down at some random spot on the panel in front of her. "She knows where to hit."

"We've had this conversation several times and I know it hurts, but you don't take it seriously, do you?"

Yoorim really didn't think she should be blamed for her mother's death, after all, problematizing the pregnancy wasn't her decision. However, hearing the contrary from someone else hurt much more, as it was as if she had an extra confirmation of what the voices in the back of her head used to say from time to time, only to torment her when her father lost his temper or avoided her for no reason. Yoorim often tried to justify Mr. Heo's eventual indifference to everyday stress, as Kyuhyun worked too hard to keep every branch of the store under control.

Her father loved her, yeah. Yeji was wrong.

Yoorim needed to convince herself of that.

"I try. I swear I always try."

Hyunjin felt helpless that he couldn't reach a consensus with his sister. He hadn't begged one or two, but several times so that Yeji wouldn't get into that delicate subject anymore. The result, however, was obvious: it didn't work.

Hyunjin barely realized that they were right in front of the modern, well-designed storefront. He, then, parked in one of the parking spaces and leaned over to tenderly kiss Yoorim's cheek, who was taken aback.

"If she were here, your mom would be very proud of you," he said as he pulled back just enough to look her in the eye. "As much as I am every day."

Yoorim reopened the smile, and the best: she believed.

So they both got out of the car and didn't have to wait long for Yeji to find them on the sidewalk. Heo didn't want to waste time and has already pulled the keys from her pocket. Luckily she had a copy for when she had to close the shop, and it was no trouble for Hyunjin to pass the house they shared to pick them up before anything else.

The lights were all on, and Yoorim made a point of letting Yeji scour the computers to check the security camera footage. The whole procedure took place in a heavy silence, except for the sound of keys under the policewoman's nimble fingers. Only when she finally found the sender recording on the day and time in question did the couple approach the big monitor.

"That's the weird guy," the youngest of the three pointed at the screen when a tall man appeared before the lens, already heading for the counter with a handful of objects in his hands. As noted earlier, he wore gloves and Yoorim was the only one to touch his purchases directly before packing and receiving payment. "And look, he bought a packet of flexible ringlets for curtains identical to the one they found in Jisung's car." from behind the computer, Yoorim went to one of the shelves and grabbed a dark green box. "These are the ones here."

Yeji examined the cables and pliers the man also bought. She didn't understand cars very well, but she figured all this would be very useful for destabilizing any model. Then her fingers caught the little box that was left in front of her, and she saw that Yoorim couldn't be more correct in saying that the ringlets were exactly alike. Finally, Yeji took a photo from her pocket and took a deep breath as she tried to compare it to the man in black.

"Both are tall" her eyes frantically alternated between the computer screen and Kim Minhwan. Since the day he was reported, the boy's photograph had been kept at the police station in case it was requested in the future, but after finding out about the "accident," Yeji no longer took it from her pocket. "But it's impossible to know if they're the same person. This man didn't even show more than a few inches of skin."

"I don't give a shit," said Hyunjin. "I just want to know if you are going to leave Yoorim alone now."

"If my investigation of this guy succeeds, yes. Otherwise, your girlfriend is still the prime suspect."

"So keep looking at it" sounding purposefully annoying and aware that Yeji hated taking orders from anyone, Hyunjin crossed his arms and leaned against the counter. "Go on, I'm in a hurry."

She laughed a little. "I don't think you take the gun at my waist seriously."

"I've known you since the day you were born. You're crazy, but not a murderer. Now work."

If the force of a gaze could kill, Yeji would have already incinerated Hyunjin entirely. Too bad that the present moment wasn't conducive to throw tantrum, otherwise she would have already crossed her arms and pouted or perhaps started another potentially disastrous discussion.

"I'm going to work, but it's because I want to, not because you told me to."

"And fast."

Yeji bit the inside of her cheek and decided that her quota of self-control had already been blown out enough that night, so she saved her mischief and set about checking the rest of the footage.

Yoorim went to where Hyunjin was standing and received the hug she wanted without even having to ask. The days were very busy and although they lived together, sometimes there was no time left to be together properly. Hwang worked in a lab until six-thirty while Heo helped run the store on Thursdays and Fridays and devoted herself to her internship for the rest of the week. When night came, both the future biomedical and the chemical engineer had to give some attention to the university books, and in this they were careless of everything else. Yoorim didn't really understand why the kids were so eager to grow up. The lives of adults were cruel.

The couple were interrupted when Yeji quickly searched for another photo in her uniform pocket and frowned immediately. Hyunjin and Yoorim approached the computer, which now displayed the busy street in front of the store.

"That pick-up truck," she pointed to the black car that was parked at the curb. "It was stolen days ago! I was almost giving up looking for it."

Yoorim watched the man in black leave the store and get into the vehicle with all the calm and tranquility of the world. Her certainty that he couldn't be anyone but Kim Minhwan grew even bigger.

"This will take a while, but I'll have to check every possible security camera until I find out where he's gone." Yeji got up and replaced the chair she was sitting on. "As long as this guy is not found, I advise you to be careful with the hospital. I'll ask the deputy to have some colleagues keep an eye out, because if he's as smart as he seems, I wouldn't be surprised if he tried to finish what he started."

Yoorim didn't even kill an ant, but in that case she would make a point of kicking him between the legs.

Hyunjin nodded and bit his lower lip for a moment, full of hesitation. When the flesh was released through his teeth, he turned his face arrogantly.

"I won't thank you. You're doing no more than your duty."

"I don't remember asking for any thanks. I want you two to explode, you gross" Yeji walked out of the store and, as she was opening the door to leave, added without turning to look at them, "I'll call when I have news."

Hyunjin and Yoorim exchanged a look followed by a low laugh and resumed the hug from before. After such a fright, kisses were, undoubtedly, the best medicine.

a/n: i didn't want to frustrate you guys, although i ended up doing it anyway

in the last chapter i said that there would be a moment between jinah and jisung in this chapter here, but i didn't calculate the scenes well and everything turned out to be bigger than i thought; so there was no space left and if i included other parts it would be huge. so sorry again for that

but in compensation this chapter focused more on hyunjin and yoorim, huh

anyway, i'll be back as soon as i can, i swear i'll do my best!

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isidar-mithrim · 5 years

Text

Features of the past

In the middle of the night, Teddy seeks the comfort offered by a surrogate of the Mirror of Erised. [Also on Ao3]

__________________________________

Features of the past

Teddy got out of bed as quietly as he could and walked out of the room on his tiptoes, heading for the stairs.

He felt a bit guilty for sneaking around in the middle of the night, but he’d been anticipating that moment since Harry had invited him to spend the weekend in London with them.

Obviously it wasn’t the only reason he had accepted the offer: he considered the Potters as his second family and Harry as the father he’d never had, the person who understood better than anyone what it meant growing up as an orphan. With him he’d ridden a broom for the first time, with him he’d done the first accidental magic that didn’t contemplate transforming his body, and it was Harry the first person Teddy wanted alongside his granny at every birthday, to fill a void that was sometimes quite hard to ignore.

That night was one of those times, and even if guilt creeped in again as he passed by Harry and Ginny’s bedroom, it was easy to set the uncomfortable feeling aside when he arrived in front of Sirius’s old room.

Teddy took a deep breath and opened the door with caution. It didn’t creak, and he entered the bedroom with relief, heading for the only magical photograph hanging on the wall, the one where four Hogwarts students laughed amused, hugging each other.

Teddy had somehow always known that his dad was a werewolf and that he’d been a great friend of Harry’s father and godfather, but it was in front of that photo that Harry had told him the true story of the Marauders, of their friendship, their talent, their jokes, their courage. It was there that he’d told him how the other Marauders had not only accepted his father as a werewolf, but they’d also found a way to embrace his curse, keeping him company during the transformations.

It was there that Harry’d explained to him why all the Marauders were gone.

Teddy looked at the picture from the guy on the right, short and plump. He knew that Peter Pettigrew hadn’t done right by his friends and that because of it Sirius had spent twelve years in Azkaban, but Harry’d also told him that Peter’d died to save his life, just like James and Sirius.

Teddy focused on Harry’s godfather: he had long black hair and a handsome face that vaguely reminded him of his granny when she was young, but Teddy always felt a little uncomfortable looking at him, because he reminded him that even godfathers can die, and the idea that anything could happen to Harry was simply unthinkable.

He cleared his mind of the thought and looked at James. He and Harry would have been practically identical if it weren’t for their eyes, and to Teddy it always felt as looking at a younger, light-hearted version of his godfather.

Only after observing those three boys for the umpteenth time he finally dared to lay his eyes on the figure at the left, the one of a young man a little shabby-looking, but happy and joyful.

Since Teddy had first seen that picture, he’d only been in Grimmauld Place during the day and just for brief stops, so he’d never managed to carve out more than a few minutes to look at him.

This time, though, he had all night ahead of him.

***

Harry was going down to get a glass of fresh water for Ginny – his wand stretched out to light up the halls – when he passed by the room where Teddy slept, the same one Hermione and Ginny had occupied during their first summer at Grimmauld Place. The door was way more open than he remembered leaving it, so he peered inside to make sure everything was okay – if he hadn’t just seen James peacefully asleep, he’d suspect his son had found again a way to climb over the bars of his cot and join Teddy.

The last thing he’d expected, though, was to find the bed empty.

“Homenum revelio” he said instantly, his stomach clenched in fear. Relief washed over him when he sensed four hearts beating at different rhythms from above. As he climbed the stairs with light steps, the beats became stronger, though one remained lighter than the others, suggesting it was farther off. When Harry walked past his own room, he turned off Ginny’s placid pulse and the faster-paced one of the baby they were expecting, then he did the same with James’ pulse, who was sleeping blissfully in the next room. Now that he’d isolated Teddy heartbeat, it became even clearer that it came from an higher floor, so Harry kept going, finally getting a pretty good idea of where he’d find him.

He entered Sirius’ room in silence. Teddy was sitting on the bed, his back facing the door, his hair sandy brown instead of blue as usual, the only moving image on the wall standing out in front of him.

“Hey” murmured Harry.

He had spoken in a low voice not to scare him, but Teddy jumped nonetheless, whirling towards him with wide eyes, and the shock at the sight cut Harry’s breath.

Before him stood Remus Lupin, with his tired but warm eyes, his sweet expression, his boyish traits. The body, however, was the body of a child.

Harry felt his eyes stinging and had to blink several times to keep his composure. He swallowed, unable to articulate meaningful words and wondering if Teddy had turned into his father on purpose, or if he had unconsciously copied the image in front of him.

Harry put the still lit wand on a dresser and went to sit next to him, wrapping an arm around shoulders to pull him into a tight hug.

Teddy leaned into Harry’s chest, clinging to him as if he was his lifeline, and Harry cradled him while letting his gaze wander on his father’s cheerful features. Soon Teddy’s tears began to wet his pajama shirt, but Harry didn’t care, and only when he felt his lips getting wet and salty he realised he was crying as well.

“It’s not fair” murmured Teddy after a while.

Harry squeezed him tightly one last time and then he let him go, lifting his chin to look him in the eyes – they were red, swollen, identical to Remus’.

“No, it’s not” he told him, wiping Teddy’s nose and face with a sleeve of his pajamas and resisting the urge to ask him to return to his usual appearance right away. “And I’m well aware that it’d be nice to stay here all night and watch them smile, trust me, I am, but… truth is, we could stay here a whole lifetime and it still wouldn’t be enough to get them back.”

Teddy looked down, but nodded slowly. “Do you… do you ever think what it would be like if… if they were still alive?”

Harry sighed. “More often than you think.”

“Really?”

“Really. You’ve no idea I much I’d like to tell them about the baby that’s coming, or to introduce them to James, or to tell them how much I love my godson, but… they wouldn’t want us to dwell on dreams and forget to live.”

Teddy’s eyes returned for a moment to the image of Remus before staring at the ground. Harry wasn’t sure Teddy was old enough to understand those words, but he knew that deep down he was reiterating them for his own benefit as well.

“I’m sorry I snuck up” whispered Teddy.

Harry shrugged. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, no, I know I shouldn’t have, but… but I couldn’t sleep… I kept thinking… thinking that I wanted to see them, all smiling together…”

Teddy sighed and swung his feet, hung from the edge of the bed, his legs too short to touch the floor.

Harry felt a ache in his heart, and he knew he had to do something, anything. “I was thinking… Why don’t we make a deal?”

Teddy immediately looked up at him, curious. “A deal?”

“Yeah”nodded Harry, trying to smile with complicity. “A pact just between the two of us.”

Teddy looked at him with an open mouth and wide eyes. “Do you really mean it?”

“Of course I do” said Harry, and this time smiling wasn’t very hard. He raised his right little finger in the air, and Teddy took the invitation at once, intertwining his pinky with it.

Harry cleared his throat with gravitas. “I, Harry James Potter and Edward Remus Lupin solemnly swear that every time we will stop by Grimmauld Place we will come here to greet the Marauders, but that we will only do it together.”

“I swear!”Teddy echoed him, finally smiling as well.

“Well, that’s it, then” said Harry, content. “Now, why don’t you resume your usual appearance, so we can go back to sleep?”

Teddy nodded, serious. He shut his eyes, squinting, and a moment later his hair turned blue and his features returned childish again, keeping certain traits of Remus in the shape of the face and in the cut of the eyes.

“Harry…”

“Yes?”

“Once in a while, if I feel like it, can I get yours and James’ hair?”

Harry had to fight the lump in his throat before answering with a cracked voice.

“Of course, Teddy. Whenever you want.”

***

The next day, Teddy walked around London with a bunch of messy black hair and a pair of shiny emerald eyes.

____________________________________

Notes:

- That the spell ‘Homenum revelio’ functions by making feel the beat of the people nearby is an idea I borrowed from Foreat Castellum (GO CHECK HER STORIES!). It’s my addition that you can turn off some beats at will, so if you didn’t liked it that’s on me ;). Anyway, I like to think not everybody is capable of ‘turning off’ single pulses.

- Harry’s line about not forgetting to live to dwell on dreams is freely borrowed by Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (I’m sure you knew, but you know, disclaimer)

- If you liked this story, then you may like its companion piece, ‘What parents would want’ [on Ao3] ^^

#fanfic #fanfiction #ao3 #harry potter #missing scene #canon compliant #post-dh #next generation #teddy lupin #potter family #hinny #grimmauld place #angst #fluff #hurt/comfort #godfather and godson #mirror of erised #one shot #translation

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theresnosafeharbor4myships · 5 years

Text

Chapter 2 of Through the Storm is here! This fic takes place during ep 9x16 “The Storm.” Chapter 1 can be found here.

Through the Storm: Chapter 2 - Fight or Flight (also on 9L)

“It’s knowing when to keep fighting. Knowing when it’s over.” – Ezekiel

_________________________________________________________

Carol awoke before dawn, the left side of the bed as empty and cold as her heart.

It briefly entered her mind to get up and find Ezekiel—grief or exploding pipes were the only things that drew him out of bed in the middle of the night, and she knew he could use help with either—but the dark felt oppressive, both inside and out, so she lay on her side, staring at the wall.

Oppressive and empty, a marriage of bleakness that sat heavily upon her.

As so often lately, her mind drifted to the road that’d led her here. A long, dirty, and dangerous road full of so much loss and suffering, too many lonely nights and isolation, the desperation to escape.

And what an escape artist she’d become. Cut in half but feigning whole. Locked in a box, but floating on the sea, coasting endlessly on waves of fancy, drinking up the very fantasy that threatened her existence.

What a wonderful fraud she’d turned out to be.

She couldn’t stay here, no matter how much of an obligation she felt. To Henry and his memory. To the place that held so many memories of him, held his ghost in every corner and shadow. To the people who saw her as half of their leadership. To her other half whom she found less and less a part of her the longer her son lay in the ground.

She hadn’t felt warm here in weeks.

The light seeped in the few times she’d radioed Alexandria and spoke with Michonne and Judith. When Rosita sent a specific message, checking in on her. When a random Hilltop straggler visited and she hoped for news of Maggie’s return. When she sat quietly with Daryl and the silence didn’t scream in pain and the hurt, though ever acute, felt somehow lessened because she could share it.

It’d happened nearly her whole life. Surrounded by people but sitting in isolation. Alone with her thoughts but not present. Part of something but alone. The only time she felt she belonged had been with them. On a farm. At a prison. Homeless on the road. It hadn’t mattered where they were; it’d only ever mattered who she had with her.

Most of them gone now, and she’d separated herself from the rest.

She stared as the black of night eked way into gray and wondered how she could make the dawn rise in her heart again.

A desperate ache clawed in her chest. She needed them now more than ever. Needed their strength because she was spent. Needed them to remind her of the best of her, not enthralled by the masked pretender she’d become all these years.

Michonne had confirmed, even after all this time, that they were still family. Daryl had hung around since the day of the fair, never pushing her to talk about her feelings or trying to change the subject; he merely let her experience whatever emotion she had and remained nearby should she need him.

She sighed, considering how simple and yet complicated it was to have that quiet strength, to not push away uncomfortable feelings and to sit until the storm passed. His friendship had meant so much to her over the years, and maybe never more so than now.

They’d spent more time together lately than they had since…well, since they’d arrived at Alexandria all those years ago. The realization made her heart ache with nostalgia.

He’d taken to sleeping outside on the gazebo bench—he said he liked it there, but she thought he likely felt claustrophobic indoors after so many years sleeping in the woods—and had found her shivering in the cold night air a month ago, trying to escape the guilt and grief that plagued her. He’d warmed her with his jacket, but also with the light he shone in her heart.

They’d sat quietly for a long time, hours maybe, so close she could feel the heat from his body, their arms and legs touching as they lounged on and under the blankets protecting them from the cold trying to seep into their skin. After a while, Daryl had turned the lantern off and let his head fall back so he could stare up at the winter sky. She stared at him, the ease of his composure, the unapologetic ruggedness, the strength of his brawn and his heart, the lines time had drawn around the eyes she missed looking into so much.

Her mouth cracked into a soft, sad smile, and she followed suit, letting her head fall back to peer up at the blanket of darkness with millions of twinkling lights popping through.

“Even after all this time, it’s easy to forget they’re there,” she said, straining to get the quiet words out past the stretch in her neck.

Several moments passed before Daryl slowly eased his heavy head up to a normal position. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him look at her. “Sometimes you just need to be reminded.”

Carol moved her head up to face him, full of trepidation and hope, a nasty mixture that left her craving comfort she should be allowing her husband to provide.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” she whispered, staring at her nails as she picked at them. The admission crashed in on her and left her feeling light as a feather. She’d said it and couldn’t take it back, and it both chained and freed her.

Daryl didn’t respond, though she could tell he waited intently for her to continue.

“This isn’t a fairy tale, but I’ve been living like it could be real. All this time… Like a child whose dream of being swept away by a prince—or a king—came true. So foolish.”

Her last words came out on an angry, strangled breath. He waited to see if she’d expel anything more, but all that came were tears.

“You needed peace. Deserved it after everything that happened. No one blames you—could ever blame you—for wanting to escape the reality of this shithole. ‘S no shame in that.” He turned his body towards her, lifting his hand to her jaw to gently ease her gaze up to meet his. “You gotta forgive yourself for wanting a place to heal. A place to be happy. A place to have a family again. Carol…”

She saw a war within his eyes, felt the ache in his voice, and couldn’t stop staring at him.

He hurt for her. With all the fierceness he possessed, he wanted to help her.

Without knowing it, he already was.

Carol shut her eyes, the burn of tears and lack of sleep stinging as she tried to understand the mix of emotions swirling inside her. She wanted to escape the feelings cramming her chest; she needed to stay put. She felt like smiling at the relief his words caused to wash over her and wanted to cry until the breath was stolen from her lungs. She could scream until her throat felt raw, but she needed to sit in silence with this man and heal. She needed to remember how she’d gotten here. She wanted to forget.

Could she forgive herself? Forgive that she’d willfully chosen to leave the only people who’d ever made her feel real? Forgive that she’d loved another child, knowing she may very well be his curse? Forgive herself for falling under the spell of a man who acted like a king and treated her like a queen? Forgive herself now for wanting to leave the fraud of her life behind and begin again?

God, she wanted to.

“Henry’s everywhere,” she squeezed out past the lump in her throat. “Being here…I can’t stay.”

He heard the hurt in her voice, the draw to stay to keep Henry’s memory alive, the draw to leave to keep herself alive.

“You don’t gotta stay anywhere you don’t want to. Or leave when you don’t want to. No one can make you do that anymore.” He waited a moment before continuing. “It ain’t who you are.”

She stared up at him, the reminder so simple, so profound, it shook her to her core.

She had a choice. She could choose. She could choose.

With a tearful nod, she slipped back into silence, cherishing that realization in her heart, the air heavy with their thoughts. The night felt darker without the lantern on, but somehow it didn’t weigh as much. Somehow facing the darkness next to Daryl felt more like comfort than anything she’d felt in years.

“I should head back in,” she murmured after a long time. “You’re going out to check your traps tomorrow?”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

She gripped his hand briefly. “Stay close. Be safe.”

And he had. He’d stayed close enough for her to find him if she needed to, for him to check in on her every day the past month. Anytime, night or day, she could seek him out and feel the warmth of spring in the deadest of her winters. Sometimes they talked for minutes, sometimes they sat in silence for hours. Most of the time they both stayed busy keeping the Kingdom running and worrying about the Whisperers showing up. Regardless, his presence meant more to her than anything else.

She’d turned the star-gazing conversation over and over in her mind for weeks now, wearing it out like a lucky penny, and each day she’d moved closer to the possibility of reclaiming her life.

Ezekiel knew something had shifted the past few days, she could feel it. She’d seen him eyeing Daryl curiously, as he’d seen her spend more and more time with her old friend. He never questioned her or said anything about Daryl’s new camp inside the walls of their community, but she felt the tension growing. It should bother her, she knew, but it only felt cloying, like a jacket that fit too snugly.

Daryl would stay as long as she needed him to.

And she needed him to. She felt in his presence. Felt like a person and not like a shell. She was cracked but not broken, and he accepted that, welcomed it even, as part of her. He made her believe she could survive this as she had the loss of her other children and come out stronger, burnished steel from a blazing inferno.

But not here, she’d come to accept. Not as a childless mother in a crumbling castle of girlish dreams.

Carol noticed that daylight now streamed in through the window behind her, lighting her way. She sat up, throwing her feet to the floor, her clothes from yesterday slightly wrinkled beneath the large sweater draped around her. Gripping the edge of the bed, she took in a deep breath, her decision made.

The bedroom door swung open, and Ezekiel entered, closing it behind him.

“Pipes burst again. I’d gone to the kitchen to get a drink when I heard them.”

He sighed heavily, wearily, as he sat behind her, and she heard his shoes drop to the floor, felt the bed dip behind her as he lay down.

“Did you sleep?” His question came gently, concern tingeing his voice, and she shook her head.

His hand rested on her shoulder. “We can rest. I told Jerry not to bother us for a while.”

He sounded so hopeful, entreating. She knew her words would break his already fragile heart.

“I can’t stay here anymore,” she heard herself say without introduction, without inflection. Even to her own ears, she sounded despondent. “I can’t be where Henry was. He’s everywhere.”

The silence stretched around her; she couldn’t even hear him breathe.

“We can move to another building,” he finally suggested, but the idea and his tone both sounded flimsy.

“I’m not a mother anymore. I’m not a queen—never really have been. I know now I can’t be here anymore. I don’t want to pretend we can make it through to the other side of this.”

“We can. I know we can.”

Some of his optimism, his hope came through, but it fell lackluster against her heart. A trap she’d fallen prey to in her life before. Pretty lies, sweet ministrations, painted pictures of promises that couldn’t come true. Not like her first husband, but trapped all the same. Like she’d jumped off a cliff and he’d grasped her arm for dear life, even as she’d let go, ready to face the deep cavern at her feet.

It would take both of them to survive; somehow she’d land on them. But she needed him to let go so she could try.

She’d already chosen her fate.

“We can’t.”

“Carol, please—”

He gripped her shoulder, pleading, and she turned to look at him, lying on his side propped up on one elbow. “Ezekiel, I can’t.” The word came out fiercely, quietly, and her stomach roiled with emotions at the way this had gone. She softened her voice, full of tears. “I’m sorry…”

Something in her tone must have solidified it for him. He let his hand drop from her shoulder, and he turned to face the window as she looked down at her feet.

“We have to leave anyway. The pipes won’t hold much longer. I radioed Hilltop, and they’re willing to take us in. All of us. We should leave by the end of the week. It’ll take that long to get everyone and everything packed up. Will you stay with me? Help me?”

She sighed wearily at this loss, set atop the pile she’d already stacked up lately. She’d have to help them pack, help with the children and gather supplies. She’d have to go through Henry’s room if she wanted to keep anything of his. The prospect sickened her stomach, but the idea of not having something of his seemed unbearable.

“Yeah,” she finally conceded. “I’ll stay.”

#caryl #carol x daryl #daryl x carol #caryl fanfiction #caryl fanfic #personal #my writing #through the storm

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winterysomnium · 5 years

Text

What’s left (is you) [2/3]; ; Todoroki Shouto/Midoriya Izuku;BNHA; word count: 4,900+ words; rated: PG-15; warnings: slight gore, violence,full tags on AO3;

notes: hii decided to update since I edited the parts I wanted for this chapter and the more I read it over the more I doubt myself so it might be better to just post it. Thank you for all the support on AO3! ♥

summary: After the pro hero Deku loses his memory as a result of an assassination attempt, Shouto is struggling to cope with everything his boyfriend’s recovery entails: from the threat of another attack to the possibility of Izuku’s memories never coming back.

(Oh, and did Shouto forget to mention that he’s 90% sure Izuku was trying to break up with him before the attack, on top of everything?)

read the story on AO3

The first week Izuku’s back home is the easiest by far.

Shouto has a lot of paperwork to sort out and Izuku’s mostly spending time with his Mom; he can’t really watch too much TV or be active on his social media at all, so they chat to each other all day and Shouto gives them privacy, as much as he can. Their apartment came with an extra room they didn’t have any particular use for so Shouto put in tatami and essentially turned it into a copy of his dorm room: he keeps a spare futon rolled out in there most of the time anyway.

(As nice as beds with mattresses and thick covers were, some nights Shouto preferred the simplicity and comfort of the soft futon and the feel of tatami under his feet and Izuku respected that, indiscriminately.)

Whenever Izuku was on a long mission out of town, Shouto tended to sleep there rather than alone in their bed, the space too vast without the other, somehow. It was also where Izuku would surprise him sometimes by arriving early, pressing Shouto into the sleepy futon and they’d fuck, sweetly, heatedly; they missed each other enough to just stay there all day, soak in the soft, tender affection.

It’s been a while since Izuku has lost to his want and desire completely, loving Shouto to the core like that.

It all adds to the situation: Izuku’s in their bed thinking it’s solely his own, he has been keeping something from Shouto that neither of them know now and they hadn’t had proper time to be with each other for about two weeks before the attack.

It strengthens Shouto’s resolve not to say anything, to keep lying about their relationship, by omission.

(He doesn’t want to have to explain all that to Izuku, anytime soon.)

Shouto can hear Izuku’s Mom talking with him softly through the door and Shouto feels like he’s eavesdropping, listening in on something sacred and raw.

The first night they’re all home, he lets his frustration and fear slide down his nose and drip into the pillow: it needed airing and the covers a wash, anyway, so he does nothing to stop the tears. All the pictures of him and Izuku were hidden away and it almost felt like Shouto was a spirit: he’s stumbled into a future he fears, an intruder of an incomplete home, of a frightening possibility. It’s almost like they’ve really broken up, like his thoughts have created a universe of their own, throwing him in.

And yet it doesn’t compare to the feeling of accompanying Inko to her train and driving the two of them home, alone for the first time in weeks and as Izuku hums along to a new pop song he’s had the opportunity to memorize already, Shouto’s glad he doesn’t have to talk.

In twenty minutes, they’re alone in the apartment and Shouto’s reheating yesterday’s leftovers, the atmosphere between them thin but sluggish, awkward in a strange, unfamiliar way.

It reminds him of the first time they’ve had a fight, when Shouto was 18 and the notion of being loved hasn’t sunken in yet properly, a weekend away at his family home was enough for him to return moody, shaken and torn between setting himself or everything around him on fire; closing himself off from anyone he could hurt the only option left. The thought scared -- no, terrified -- him and he got overwhelmed, he’d pushed Izuku away and he yelled something dumb and hurtful and he made Izuku cry, Izuku didn’t let it show but Shouto saw him rub his sleeve across his cheeks forcefully.

They were shipped off to a field day together the next morning in class and Izuku was upset and angry and didn’t even want to look Shouto’s way and Shouto was sure he had destroyed everything, everything that truly mattered in his life (his heart).

(Perhaps there was a curse, after all, to become his father, to become his hated half, to become the person who hurt Izuku the most.)

Shouto apologized after their class had ended; resting his forehead against Izuku’s tense back, his shoulders so guarded he felt unreachable, like a pretty sea shell at the bottom of the waves.

Shouto apologized, said he’d understand if Izuku wanted to break up but that he didn’t want to, really, really didn’t want to and the spot where he rested his face against Izuku’s costume was damp and heavy with salt, with his unspoken apology. It was then that Izuku’s defenses seemed to thaw, just enough for him to open up his arms, his warm self to Shouto’s lost hopes.

Izuku probably realized just how scattered Shouto was that day.

(Shouto wasn’t a cracked pane of glass or a cup with a chip on the rim; he was a fully crushed human being, a plate shattered against the far wall.)

He has just started to meld some of his pieces together.

If Izuku held him in his palms, he’d get cut.

The atmosphere now feels tentative in the same way but he tries not to mind it: he puts their plates onto their usual spots while Izuku pours them hot tea.

They exchange a soft, quiet itadakimasu and start eating; Izuku keeps looking up at him across the table and Shouto tries not to see.

“Todoroki-kun?” Izuku asks as Shouto puts down his chopsticks to place his cup to his lips, he’s trying to swallow down the dry, irritating lump in his throat. Izuku still holds his chopsticks and fumbles around with a piece of chicken between them on his plate.

“Hmm?” Shouto hums rather than answers and he drinks his tea too fast; the liquid still a touch scalding on the roof of his mouth. “What is it?”

“What’s your favourite food? It feels kind of stupid to ask now but I’ve been trying to remember what it was all evening but -- couldn’t. So, will you tell me again?” The question is innocent and so is Izuku’s expression: he’s genuinely curious and yet it confuses Shouto’s heart.

(He’s happy about his favourite food being something important, he’s saddened about it being something Izuku doesn’t know.)

He smiles softly, hoping his flush can be blamed on the tea.

“Zarusoba. Iida tended to scold me for never eating anything else in high school.”

Izuku snorts, likes he’s relieved, finally putting the chicken bite into his mouth. “He seems like the type. Do we usually eat dinner together, the two of us?” He gestures and Shouto picks up his chopsticks again, too.

“When we can. Our schedules don’t always match up, though.”

“Who’s the better cook?”

“Your Mom.”

Izuku snorts once more, his grin matching Shouto’s own amused look.

This is nice, Shouto concludes, in its simplicity, its given rules.

Shouto feels … nice.

“And here I thought you’d be a chef supreme, given your quirk,” Izuku notes, amused and Shouto shakes his head, regretfully.

“The only thing I’ve ever successfully made was rice porridge.”

“Am I good at cooking?”

“Not particularly. Bakugou’s been teaching you though. He gave up on me, if that’s any consolation.”

“Huh, Kacchan didn’t say.”

“He’s probably mortified by the thought of you calling him out on doing something nice and helpful for once and someone overhearing.”

“Ah, yeah, probably. He kept insisting he only visited me because Ochako kept pestering him and it was annoying. He’s … kind of a bad liar, isn’t he?”

“And he’s even worse at being honest. Just watching him sometimes is exhausting,” Shouto agrees and it’s as if that word -- exhausting -- has unlocked all of the fatigue trapped within his bones, all at once.

An early night sounds like the best kind of plan for tonight.

They finish dinner and leave the dirty plates in the sink; they wish each other goodnight at the thresholds of their neighboring rooms.

If he tries hard enough, Shouto could pretend that Izuku’s just going to his night shift and he’ll find Shouto in the morning, cuddling up sleepily into his back.

If he tries hard enough, he’ll remember the feeling of Izuku’s kisses on his temple.

If he tries hard enough, maybe his chest will stop aching, so tirelessly.

---

Shouto’s Wednesday isn’t really going well as is, the attack investigation not progressing beyond what they already know: the incident was a coordinated effort to take down and favorably assassinate -- that word still makes Shouto’s heart stop, every damn time -- the hero Deku, attacking all of the bigger agencies in the area in order to isolate him and complicate any backup attempts, with the ultimate goal of rendering him unable to continue his hero duties any further.

But they still don’t know who instigated it or if there are more factions than the cluster of villains they’ve caught and as much as Shouto’s glad that he’s gotten leave to unofficially guard Deku 24/7, not being able to take part in the interrogations is frustrating in itself and it leaves him restless, hyper aware of how inactive he is.

What he needs is a good, long, proper sparring session.

What he gets is a call from his Father.

Despite them being -- reconciled, of sorts, a decade of stored anger and resentment isn’t something you can simply wish away and Shouto’s been working on it, he has and his therapist would probably tell him not to answer the phone if he’s already in the middle of a constant low grade anxiety attack but here he is, answering the phone like an idiot, snapping at every question and riling up both of their tempers, needlessly.

The call is short, shorter than his Father intended and Shouto knows Endeavor just wanted to comfort him, in his own way, that he just wanted to be the soothing parent to his son that he’d never truly been when Shouto was a child but … it feels misplaced.

(Why couldn’t he have tried sooner?)

On top of that, Shouto’s Mother is away on her planned spa treatment and her cell phone access is limited, which has probably fuelled Endeavor’s check up call further, and that’s partly on Shouto as well. Shouto told her to absolutely not come back when everything happened, that they’re fine, Mom please, please but right now Shouto just wants to curl up and beg his Mother to hold him until he forgets he’s no longer five.

That or break his Father’s nose.

Calm down, he tells himself, his quirks buzzing louder than his heartbeat through his head; he can feel how drastically different his opposing fingers feel to touch.

Man, today really sucked.

Shouto didn’t notice Izuku was sitting on the couch until he stands up, putting the book he’s been reading away.

“Todoroki-kun? Are you alright?” Izuku asks carefully, the concern so obvious on his face it’s almost painfully endearing.

Almost.

Shouto sighs. Rather than a spar, maybe he just needs a nap.

“I’m fine, Midoriya,” he says, trying to convince himself alongside Izuku and if that name -- Midoriya -- isn’t just another layer of messed up twisting his skin tighter and tighter, he doesn’t know what is.

Breathe. Don’t think about your Father. Think about something you have to do.

(You have to stop getting so angry about stupid things, first of all.)

Izuku draws him out of his thoughts, effortlessly.

“I know this might not be the best time to say this but -- I’m sorry, Todoroki-kun. For what I said.” Izuku fidgets and Shouto blinks, trying to remember when Izuku said anything that he’d need to apologize for -- his mind is unhelpfully blank.

“Sorry for what?”

“For what I said about getting to meet your Father, the first time we talked about him. How I said how excited I must have been to meet him and all that. I’ve noticed your reaction was sort of -- off at the time but I couldn’t tell why and I still don’t know what happened between you but I think -- I think he hurt you somehow, has been hurting you and I didn’t even consider thinking about your family situation and that not everyone even has a family and -- I. I just. I’m sorry, for not noticing sooner. For not apologizing sooner.” Izuku’s eyebrows center his expression into a frown and he’s wringing his hands, like he’s trying to iron out all the scars and crooked fractures, like they’re physical marks of his mistakes --

Shouto’s been thoroughly disarmed.

“You don’t have to apologize for that. It’s not your fault,” he insists, sort of bewildered that it’s an issue at all.

That Izuku’s been weighted down by something like this.

Izuku wring his hands harder. “It kind of is.”

“Midoriya --” Shouto tries but he knows there’s no arguing that look Izuku gives him, that look of not backing down, of doing whatever he’s set his mind on doing --

It’s your power!

Shouto slumps in his shoulders.

He’s so, so tired and yet Izuku just existing gives him something akin to hope.

“You were the first person I’ve ever told about it,” Shouto confesses, quietly and he hears Izuku’s weight shifting on the couch, he’s watching him over its back, resting his knees on the cushions.

He’s still supposed to be on bed rest, technically.

“So we were close?” Izuku asks and Shouto lets out a breathy laugh at the memory.

Are you All Might’s secret love child or something?

“No, not really. We’ve barely talked when I approached you. I guess I just thought you could relate, somehow.”

There’s a pause, like the world’s stopped to take in a lungful of air, giving Izuku a moment to recreate the unknown memory.

“Not many people know, do they?”

“No.”

“Why… why haven’t I told anyone? Everyone?”

“Because you knew that’s not what I wanted.”

Izuku looks down onto his own clasped hands, a little less high strung. He looks oddly regretful, like he’s realizing he’s made a mistake on a test he’s just handed over, like he’s forgotten something important at home. “I guess I can understand that. He was already the number two hero when I was in middle school and something like that would surely cause uproar, whatever it is. And more than anything, I probably wanted to protect you…” he trails off and there’s warmth spreading throughout Shouto’s limbs, despite how bone weary the rest of him feels.

“You’re the same as always, aren’t you, Midoriya? You still want to help everyone, memories or not.”

“Ah, do I?” Now Izuku’s the one who looks a little bewildered, a little sheepish, eyes and mouth shy.

Shouto smiles; he’s surprised how easy the expression comes. “I admire that about you,” he says.

And oh, Shouto must be imagining the slight flush on Izuku’s face, the way he ducks his head, away from Shouto’s face.

It must be just another illusion of the sun.

---

[ 2:57pm; from: Yaoyorozu]

How are you two holding up? Please greet Izuku-san for me.

[3:01pm; to: Yaoyorozu]

we’re fine. will do.

[3:03pm; from: Yaoyorozu]

Has he remembered anything yet?

[3:07 pm; to: Yaoyorozu]

not yet.

I’ve got some files on Point Blank and the others involved in the attack from the Endeavor agency

I’ll send them over.

[3:10pm; from: Yaoyorozu]

That would be most helpful! It would be good to finally find more clues in there. Hopefully Izuku-san will recover soon as well.

[3:11pm; to: Yaoyorozu]

thank you.

[3:47pm; from: Yaoyorozu]

Just for the record, you can count on me, Shouto. Call me if there’s anything I can do. Okay?

Shouto doesn’t answer, but he knows.

He knows.

---

There were times when Shouto regretted giving Fuyumi a key to their apartment.

Right now is definitely, hundred percent one of those times.

“Shouto! You weren’t answering my calls this morning so I came in to check if everything was okay!” Fuyumi enters the apartment with the confidence of a winter storm on the first day of holidays and she slips out of her boots and into her designated slippers with surprising agility; Shouto swears he barely blinks before she pulls him into a heartfelt hug, leaping through the living room.

“Hey, little bro. Long time no see,” Natsuo greets him as well, thoroughly ruffling Shouto’s hair a minute later and messing it up with a delighted smile.

He’s always been oddly entertained by leaving Shouto’s hair a convoluted mess.

“Fuyumi, Natsuo,” Shouto addresses them, too frazzled to say anything more.

Fuyumi gives him one more good squeeze and spots Izuku walking out of the kitchen, lured out by all the noise and aims her fond, welcoming energy towards him, too, just a touch softer, a touch more reserved.

“Izuku-kun,” she calls out and Shouto’s face gets red simultaneously with Izuku’s; Fuyumi holds Izuku’s shoulders gently before she wraps him in a loose hug, careful of his lingering aches.

“I’m happy to see you look so well!” she lets out a relieved sigh against his shoulder and Shouto definitely prefers Natsuo’s subtler methods: he just waves at Izuku from where he’s leaning on Shouto’s shoulder; he’s never been one for hugs.

“Ah, um, thank you --” Izuku’s eyes slide over to Shouto, taking in the appearance of the siblings, the resemblance is unmistakable. “--um, Todoroki-san?” he tests out and Fuyumi steps away, there’s a somber undercurrent to her smile.

She hasn’t really been a person Izuku could recognize from his middle school days and it sinks in that it’s still the case; Izuku’s memories still lost at sea.

“Just Fuyumi works just fine, Izuku-kun! I’m Shouto’s older sister. That’s Natsuo, Shouto’s older brother. We helped the two of you move in way back so I still have the spare key Shouto gave me!”

“That was for emergencies only, Fuyumi,” Shouto complains, rubbing at his cheek, suddenly itchy and a little too warm, not entirely from Natsuo’s added weight at his side.

“Well you weren’t answering your phone. I was worried.”

“I forgot it in my room. I’m fine.”

“I’ve also missed you, you know. Natsuo did too,” Fuyumi points out and Natsuo glances away with a look that says he wants to protest but knows it would be an embarrassingly see-through lie: they’ve gotten fairly close over the past several years.

“I was thinking we could all go out for lunch together! Our treat,” Fuyumi continues, her disarming smile fully equipped to defeat any and all half assed excuses Shouto could come up with, Izuku’s feeble attempts to decline just as ineffective against her charm.

Shouto won’t even try to fight her on it, not with the way she steers the group to the door.

“You don’t have to do that, Todoroki-san,” Izuku tries, nonetheless and Shouto gives him points for doing so but Fuyumi just waves her hand dismissively.

“Please? I don’t get many opportunities to spoil my little brother and he’s definitely not going to go without you. Also, I can share all the good Shouto stories. What do you say? You won’t deprive me of the rare opportunity to mildly embarrass my brother in front of his friends, will you?” she pleads and Shouto’s not sure he likes the curious, conspiratorial grin Fuyumi and Izuku exchange between them but on the other hand, he’s willing to sacrifice a bit of dignity to see Izuku smile like this.

Relaxed, eager, interested in stories about Shouto like Shouto matters, like he’s important in Izuku’s life.

Natsuo snorts at Shouto’s face knowingly and messes his hair up some more.

(Shouto doesn’t bat his hand away.)

He doesn’t regret giving Fuyumi the key, anymore either.

(He fully regrets it again two hours later after his sister’s told yet another story about him that startles a laugh out of Izuku and it would be so much better if it wasn’t about five year old Shouto’s misconception of where babies come from.

Oh, well.

Izuku’s laugh still might be worth it, in the end.)

---

[group chat]

Midoriya: guys!! why didn’t you tell me we have movie nights on Thursdays!!

Uraraka: aah, you found out about that huh >>;;;. did Todoroki tell you?

Bakugou: wtf Deku it’s not even Thursday for like three more days. shut up some of us have work to do

Midoriya: well SOME of us have been betrayed by their own classmates??

Midoriya: and roommate??

Midoriya: it was my turn to choose the movie too! and I had to find out because of an alert on the TV

Midoriya: of all things!

Iida: Izuku-kun, I take it you’re doing alright? Also, we always cancel our weekly cinema viewing when someone’s badly injured, so I was going to send out an official cancelation message tomorrow as well.

Jirou: fr once im with Bakugou … as much as I am happy yurr ok Midoriya, Ive gotten home from my shift like two hours ago.I havent slept in like two days. imma be gone now, bye

Ashido: oh hey guys! and I’m sorryyyy Midoriya-chaaaan, but that’s the law of 1-A! Also honestly I’ve forgotten that you’ve forgotten@@

Uraraka: yeah yeah! and if you want we can have one this week!

Uraraka: also you didn’t kill Todoroki right he hasn’t said anything yet

Todoroki: I was in the shower.

Tokoyami: is it wise to have one when Midoriya still hasn’t recovered

Tokoyami: it might be a lot to take in

Midoriya: I think it’ll be fine! I’ve been talking here more often over the past few days so movie banter should be fine as well, right?

Uraraka: do you even know that many movies, with your memories?

Midoriya: hmmm I think so?

Midoriya: I can get help from Todoroki, too

Todoroki: sure thing, Midoriya. but tell me if you get a headache.

Ashido: aren’t you both at home?

Ashido: why are you texting each other on here ;;; weirdos

Kaminari: speaking of movies!! have you guys heard about the new All Might movie documentary???!!!

Midoriya: oh my god

Midoriya: OH MY GOD THERE MUST BE SO MANY NEW HERO DOCUS

Uraraka: Izuku-kun?

Uraraka: …

Uraraka: I think we lost him orz

Todoroki: is it a good time to show him his hero DVD collection

Midoriya: MY WHAT

Midoriya: TODOROKI

Uraraka: oh he was still here!!

Ashido: also did Kaminari just come in here to say that

Uraraka: looks like it

Ashido: guess we’ll talk about the movie night later then? have a good day everyone! It’s really sunny out here in Sapporo!

Uraraka: yeah, for sure! to you too, Mina-chan!!

Uraraka: it was nice to catch up! ^^

Bakugou: I’m muting you all

Bakugou: jsyk

---

Cold, clammy dread sets in Shouto’s chest two seconds after he tells Izuku where to find his extensive hero documentary collection -- there’s a panicked, unwelcome thought stirring at the back of his mind.

Shouto … Shouto thinks he put something in there he didn’t want Izuku to see.

It might not be anything revealing, he tells himself, trying to bring his heart back to its proper place, back to the tight press of his chest. It’s probably a latest hero magazine issue or the various little memories of some trips they’ve taken together or maybe it’s one of the many pictures Izuku has with All Might that Shouto has hidden to avoid some too close questions … it’s probably just the magazine. It’s probably something hero related.

(It’s nothing about them, right?)

Izuku brings the answer with him ten minutes later, carries it in his arms and inside of his shoulders, just when the nervous churning inside of Shouto has subsided, swept away by the quiet lull of sounds.

He should’ve gone with him, shouldn’t he?

“When were you going to tell me?” Izuku asks from the doorway, tone level and low; there’s an odd, wiry stiffness to his shape.

He’s not wringing his hands or moving his feet when Shouto looks up at him, but his voice, his fingers, are trembling against each other.

Izuku’s clutching one of their photo albums in his hands, so tightly the points of contact dip like there’s gravity collapsing around his fingertips and he looks, he looks -- shell shocked. Disappointed. Livid. Hurt.

The dread explodes inside of Shouto’s gut.

Izuku’s anger looks pained, painful.

(Shouto can’t even find words anywhere close to his mouth, lost between his skull and his throat.)

“Were you going to tell me?” Izuku asks once more; he’s subdued, he’s monotone, he’s looking at Shouto like he’s never seen him before, like he’s been replaced.

Shouto’s heart burns in his chest.

“Midoriya --”

“It’s Izuku, isn’t it? It’s probably been Izuku for a while,” Izuku cuts in, something derisive, self-conscious in the tone, like he’s been the punch line of a joke and he’s just found out publicly; like he’s waiting for someone to laugh.

Like he’s looking for someone to blame.

Izuku looks at Shouto.

Shouto feels oddly blank.

“I wasn’t,” he answers, the words slow, sticking to his lips. He’s looking down at his lap and his words feel loud, too loud, too sharp.

(He doesn’t want to look at Izuku, not when he’s saying things like this.

He doesn’t want to see.)

“I wasn’t going to tell you, no.”

Izuku slams the photo book against the table, hard.

(Shouto flinches.)

“Why?” Izuku demands, like he’s the echo of his own voice, like he’s pulling back to throw a punch, stronger, louder, the longer he screams. “There must be a reason, right? I mean -- we still haven’t figured out -- we don’t even know if I’ll ever get my memories back! I might never get them back, Shouto!” he shouts and Shouto’s name feels like a slap, a flicker of burning.

“So tell me! There must be a reason! Were you hoping I wouldn’t remember? Were you trying to end things like this? Like a damn coward? Was it something else? Shouto! Why weren’t you going to tell me? Look at me and tell me!” and Izuku’s -- Izuku’s started to cry.

Shouto’s earlier conviction of his motives, his infallible logic and unshakable decision all feel minuscule: they feel pitiful and selfish when faced with the sense of grief on Izuku’s face, faced with the thick lilt of Izuku’s voice, the starry, wet constellations spilling across the map of his cheeks.

(Shouto feels ashamed.

So, so deeply ashamed.)

He had managed to hurt him, again.

They resonate, Izuku’s feelings, they catch on the hidden depths of Shouto’s fears and wishes and ground-down emotions and they amplify, they amplify, they amplify; Shouto looks at Izuku and he’s trying not to cry, too.

His voice is shaking when he speaks.

(His feelings burst.)

“I didn’t know what I was supposed to say! Was I supposed to say that I love you but don’t know if you still love me the same way? That there was something wrong before you were attacked and that you were lying to me and that I’ve realized you were trying to break up with me? Was I supposed to lie to you back and pretend nothing was wrong? Was I supposed to explain all of this to you two days after you’d woken up from a state so bad we thought you would die?” There’s a tear on Shouto’s lip, a tear that slips down the slope of his chin, a falling star.

It’s okay to cry, he’d been told.

It still feels like he’s stealing Izuku’s sadness, Izuku’s place of hurt, for himself.

Shouto drags his knuckles across his cheek, angrily.

There’s more he wants to say.

“I didn’t want you to think I’ve used your memory loss to -- to make you love me again. How was I -- I didn’t know what to do with all of this. I still don’t know what to do with all of this! I’m no good and you’re too good, Izuku. You’re too kind and you’d feel guilty, you’d feel obligated to return my feelings, you’d be the selfless you that you are and pretend to love me and Izuku, you’d just -- you’d hurt us both, that way. I -- I didn’t want that.”

Shouto touches his lip, tries to swallow the dry feel of his throat and he wonders if this is how bombs feel after they detonate: scattered, light, earth bound, gone.

Destructive.

Bad.

“Shouto,” Izuku breathes, sown into the spot by the thread of Shouto’s pain, his honesty; he feels woven into time.

He kneels in front of Shouto after a beat, his drum of a heart leading his feet; he kneels in front of the man he barely knows yet knows the most of all, the man he wants to comfort and his palms take hold of Shouto’s face, hesitant.

Izuku’s never been faced with a love like this: with someone’s heartbreak unfolding in his palms.

His smile is a seismic curve.

“Damnit, I can’t believe Kacchan was right. We are as bad as each other.” Izuku’s fingers tighten, press, he’s holding onto Shouto as much as Shouto’s holding him, the affection shoved into his gut known and unknown at the same time: he wonders if this is how he feels every day, every time he sees Shouto’s face.

(He thinks he does.)

“Shouto… I -- I’m sorry. I should’ve known you had a reason, but. But I still wish you’d told me.”

“I didn’t know how.” Shouto’s reply barely registers and Izuku bites his mouth, more frustrated than ever by his lack of progress, by the things he’s missing so effortlessly, like they’ve never been part of him in the first place, like they’ve never even been there.

He’s frustrated, he’s tired, he’s scared.

He’s scared this is all it’s ever going to be.

(He can’t let it be just this.)

“I still don’t remember us,” he admits, quietly, something brave and firm rising in his chest, something that pushes every doubt into a place he won’t wander into, anymore.

He’ll remember.

And if he doesn’t, if he doesn’t -- he’ll just relearn Shouto all over again.

“But I will. I’ll remember. And if not then -- then you’ll have to be patient with me. And I might make you wait for me, for a little bit, because I’ll have a lot of things to catch up on and a lot of things to rediscover but -- but, Shouto. From the moment I woke up, you were there for me. And I thought -- I thought you were most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. And you were so kind. I felt -- protected. I felt important.” Izuku laughs, a sound almost kissed upon Shouto’s mouth itself. “I was so disappointed when you said we were just roommates. I was so bummed out because I knew you were someone I could see myself falling in love with. Maybe I already am, all over again. So just … bear with me, for a little while longer?” Izuku lifts his lashes, he’s hopeful and determined and brave, so so brave, even with his pulse sprinting ahead, a gated flood.

(Shouto drowns.)

“Okay.”

He presses his face into Izuku’s shoulder and stays.

“I will.”

#tododeku #tddk #Todoroki Shouto #Midoriya Izuku #BNHA #MHA #anything else to tag?

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creativenostalgiastuff · 7 years

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A Virgil Affliction: Chapter 5: Doctors and Cookies

Rating: T Pairings: LAMP/CALM (platonic) Warnings: Anxiety, anxiety attack, medication, doctor’s visit Disclaimer: Not everyone’s anxiety manifests itself in the same way. What is discussed here is by no means a judgement or predictions on anyone or anything. Author’s Note: Just wanted to say before you read this: While this beginning of the chapter is based on my own experience, it is by no means meant to pass on judgement or anything on others. What works for one person may or may not for others. I also wanted to note that I am SUPER excited for the end of this chapter because it finally gets to the main concept I wanted to explore with this story. Let me know what you think? I love hearing from you guys! Word Count: 2619 Tag List: @today-only-happens-once @niatsu-fullbuster @rileyfirstname @pineapplebutterscotch @thepoolofthedead (PLEASE let me know if you want to be added or taken off of the list)

Need to catch up? First Chapter Previous Chapter

“And what brings you in today, Mr. Sanders?”

Virgil wrung his hands together as he watched the interactions around Thomas. Wow, he had almost forgotten how much he hated the doctor’s office. So many sick people, so many germs that could get Thomas sick, and no escape. They didn’t have time for Thomas to get sick as Virgil kept reminding anyone that would listen. He had Thomas sit by himself in the waiting room, but it wasn’t far enough away from the small child that kept sneezing without covering her mouth before touching everything in sight. At least now they were in a room, much more isolated. They had to scrub these things down after every patient, right? Hopefully that nasty flu would stay away…

“Well,” Thomas huffed, the forced smile on his face starting to falter at the edges. “Where do I begin?”

The doctor’s eyes scanned the computer screen in front of him that had Thomas’ file on it, “According to the intake, you had some concerns with an increase in anxiety you’ve been experiencing?”

Virgil rolled his eyes, “You could say that.” He knew that the doctor couldn’t see him. At the end of the day, he was really just a part of Thomas. But he also knew that Thomas could hear him. His voice just blended in with Thomas’ thoughts, helping to create the self talk that goes on inside a person’s mind.

Thomas shook his head, staring at his hands that were folded in his lap.

“Why don’t you tell me what’s been going on?” The doctor asked, a sympathetic smile appearing on his face as he pushed the computer monitor to the side so that Thomas had the man’s complete attention

“Are we sure this guy can do anything for us?” Virgil asked critically.

Thomas started slowly, his eyes coming up to meet the doctor’s, “I don’t even know if you’re the person I should be talking to about this.”

Anxiety shrugged, “We could just be over-reacting you know?”

“It might not even be that big of a deal,” added Thomas. “ But I thought you might be able to steer me in the right direction.”

The doctor stared at him and waited for Thomas to continue. “It’s just… that there’s been a lot of issues I guess. Friends moving away, job changing, expectations rising, family commitments… you name it. None of it is very big things, granted.”

“Has this been impacting your relationships?” the doctor asked.

“Yeah,” Thomas said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’m short tempered? And I’m not one to get in fights, but I’ve been getting in them with my friends. And sometimes I’m just so overwhelmed it gets hard to do things, so I fall behind, and that just makes it all so much worse.”

Virgil flinched, remembering his own fights with the others and the times he had fueled Thomas’ own lashing out. The night where he had been asleep and therefore missed the fight with Joan still haunted him. He had tried to avoid sleeping for a while to help prevent that from happening, but it was useless. His own tension made it so he was exhausted at the end of the day. He would sit down just for a minute and would be fast asleep before anyone could say anything to him.

“What have you been doing so far to try and manage the anxiety yourself?” asked the doctor as he pulled the computer closer again and started typing.

“None of my old go-to options were working,” Thomas started. “I tried to watch funny shows, I tried to hang out with positive people. I tried to eat better and be more active, but I’ve been so busy and on edge that I lacked motivation to stick with any of it. I had a friend recommend using lavender and cutting caffeine with no success. Oh, and my breathing exercises aren’t working either.”

Virgil felt another pang of guilt hit him. Everyone had tried so hard to provide different ideas on how to help him calm down, but nothing had been helping. If he could just be more chill for five minutes everyone would have felt better. But nothing worked. That was why they were here to begin with, right? Because Virgil was too active. Because of Virgil.

“Have you thought about medication?”

Virgil felt the room spin, his eyes big. Medication would get rid of him, right?

“I… I’ve thought about it,” Thomas admitted, his voice small. Virgil could tell Thomas felt horrible in admitting it, but they all knew it. It had been a discussion, one that Virge had tried to tune out too.

The doctor looked at Thomas, his eyes full of sympathy, “It sounds like a lot of small things all happened at once. Perhaps if all of those little things had been more spread out, you wouldn’t be so overwhelmed all the time?”

Thomas nodded.

“I think we might want to consider medication, just for a little while. Just until you get through the brunt of this and acclimate to the new normal that you’re going to find. Then, once this is over, and the sea settles, we will talk about taking it out. It doesn’t sound to me like this is something you’re going to always need,” the doctor explained, his eyes gauging the patient’s response. “Does that sound like something you want to try?”

“Will it… get rid of the anxiety all together?” Thomas asked, voicing Virgil’s deep fear.

“No,” the doctor answered, causing Virgil to let out a long breath he hadn’t noticed he was keeping. “It won’t get rid of it. You’re still going to have anxiety. You’ll still even have rough days. But hopefully, once we find the right medication, the frequency will lessen.”

Virgil felt tears fall from his eyes as he allowed a small smile to creep onto his face. Relief flooded him; he wasn’t going to just disappear. He wasn’t going to die. It was going to be okay. Whatever happened, it was designed to help Virgil figure out this whole balance thing. The others wouldn’t hate him for monopolizing Thomas anymore.

It felt as if a weight had been lifted from Virgil’s shoulders, allowing him to breathe easier than he had in a long time. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt this kind of hope in their situation. He had almost forgotten what hope felt like.

“I have one specifically I would like for you to start off with,” the doctor explained, typing furiously at the keyboard with his notes. “Many of my patients have decent luck with it, and the side effects should be okay. You might have some weird dreams for a bit though.”

Virgil snickered, “Good, Roman will have fun with that.”

“And I want you to understand it won’t start working right away. You won’t really notice it until two weeks out, and a real difference hopefully at a month out. I’ll want a follow up then to make sure it’s all okay then.”

“Sounds good,” Thomas said, a smile on his face from Virgil’s relief.

“And if it makes anything worse, I want a call right away. Is that understood?”

Thomas gave a little salute, “You got it, doc.”

“Good man,” the doctor said. “I’ll send it to your prefered pharmacy. It’ll be ready by the time you get there.”

Virgil went back to the Mindscape figuring he had spent enough time with Thomas recently. Besides, panicking while driving would be a horrible idea. He had appeared in the living room, finding it completely empty. Now all that was left to do was wait. The doctor had said Thomas could get the medication on his way home. That meant there was roughly ten minutes before he should worry about that.

Key word being should.

The familiar itch of nervousness and worry came to the front of Virgil’s awareness. He swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced up the stairs. He could go see what the others were doing. Although then he would have to explain what was going on and did he really want to do that? He didn’t want to worry the others unnecessarily. The doctor had said he wouldn’t disappear, so what was he worrying about?

Oh, right. The unknown.

“Oh, Virgil,” Logan’s voice came as the logical side appeared coming down the stairs. “There you are. Did you have a productive doctor’s visit?”

Virgil nodded, his eyes glancing at the clock. Five minutes until it would happen. Whatever it was.

“That is very good to hear,” Logan said as he placed a hand on Virgil’s shoulder in gentle support.

“Virgil’s back?” Patton squealed as he ran down the stairs, glomping his friend in a big hug. “How’d it go? Roman, Virgil’s here!”

Roman appeared at the top of the stairs, “Oh there you are. Everything okay?”

Virgil shrugged, put off by all of the sudden attention from his friends, “One way to find out, I guess.”

“What’s the plan?”

“The Doc decided we were at the point of trying medication,” Virgil sighed, adjusting his hoodie so that it was tighter around him. “Thomas was on his way to pick it up. Should get it and take it soon I think.”

“Is it imperative that he takes the medication as soon as possible, or should it be at a predetermined time every night?” Logan asked, curiosity sparking behind his glasses.

“Oh, crap,” Virgil muttered, his eyes going wide. “I didn’t think about that. I should have had Thomas ask before we left.”

“Not to worry,” Logan smiled. “I will go assist Thomas as he retrieves the medication. The pharmacist should be an acceptable resource from which to enquire my list of inquiries. Should only be gone for a moment.”

“Yeah, thanks,” responded Anxiety as he watched Logic disappear.

Patton bounced slightly as his eyes scanned his friend. “You okay, Virge?”

Virgil fidgeted with the zipper of his hoodie as he sat down on the edge of the couch, “Yeah. Just, ya know, anxious. I don’t know what to expect.”

“We must remain positive,” said Roman as he moved to join the two, now sitting as well. “I’m sure everything will be okay.”

Virgil simply nodded.

Logan reappeared, his hands clasped in front of him, deep in thought.

“What did they say?”

Logan conjured up his notebook where he often made notes when he needed to share important information with the others. He flipped it open and said, “Well, to answer the when question, the answer is that it is up to Thomas as long as he takes it every day. I highly recommend we take it at night since it would minimize the possible side effect of fatigue. Thomas has enough trouble with getting sleep. It also has the added benefit of being added to an already existing routine.”

Virgil nodded in agreement.

Logan continued, “I was also warned that it can lend its way to very vivid dreaming for Thomas, so Roman, you might want to consider that when planning dreams?”

Roman jumped up in excitement, “Finally, Thomas might remember some of the creative masterpieces that I can orchestrate for him!”

“Also, Patton, be aware that Thomas might be more susceptible to mood swings as he gets used to this medication,” added Logan as he continued down his notes.

“Sounds like fun.”

“And Virgil?” Logan called, his eyes pulling away from the notebook to look directly at the side. “You do realize that this won’t be an immediate fix and you aren’t going away, right?”

Virgil gulped, “Uh, yeah. But do we know what exactly it’s going to do to me? I mean, here?”

“Unfortunately, there’s no way to know but to try it,” Logan sighed as he closed the notebook. “But remember, we’re here for you.”

Virgil nodded, “Thanks.” He looked at the other three and felt a little awkward gratitude fill him. Yeah, this new medication thing might suck, but at least they were willing to help him through this. He had been a real jerk to them, even though he had good reasons, yet here they were.

“Do you guys want a snack?” Patton asked suddenly, pulling Virgil from his thoughts. “I feel like today is a cookie day.”

“Ooh, do we have Girl Scout Cookies?” Roman said as he scrambled up and towards the kitchen, followed closely by Patton.

“Only if you didn’t eat them all.”

Roman let out an offended scoff, “Excuse me, Logan is the one that takes the whole box to his room so he doesn’t have to share!”

Logan adjusted his glasses, “You have no proof of that.”

“What about all of the empty boxes that are in the wastebasket?”

“All that indicates is that I ate the end of the box,” Logan said as he stood up. “Besides, you can conjure anything! Just call them up!”

Patton called to Virgil, “What about you, Kiddo? Do you want any?”

Virgil rolled his eyes and stood up, walking to the kitchen with Logan right behind him, “Yeah, but I’ll get them.”

“I could have brought them to you.”

“Thanks, Logan,” Virgil said, a coy smile pulling at his lips. “But I don’t think you’d find the ones I want.”

“Oh?”

Virgil went over to the cupboard and pushed his sleeves up. He stretched on his tiptoes and pulled a box of Bisquick down from the top shelf. He opened the box and slid out a whole sleeve of Thin Mints.

“No fair!” Roman protested. “You can’t go hiding cookies!”

“You. Can. Conjure. Them!” Logan argued. He pinched the bridge of his nose, “Just make more!”

Virgil smiled as he tore open the wrapper and sat on the counter. He popped out one cookie and stuck it in his mouth. Gosh these things were good.

“Do you want some?” Virgil asked, pointing the open end towards the others, quite proud of himself.

“Thanks, Virge,” said Patton. “Shared cookies are the best cookies!”

“Agreed,” Roman chirped as he took two and handed one to the father figure.

Virgil extended his arm towards Logan who hesitated, his eyes on Virgil’s hand, “Go ahead.”

Logan accepted a cookie, but did not take his eyes off of Virgil’s arm, “Okay, I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Virgil,” started Logan slowly. “When did you get a Smartwatch?”

Virgil looked down at his right arm, his eyes widening. Sure enough, a black square was facing up at him, a black band holding it to his wrist. He turned his hand, looking at the band. While Logan was right that it looked like a Smartwatch, it was slightly different: the band was a complete piece, no way to take it off.

“Uh, I didn’t?”

What was this thing? Virgil tapped it a few times, but nothing happened. He pulled on the band to see if he could get it to stretch enough to take it off, but it was tight. It didn’t hurt, but it was clear it wasn’t going anywhere.

“What is it?” Roman asked as the other three closed in to see.

That was the million dollar question, wasn’t it. It had just appeared. No warning or anything. It was now attached to Virgil, whatever it was. He hadn’t asked for it or anything. It just happened. What is it? Was it going to hurt him?

Virgil could feel his heart rate accelerating, his fight or flight starting to kick in. But how do you run from something that is attached to you?

Suddenly the device started to vibrate on Virgil’s arm, causing all four of the Sides to jump. Across the black screen appeared the text:

THREAT LEVEL 1: STAND DOWN.

Next Chapter

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avyssoseleison · 7 years

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Part 3 of pack Alpha!Cas x younger Alpha!Dean | (4k words)

The week passes in a calm manner.

Each day consists of little more than Castiel preparing meals while Dean sleeps, bathes or drinks the hot beverages set before him, and of both of them eating together in what is usually silence, but sometimes also light, easy conversation. It is obvious that Dean’s vagrancy has worn him down, physically and mentally, and now that he is no longer driven by his survival instinct and an abundance of adrenaline, his body is finally calling in its long-overlooked need for rest and safety. Castiel leaves him alone for the better part of the day, seeing as Dean is asleep most of the time anyway, and only intrudes upon his space whenever he calls him for the meals he insists he eats or whenever he steals a secret glance into Dean’s room to ascertain himself that the boy is fine.

Dean’s room -- that is, the former guestroom -- has turned into something that looks more like a den than a place of human dwelling. On his first night here, just after Castiel had taken him in from the woods, Dean kept complaining about being cold, no matter how many blankets Castiel brought him, and still asked for more, so Castiel kept them coming. Which is how Dean ended up with an excessive amounts of blankets, pillows and a couple of space heaters in his room, all neatly arranged in a circle around the mattress that Dean dragged from the bed onto the ground. He curls up in there as soon as he is done eating or bathing, and Castiel will not deign to worry about his electricity bill as long as Dean is warm and comfortable. Castiel never enters the room beyond opening it and looking inside, because in his weaker moments, he does not trust himself not to give in to his basest instincts that call for him to cradle Dean to his chest and curl up with him.

That being said, he is more than aware of the inappropriateness of his thoughts; not only is Dean another Alpha, but also in his charge. But, maybe it is precisely because of the latter that he feels as he does: after all, as the pack Alpha, it should be only natural for him to want to take care of a member of his pack, regardless of how recent the membership itself is. And as an Alpha in general, wanting to provide a person he considers to be in need of his help with a safe space is certainly to be considered even more natural. In this case, it should not matter that Dean is an Alpha and no Omega, not just because his smell is sweeter and more enticing than any other scent Castiel has ever picked up on in any case, but because Dean is young and vulnerable, and he found him in a truly miserable state. Castiel would extend his help to anyone he found like this, frozen and frightened, and the feelings that Dean evokes in him would probably be caused by anyone else who were in his pitiful position.

Yes, Castiel reassures himself as he puts some more marshmallows onto the creamy crown of the hot chocolate that he makes for Dean for the third time today, there is nothing odd about any of this.

Before he can delve even further into this issue, he is interrupted by the sound of steps on stairs, and before he has the chance to complete topping off the hot chocolate, Dean sidles into the room, and all thought is lost.

Dean looks slightly healthier by now, thanks to all his sleeping and the food Castiel insists he ingests. He is still too skinny, not dangerously so anymore though, and his cheeks have taken on a pink tinge that goes well with his perpetually bed-tousled hair. Even right now, he seems to still be blinking the sleep from his eyes and trying to fully wake his mind, yawning every now and then. Yet, he looks somewhat different compared to the rest of the week, a bit more formal -- he must have been upstairs to search for new clothes in Castiel’s closet, something else than the sets of pajamas he has worn all week. Which would also explain why he came from upstairs when his room is on the ground floor.

Castiel had almost forgotten what they meant to do today: to go to the town hall, finally register Dean as an official pack member, and maybe set a date for a pack meeting in which he could be formally introduced to everyone else. He remembers now. Dean was shy and uncertain about this at first, but Castiel could easily coax him into agreeing to this as he was handing Dean a piece of pie that he had baked for him. Besides, registering was a necessity. There were rules and laws in the pack for a reason, and Castiel, as the pack Alpha, should set an example by adhering to them, instead of putting himself above them. And since one such rule was that every person living on pack grounds, whether temporarily or permanently, had to be registered within the first two weeks of their arrival, Castiel wanted to get Dean down to the town hall sooner rather than later. At least, as soon as he was well enough to do so. And he had seemed fit enough for a short walk by yesterday, so Castiel told him they that would take care of this today, and Dean agreed. Yet, Castiel forgot all about the law and the outside world again as soon as he started preparing food and brought Dean some books to read, so this matter slipped Castiel’s mind pretty much as soon as he told Dean that they have to tend to it.

Which is why the sight of a dressed-up Dean is a puzzling one, at first. Dean keeps sticking to the turtlenecks, even when Castiel encourages him to wear whatever he wants from his closet, and it is not much of a surprise. They do hide his scars well. It is as little of a surprise, perhaps, as Castiel’s wish to stay in the same room as Dean whenever the boy rifles through his clothing, choosing what he will wear for sleep or what might fit if he has to leave the house, and to aid him in finding clothes that would fit his slight frame, maybe even help him change, should he still be too fatigued to do so himself. Castiel’s mouth goes dry at the image of holding Dean up against his body, his head resting back against Castiel’s shoulder, as Castiel slowly slides the fabric over his freckled skin, covers his vulnerable body in his clothes and scent.

Castiel does no such thing, of course. He is well-aware of the inappropriateness of his daydreams, so he stays far from his bedroom whenever Dean is in there, and he already vows not to go in there until evening, when hopefully any remaining scent of the younger Alpha has long dissipated. Still, he cannot help but stiffen as Dean walks into the room, dressed in the aforementioned turtleneck, a somewhat fitting pair of jeans so old that Castiel cannot even remember them, thick wool socks and an even thicker cardigan.

Warm and soft, he is the very picture of domesticity.

“Are you still cold?” Castiel asks around the lump in his throat. Dean looks gorgeous, and smells even better; the trace of the soap he used last night has finally faded, to give way to his natural scent, which has blended with what remains of Castiel’s own on his clothes.

“A bit, yeah,” Dean says, his words like a shrug. He tugs his sleeve up, as if wanting to make no big deal out of being cold, then seems to think better of it and tugs it down again.

Castiel frowns. “If so, please feel free to put on more clothes and turn up the heat in the entire house anytime. I want you to be warm. I also have thermal underwear that you may use.”

A soft, amused sound -- almost a laugh but not quite -- escapes Dean’s lips at that. “Thermal underwear?” he echoes.

His voice sounds different from before. Lighter, playful, teasing even. Which is entirely wondrous to Castiel, who finds he does not mind to be teased by Dean, not at all. Instead, he revels in the sly expression on Dean’s face, the burst of sweetness in his scent, the recognition that for Dean to tease him at all must presuppose a trust unimaginable even a few nights before. Castiel is the Alpha, yes, and Dean is on his territory and part of his pack, but he is not scared anymore, not as he was a week ago. Already, Dean is far from baring his neck and begging for death by Castiel’s hands to put him out of his misery. There is a tad more confidence in him now and he moves with a certain sense of safety that straightens his shoulders and lifts his head.

Castiel can only hope for this to hold; for Dean to grow into this apparent safety and to be able to rely on it for more than just a simple tease.

That he cannot do so yet is obvious by the troubled looking slowly creeping upon Dean’s features the longer Castiel remains silent. While Dean does not apologize or prostrate himself before him, thank god, his eyes do dart downwards, as if he has done something wrong by joking about the underwear.

Cursing himself inwardly for taking so long to react, Castiel tilts his lips up in an hopefully soothing smile and, quite without intending to, steps closer towards the boy.

“It can get very cold around here, so every member of the pack owns at least a couple of pairs of thermal underwear. It would be foolish not to. You have experienced first-hand how freezing it can be, especially far from any houses and out in the fields and forests, if you are not dressed appropriately.” His own reminder distresses him; Dean’s tattered clothes went straight to the trash, but not before Castiel had taken a closer look at them and their countless holes, lacking isolation and overall threadbare state. The image of Dean lounging in thermal underwear in front of his fireplace and drinking hot chocolate is much nicer. “You must have been hypothermic for quite some time, so for you to still feel cold comes as no surprise. You should keep trying to stay warm, eat and rest as much as you can to regain your strength.”

Dean, thankfully looking more comfortable again, shifts his weight from foot to foot. “About that. I was wondering if I there was anything more for me to do than taking care of the dishes. I mean, I’m already feeling much better already, and I’d probably feel even better if I could make myself useful. Y’know, to even out everything you’ve done and are still doing for me.”

Castiel creases his brow. “There is no need for that. I am glad to hear and see that you are feeling better, but you should rest still. This should be your main concern right now, and nothing else. Besides, you have nothing to ‘even out’; it is a given that I would do this for you. After all, you are a member of my pack now. I am responsible for you.” He is proud of the conviction with which he says this, as if this were in fact all there is to this.

Dean does not seem quite as happy with this as Castiel. “Yeah, but I could rest and not be a total parasite at the same time. I mean, I could take care of some other tasks around the house that you don’t wanna do, like, I dunno, shovel snow or vacuum-clean or whatever.”

“‘Shovel snow’?” Castiel asks, incredulous. “While you are still cold from wandering out in the frozen woods for all of the season? And need to sleep in a room as hot as an oven all day, just to rest and recover at least some of your strength?”

A light flush graces Dean’s cheeks and he plays with the hem of his cardigan. “Okay, maybe not that, then. But there’s still stuff I could do, ways in which I could be useful. I don’t have to sit on my ass all day and let you do everything for me.”

“You have been through a lot already. Resting, so that you may actually recover, is not ‘sitting on your ass all day’. It’s the reasonable thing to do, a consequence of the hardships that you endured, the struggle you survived, and nothing to feel bad about. Furthermore, you are helping me by helping yourself. My current main objective is providing you with a space in which you feel safe enough to allow yourself to recover. A place where you know that you will be taken care of. Seeing you sleep and getting healthier shows me that I am doing something right -- that I am succeeding in what I set out to do.”

Dean’s skin takes on an even deeper, prettier flush at this, and his scent beckons with a light note of flowers. “You do succeed.” His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “I am feeling safe here and I’m glad that it was you who found me and is taking care of me. I know that if anyone else or simply no one in general would’ve found me and taken me in as you did, I wouldn’t have made it much longer out there. That I’d never have survived the winter in this damn cold.”

Castiel tamps down on the whine that threatens to crawl up his throat at the image of Dean, weak and freezing, dying alone in the cold of the forest. He already had to struggle with this image before, a mere week ago -- and whereas the thought was already almost too much to bear back then, it strikes absolute terror in his heart now. If Dean had not been sighted or if Castiel had not have the mind to take him home, Dean might already be no more by now. He might have died in those very woods, a stone’s throw away from Castiel, and Castiel never would even have known. They might have found his body eventually, maybe in the winter or maybe not even before spring, and Castiel would have looked at his remains and pitied but not grieved him.

“Dean,” Castiel says, against the ache in his heart.

“I wanna show you that I’m grateful for that. That I recognize how much you’ve done for me, and that I can give back at least a little. If there’s anything I can do, any way I could be helpful, I’ll do that.”

For a fleeting moment, Castiel is struck by the urge to drag Dean to bed and use his hands and lips to help the boy relax, to make him experience any good feeling his body is capable of experience, and then carry him to the bath tub and back to bed, where warm and clean sheets and a good night’s sleep would await him. Dean would not be able to come up with unreasonable ideas like these then; he would have no choice but to rest and allow his body to claim what it needs.

And by god, Castiel has no explanation and no excuse for these urges, could not even begin to point out what is wrong with them, so all he hopes is that they do not taint his scent, will not let Dean in on his uncalled-for desires.

Dean's nose flares wide for a moment, scenting, and as soon as he inhales, he stares at Castiel, freezes and-- takes a half-step back.

“Dean,” Castiel says once more, rejected and ashamed, and his mouth moves slowly, more on instinct than intention, working against whatever feelings threaten to overwhelm him. “I appreciate the thought, but you are really in no condition to be doing anything but rest. In the same way that you recognize that the cold would have taken you in eventually, I recognize that the conditions in which you have lived since spring have already taken a toll on you, especially the lack of food and warmth, and that you need to recover from that now.”

“Yeah, but like I said, I could still help.” Dean argues, and thankfully swaying forward, as if he has already forgotten the mortifying exposition Castiel's body just subjected both of them to, as if he did not feel disgust or fear at the mere implication. Maybe Dean misread the reaction, contributed it to something else. All Castiel can hope for is for Dean not to have thought of Castiel’s change in scent to be a direct result of Dean’s offer, to not think that what he longs for is a repayment in the crudest of nature.

Shuddering inwardly, Castiel pushes on. “And like I said, it would be of great help to me if you allowed yourself some rest.” He sighs, pinches his nose, forces himself to breathe through his nose instead. “I do not consider taking care of another person who is sick and weak a burden. Instead, I see it as my duty, and not a disagreeable one. I do not mind seeing to your safety and health myself -- in fact, I enjoy that you are trusting and comfortable enough with me to accept this. If I did not want to care for you, I could simply call a nurse to do so in my stead. Remember, I am the Alpha of this pack and if there is one true privilege that comes with the position, it’s that I can delegate my tasks to other people. But it was me who found you in the woods and decided to put you under my care and protection, so it is only right that I do care and protect you. To see you regain your strength and claim a safe space for yourself is,” he hesitates for a second, because he knows he will not be able to stop this train of thoughts once he gives words to it, knows that he has already made a fool of himself today, “ nice. To know that you feel safe in my home, with me, is more than I could have possibly expected mere days ago. Your trust, and to be allowed to care for you, is-- a pleasure.”

Castiel barely dares to look at Dean, and to his relief, Dean does not dare to look at all. All he does is scuff his feet and keep blushing. “Ah,” is his only reply, which is fitting, Castiel guesses. He, too, does not know what to say about whatever he just spouted.

“And that is why,” Castiel presses on, not quite sure of whatever point he wants to make now, only that talking is the only way they can move beyond his shameful little confession, “you may repay me in whatever measure you deem acceptable once you are fully recovered, but for the moment, your highest and most coveted repayment is for you to rest and be healthy again. No snow shoveling, no whatever else beyond doing the dishes. Just eating and sleeping.”

Dean seems to mull this over in his mind, if his silence and expression of deep thought are anything to go by. He is does not seem bent on arguing any further, at least, which Castiel already counts as a small success.

Finally, Dean speaks again. “And getting myself registered?” He glances back up at Castiel, as a small smile, more an olive branch than anything else, curves up his lips.

“Yes,” Castiel says upon a relieved exhale, “that as well.”

“Okay, so I’ll do that,” Dean says, and then, he almost rushes out, “and if it’s so important to you, I’ll do what I can to get back on my feet and we can talk about this again sometime later. I do want to repay you, but if that’d more trouble than help right now and actually only mean more work for you, then I won’t bug you any further. You took me in when you had absolutely no reason to, and don’t think that, just ‘cause I might be relatively young and another Alpha, I don’t know how to show gratitude.”

Castiel huffs out a laugh at that. For Dean, with his big eyes and unmarred, beautiful face and lithe body to see himself as anything but in the prime of his youth, is amusing. “Don’t worry, I would never think that,” Castiel reassures him, amusement probably reflected in his voice. “And I will hold you to that, regardless of the fact that you are relatively young and another Alpha.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Dean grumbles, and Castiel enjoys the pinkening of his ears probably more than he should.

“I'm not,” Castiel fibs, only to earn another grumble from Dean that has him laugh lightly.

“If it’s all the same to you, then I’ll go look for that thermal underwear now,” Dean says, and as if his own words reminded him of the persisting coldness of his body, a shiver runs through him.

The knowledge about what to do when another person is hypothermic tickles at the edges of Castiel’s consciousness. Of course, as someone who has lived in this region for all of his life, he knows that, when someone’s core temperature has fallen to such a degree that their body has troubles getting itself warm, the one true way to help them is for both of them to strip down, cover their nudity under the same blanket and press their bodies so close to another that the heat transfers. Castiel also knows that he could never propose such a thing to Dean -- as well as, for Dean to still be cold despite his frequent bathing and his warm little den, his mind probably needs to shake off the frozen forests more than his body does.

Either way, for Dean to work on a sense of warmth is a good thing. “Please do,” Castiel encourages. “In the meantime, I will,” he looks towards the long-forgotten mug, from which the cream has already melted and dripped down, so that the hot chocolate has overflowed and leaked onto the counter, framed by tiny marshmallows, “make you another cup of hot chocolate and then get changed as well.”

The embarrassment is well worth the smile that draws up Dean’s lips and softens his features. “You do that,” Dean graciously allows, and with one last, amused glance back, he turns back towards the stairs, “see you later.”

“See you later,” Castiel promises back.

It is only when Castiel watches Dean’s ascent -- and he wishes he could say that he unreservedly enjoys watching him leave, but despite the tad of gained weight, the slightness of his body still worries him -- that he wonders about how, despite their differences in opinion and the slip-up of his scent, their conversation was still such a pleasurable one. That Dean contradicting him proves that he is on his way to recovery, and he realizes that he has to be healthy again to do good on his promise and repay Castiel. Not because Castiel wants him to -- he would happily tend to Dean for the rest of his life, it it meant he got to see him regularly, which would be repayment enough, and then some -- but because he wants Dean to feel useful and good about himself, wants him to lose his haunted gaze and replace it with an easy smile.

The first thing to do so, he supposes, is to give the boy some more hot chocolate and then register him as part of his own, a member of his pack, for everyone to know. So, he steps back to the cupboard and gets out another mug, just as he hears his bedroom door open.

#perlukafarinn #bamfcastiel #miriam writes #destiel #alpha!cas #alpha!dean #alpha x alpha #spn #fanfiction #vaguely uncomfy sexually inspired situation?#basically cas gets the tiniest bit aroused and dean notices so uh #food cw #burrow verse

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woodelf68 · 7 years

Text

The Way Forward

Movie night prompt for @a-monthly-rumbelling. Adult!Gideon fluff, and a way to fix the fact that (in this ‘verse) Rumbelle never got a chance to raise their own baby. Rated G, 3085 words.

“Gideon, this is your nephew Henry.”

They’d run into each other after leaving Granny’s for their first meal out with Gideon. It had been an uncomfortable hour, as Gideon was subject to the stares of everyone who had been in the diner -- some merely curious, but others openly suspicious or even hostile. Gideon had alternately tried to hunch himself into invisibility or met the stares with a look of cold aloofness on his face that Gold had found eerily similar to the one that he knew he wore on his own face sometimes. It was meant to convey that you didn’t care in the least what the other person was thinking of you, when in fact you felt completely differently inside. Belle had kept up a steady stream of chatter, trying to distract Gideon, but Gold knew that if Gideon were to be accepted by Storybrooke, and hopefully find some friends, then he needed to be seen in the company of someone other than the Dark One and his wife. Seeing Henry coming towards them on the sidewalk had seemed too fortuitous an opportunity to pass up.

Henry, bless his soul, smiled and stuck his hand out. “Nice to meet you.”

Gideon shook it awkwardly, having learned this custom already. “Hi, Henry. Look, I’m sorry that I tried to kill your mother, I -- “

“I know, you were being controlled by the Black Fairy; she had your heart,” Henry said with far more understanding and acceptance than Gideon felt he had any right to. “It’s okay; it’s over now.”

Gideon smiled uncertainly. “If you’re sure…”

“Trust me, everyone in this family has done some pretty bad things, even when they weren’t being cursed or controlled.” Henry shot a glance at first Belle, then Rumpelstiltskin. He still felt ashamed that he hadn’t thought about Belle being trapped in a sleeping curse when he had attempted to destroy all magic. He had apologised, and both his grandparents had said they’d forgiven him, but it was not something he liked remembering. He wouldn’t hold Gideon’s past against him.

Belle looked sideways at Rumpelstiltskin, and found him looking back at her. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. “Yeah, we have. And we make amends the best we can, and we try to move on.”

Rumpelstiltskin squeezed back.

“It’s weird,” Henry told Gideon. “If you hadn’t gotten magically screwed over, you wouldn’t even have been born yet. But I think I’ll like having an uncle who’s older than me, like most uncles are.” He glanced at Gold. “Have you told him about Neal?”

“We haven’t had time yet, what with everything that’s been going on.” Rumpelstiltskin said. It had been less than a week since the Black Fairy had been destroyed and he’d been able to return Gideon’s heart to him, and it had seemed more important to learn about Gideon’s life than to bring up his own painful past. He could tell that it was tough on Gideon, transitioning into this new life, in a town where he had tried to kill the woman everyone knew as the Savior.

“Neal was my dad,” Henry explained softly, his own eyes echoing the sudden sadness in his grandfather’s. “Your half-brother, from my grandpa’s marriage to his first wife Milah. Who ran off with Captain Hook who just married my mother.” An odd look crossed his face as he recited the facts. “That will never get any less weird when I stop to think about it. We’ve had a lot of timey-wimey stuff happen in this family, your growing up in a different realm is par for the course, really.”

“‘Was’?” Gideon had to ask, knowing what the answer would be. He would have known if he had a brother around.

“Yeah. He died.” Henry swallowed around a sudden lump in his throat. “I never even knew him until a few years ago, either. He never knew I existed until then.”

“I’m sorry,” Gideon said gently. “You’ll have to tell me about him.”

“We all will,” said Belle, firmly. “He died a hero.”

“I have pictures,” Henry offered. “You can look through my photo album.” He cocked his head. “You don’t look like him, you look like your dad. I guess my dad took after his mother more.”

“He did,” confirmed Rumpelstiltskin.

“I’d like that,” Gideon told Henry. “What was that other thing you said, though -- ‘timey-wimey’?”

“Oh, that’s from a TV series.” Henry brightened up. “I’ll have to introduce you to some good TV series. And movies! We’ll have to have a movie night, no, lots of movie nights, there’s a lot you need to catch up on, because certain movies have become part of popular culture, and people will refer to them, and you won’t know what they’re talking about. But I’ll help get you up to speed. That is, if you want,” he added uncertainly, when Gideon didn’t reply right away.

Feeling slightly overwhelmed, and somewhat taken aback by Henry’s friendliness in a town where he had not found any yet so far, Gideon hastened to reassure him. “Yes, I would. Thank you. I don’t know anything about how to be an uncle, but I could use a friend.”

“Uncles take their nephews to the movies and buy them ice cream afterwards,” said Henry mischievously.

“Ah, about that --” Gideon began, then noticed his father pulling his wallet out of his pocket and extracting several bills, which he held out.

“Here. You now have money. Go take your nephew to the movies and buy him ice cream afterwards.” Rumpelstiltskin smiled.

Gideon stuffed the money into his pocket. “All right. Right now?” he asked, uncertainly.

“Well, we’ll have to check what’s playing and at what times first,” said Henry. “I could show you around town, and we could do that, if you like. I mean, you must have seen something of the place, poofing around, but you haven’t had a proper tour. I could introduce you to people, too. He looked Gideon up and down critically. “Do you want to go home and change first?”

“Change what?”

“Into something more comfortable.”

“This is comfortable.” Gideon looked down at his new black suit, liking the way it looked on him, the way it made him feel closer to his father. He’d spent the last few days spending mornings with his mother in the library, helping out and reading voraciously about the history and customs of this world and afternoons with his father in the shop, slowly getting acquainted and forging a relationship. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“No, of course not,” both Belle and Rumpelstiltskin assured him at nearly the same time.

“There’s nothing wrong with it,” Henry agreed, “But most people don’t wear three piece suits outside of work hours. They come home and change into something more casual.” He glanced at Gold. “Your dad’s an exception. But maybe you haven’t had time to go shopping yet?”

“Henry has a point,” Rumpelstiltskin admitted. “I spent 28 years wearing a suit thanks to the original curse that created Storybrooke and my Mr. Gold persona. It’s what I’m used to, here in this land. I feel strange wearing anything else. But -- the curse was designed to isolate me, to set me apart from everyone else. The expensive suits reminded everyone else that I was richer than they were, that I was someone to be feared. People might find you less threatening if they saw you in more casual clothes when you’re not working. You don’t have to wear anything you don’t want to, of course -- but why don’t you try out some of the things that Henry suggests? Jeans, t-shirts, sweaters -- whatever you find comfortable, go ahead and buy it. You can use the credit card I gave you for larger purchases like that.”

“Okay, we’ll head down to the movie theatre first, see what’s playing,” Henry decided. “And then we’ll go shopping, get you some basic stuff. Sound good?”

Gideon looked rather helplessly at his parents.

“That’s a good idea,” Belle said encouragingly. “Everybody likes Henry; you’ll be in safe hands.”

“I...all right.” Left to himself, Gideon knew he’d rather stay holed up in the house, or in the quiet shop, or in a corner of the library reading, but he supposed he would have to face the townspeople sooner or later. Best to get it over with, when he had a friendly guide with him.

“Great! We can stop for ice cream after that. And popcorn! Have you ever had popcorn? If we go to the movies we’ll get some popcorn; you’ll like it.” Henry turned away and started walking even as he was still speaking.

With one last glance over his shoulder at his parents, Gideon hurried after.

In the weeks that followed, it became apparent that Henry had made acclimatising Gideon to Storybrooke his own personal mission.

“He probably has a name for it,” Belle observed, rinsing off the last of the supper dishes and passing it to Rumpel to dry. There had been no question about her not moving back into the salmon house with Gideon’s return. They had missed 28 years of their son’s life, 28 years of being a family. She didn’t want to miss a single second more, nor would she have asked it of Rumpel by making Gideon choose only one parent to live with. This was her home; this was their home. They belonged together.

“Operation: Uncle,” Rumpelstiltskin suggested with a grin. Gideon had come home from his first day out with Henry with a modest collection of casual clothing that Belle had had to be dissuaded from making him try on then and there to model for her.

“Operation: Giraffe,” countered Belle, thinking of their son’s height.

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head with an amused smile. “I will never be able to understand how he ended up that tall with us for parents.”

“They say physical traits can skip a generation,” said Belle. “He must get it from my father.”

Belle felt a pang for all the years they had never had, watching Gideon grow from a baby to a toddler, and then a sturdy child heading off to school. Had he been tall for his age early on, or had he shot up all at once as a teenager? She’d have to ask him; it seemed important to know, along with so many other myriad details. But asking things like what were his favourite foods as a child was fraught with the possibility of the answer being that he hadn’t had a choice in the matter; he’d eaten what he had been provided with. She forced her mind away from that channel of thought back to Henry, and how Gideon already seemed to relax and become more open whenever he was around Henry -- they’d already had one movie night at home, and Belle smiled at the memory of Henry enthusiastically explaining everything in the movies to Gideon. It had been a good night, full of laughter and the warmth of being surrounded by family.

“I think Henry has needed someone like Gideon as much as Gideon needs someone like Henry,” she observed, thinking about it.

“You mean a father figure?” Rumpelstiltskin hazarded doubtfully. Despite being older, Gideon was in many ways more immature than Henry, thanks to his sheltered upbringing in the Dark Realm.

“That’s part of it, maybe, but more...a link to his father?” suggested Belle.

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, feeling slightly guilty. He’d kept his distance from Henry for a variety of reasons -- first there had been the prophecy about a boy who would be his undoing, and then it had been out of a feeling that Henry would be safer if he wasn’t seen as someone who could be used as a way to hurt the Dark One. Although considering the other side of Henry’s family had seen no problem in taking him down to the Underworld with them, perhaps he shouldn’t leave Henry’s welfare entirely in their hands. For all that Henry was mature for his age, he was still a child and needed to be protected, not dragged along on every adventure. And then, for a while, he had simply been gone. Dead, for all intents and purposes, the Dark One’s essence trapped in the vault in the Enchanted Forest. And after that, enslaved by Zelena for a year. But now -- now he vowed that he would be more a part of his grandson’s life.

“I’m glad he’s hit it off with Gideon,” he said. “If there’s one thing Henry likes, it’s helping people.” He thought of Henry showing up earlier with an invitation to another movie night, this one at Emma’s house. Gideon had been obviously reticent, but Henry had refused to take no for an answer.

“I get that it’ll be awkward at first, but you can’t avoid each other forever,” he had insisted. “She knows you were being controlled, and she’s willing to put it in the past. She wouldn’t have allowed me to invite you if she wasn’t.”

“Do the brave thing,” Belle had encouraged.

Gideon had shot her a withering look. “Thanks, Mother. It’s not you who’s been invited to have dinner with someone you tried to kill.”

“It’ll be okay,” Henry persisted, and Gideon had taken a deep breath and given in, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on over the off-white button-down shirt he was wearing along with a pair of jeans and boots.

“All right, Nephew, but this had better be worth it.”

The last dish done, Belle drained the water from the sink and dried her hands. “Shall we have a movie night of our own tonight?”

“Anything you like, sweetheart.”

They settled on the couch, Belle kicking her shoes off and curling her feet up beneath her as she picked up the remote control and flipped through the channels, looking for something good to watch. She stopped on a show where a baby was pulling itself up by the bars of its crib, making happy babbling noises until its mother came over, smiling, and leaned down to pick the baby up, kissing its forehead. Belle’s heart clenched at the sight, a sharp, fierce ache that made her want to cry. She could have had that, but she had thrown it away. She spoke before she even realised what she was saying.

“I want a baby.”

“What?” Gold half-turned to face her, although he had heard her perfectly well.

“I want a baby, Rumpel. Not right away, Gideon needs us now, and I don’t want him thinking that we don’t love him just as he is. But maybe in a year or so -- do you think we could try again? To have a baby to raise and to love, and to do it right this time? Together?”

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard, and raised a shaking hand to cup Belle’s face. She was asking about more than a baby, she was confirming that she wanted a life with him, and a proper marriage. He nodded, a tremulous smile appearing on his face. “I can’t think of anything that I’d like more.” He leaned forward, and Belle met him, their lips meeting as they kissed. Her hand came up to cup the back of his head, her fingers sliding into his hair, and she pulled back with a huff of laughter after a moment, trying to tug on the short strands.

“There’s nothing left for me to grab onto,” she complained. “You are letting it grow out again, aren’t you?” It was already a little longer than it had been, just brushing the top of his collar, but still too short for her preference.

“Do you want me to?” he teased, threading his own fingers into her long hair.

“Yes, please,” she said meekly, her dimples appearing. “You know I always liked burying my hands in your hair.”

“As you wish,” he promised with a grin. “I shall put it on my to-do list.” He claimed another kiss, and Belle smiled at him brightly when he pulled back, before shifting and wriggling back so that she could lean back against him as she faced the TV again. Carefully, he put an arm around her, and relaxed when she covered his hand with her, keeping his pressed firmly in place.

Belle murmured in contentment as she felt Rumpelstiltskin press a kiss to the top of her head, returning her attention to the television program. The mother was settling the baby into a high chair at the kitchen table, where it promptly began banging happily on the tray. Belle smiled wistfully, but it was now a scene she could look forward to one day, instead of only something that she had recklessly thrown away. She would not make the same mistake twice. If they had another child, she would hold onto it as fiercely as she should have held onto Gideon. As if on cue, the door to the kitchen on screen banged open and a little boy came charging into the kitchen, closely followed by what was obviously the children’s father, who greeted his wife and baby with a kiss. The little boy climbed up onto a chair and began making faces at the baby, making it laugh in delight.

“Do you think Gideon would like being a big brother?” Belle asked.

Rumpel’s arm tightened around her. “I think Gideon has a lot of guilt over not being able to protect the other children in the mines with him. So yes, I think he would be a wonderful big brother. Quite possible overprotective, but I can’t see that as a bad thing.”

“Not around here, no,” Belle agreed, trying to envision a scene in her head, Gideon playing with a baby, a small toddler lovingly following him around. In her mind’s eye, Gideon was smiling and happy, knowing he was loved, that he had a family. “Do you think he’s having a good time at Emma’s?”

“Well, if not, he’s perfectly capable of leaving, so I’m hoping things are going okay at least.”

“It’d be nice to have a little girl,” Belle mused. “To balance things out.”

“It would,” Rumpelstiltskin agreed, his own mind filling with sudden images. “It’s been a while since a girl’s been born into this family. About time for a change.”

A change sounded good, Belle thought, a change for the better. They would learn from the past and move on, not forgetting it but not dwelling on it. They would find the way forward.

#a-monthly-rumbelling #ficwoodelf #rumbelle fic #rumbelle #gideon gold #gideon fic #the way forward

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ficdirectory · 7 years

Text

The Fosters 4B: Take Two (Doors and Windows)

Isolation

(:55-end)

With Mariana sleeping on the couch down here, Jesus knows exactly when she gets up to start getting ready for school. He’s barely awake, but he hears the alarm on her phone, or the couch squeaking as she gets up. Or her bare feet on the wood floor as she tries to be quiet.

The truth is, none of his sibs are quiet in the morning. They thunder up and down the stairs. Above his head. In the kitchen. Then through the living room and out the door. Jesus is so exhausted, he doesn’t even see them before they leave.

Last night, it had felt so good to talk to Mariana a bit. He told her about the reading thing and today there’s a weird thing on his phone.

When everybody but Mama is gone and he’s by himself, Jesus tries to tap the screen and misses the seriously tiny icon with the 1 by it. These glasses suck. Everything’s blurry and swervy, and it makes him dizzy.

“Morning,” Mama greets, coming in from the kitchen.

He holds out his phone. “Can you...help...with this?” he asks.

“Sure. Let me see here. Looks like you have some tweets some Facebooks...and a voice text from Mariana. You want to hear Mariana’s first?” Mama guesses.

He nods.

“Should I step out?”

He nods again.

She presses a button and goes to the kitchen, telling him she’s getting breakfast. That she’ll come back in a few minutes.

Mariana’s talking:

“So, hi. Just wanted you to know that I loved our talk last night. Have a good day today. I’ll miss you when I’m at school...but I’ll be home right after. Promise. Love you.”

The lump Jesus has going in his throat is so huge he almost can’t swallow. His eyes are more blurry than usual because of the tears. His head hurts. Why can’t this just be over?

He hates being alone. And with everybody at school, that’s exactly what he is. He just wants things back the way they were. He wants to be with Mariana. To go to school even though he hated school when he was there.

It was better than this. Better than struggling to do everything. To have getting ready in the morning take an hour. To have to brush his teeth sitting on a stool, with Mama as a spotter, so he doesn’t lose his balance.

“Hey… What is it?” Mama asks, back with bowls of cereal. (Jesus is so glad it’s nothing cooked or heavy. He doesn’t have an appetite.)

She gets on the bed with him. Puts her arms around him.

That just makes it worse. Jesus can’t say anything. Can’t describe the feeling of being so far down a giant dirt hole that the sky seems distant. The sun like a memory. With no help. No way to climb out. Out where happiness is.

He’s so damn lonely.

Mama just sits with him. Just holds him. Just lets him do what he’s doing and doesn’t tell him he shouldn’t or push him about what’s wrong.

When he’s calmer, he can manage a word here and there:

“School…” he whispers first.

“Yeah?”

“I want...to go…”

“I know you do, honey. It’s hard to be left behind, isn’t it?’

He nods, miserable.

“You’ll go back to school. It’ll happen.”

“No,” he says, feeling hopeless.

“Not right away, no. But it will happen. You’ll be okay.”

“What...happened to me. Why? Why?--”

Mama holds his hand. Holds his gaze. “You had an accident.”

“The nail...in my head?”

“Yes. You had surgery to take that out. Then you had to be very careful to protect your head.”

“No lifting...heavy stuff. Or I might…get hurt.”

“Right,” Mama nods.

“But I didn’t. Didn’t. I--I didn’t.”

“Jesus, I know. You’re right. You didn’t lift anything heavy. Do you remember being at Bayfest?”

He squints. “No.”

“The family was all there. Helping Callie. And Mariana called you. She was scared. She said she saw Nick.” Mama pauses. “You went to help her. Found Nick with her, and wanted to protect her. He punched you back, honey.”

“In..the nail?” he asks, gesturing to his forehead.

“Yes.”

“Now I can’t...talk. Or go to...school…”

“You can talk. Honey, you’re talking to me right now. I understand it’s different. It’s harder. But you can talk. And you will be able to go to school.”

Jesus is silent. Still down at the bottom of the most giant hole. Mama’s at the top, where everything’s good. He can’t reach her. He can barely see her shadow.

“What do you say we have some breakfast? Because you have to take your pill and then we need to get ready and go to the hospital,” she says, giving him a squeeze.

“You don’t,” he says softly.

“I don’t what, bud?”

“Understand.”

Identification

(scene)

Jesus hates therapy.

It’s too bright. There are too many people talking. Doing therapy, too. Somehow, Jesus has to listen through all the other noise. The sights. The smells. And he has to hear what his own therapist is saying.

His own therapist with the damn flash cards.

The ones he still can’t read.

Things still look blurry sometimes. Letters move around. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which is which. If he’s lucky the picture holds still. But even looking at that makes him squint. The colors hurt his eyes.

He’s not looking at the picture side now anyway. Just letters that move and make him dizzy.

He’s at a table. Mama, too, reading on her Kindle, because Jesus doesn’t like her staring. Or encouraging. It makes him feel like he’s in the zoo. On display for all the things he can’t do. Better if she just doesn’t watch.

“Jesus. What’s this say?”

(Somebody behind him is climbing stairs and nervous about it. Somebody else is struggling hardcore at the parallel bars. Is he just supposed to pretend all this isn’t happening? And that it isn’t totally distracting?)

Those words are nowhere, though, so Jesus says softly, “I hate you.”

“I know. Let’s just take one thing at a time. This word.”

The letters on the card don’t hold still like they should. He has no idea what it says. No one would, like this. It’s not fair. He shakes his head.

“I’m done.”

“Come on, Jesus. This word.”

“No.”

(This isn’t working. And it used to. He used to be able to do this. Maybe he just isn’t trying hard enough. The thought crushes him. The headache is constant, intense. He just needs a damn break.)

“Honey, you can do this--” Mama tries, but on top of his own pressure and the therapist, this breaks him. He can’t read, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here.

He’s so frustrated. It’s like this thing with his brain moved all of his feelings to right below the surface, so they come out more often, and stronger.

“Shut up!” he yells.

Mama takes a slow deep breath. Then, she says to the therapist: “Jesus needs a break.”

When the therapist walks away, it doesn’t help much. Everything is still loud and bright and smelly and terrible. And he hurts. All the time.

Mama’s still with him, but she’s quiet. Eventually she says, “Let’s get some air. Can I push you?” she asks.

He nods.

The wheelchair helps when he has long distances to go. Like now.

They can’t go far, but Mama takes him to the lobby area where they are the only two people. It’s still too bright, but not as smelly. Not as loud. She takes a chair next to him and just waits a bit. Then she says:

“I know you know that saying shut up is hurtful.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I know you were frustrated. I respect that. I respect you. I need to know that you respect me, too.” Mama says honestly.

“I do,” Jesus answers.

“Okay. I want to help. Think about what you need right now. Tell me whatever you can, when you can,” Mama offers.

“Less,” he starts out.

Mama just listens. Then she asks, “Less what?” like she has all the time to just sit here with him.

“Flashcards.”

“Less flashcards...” Mama repeats, and waits some more. He appreciates how she doesn’t jump in, assuming what he’s trying to say with plans to tell him off before he’s even done trying to get his point across.

“Less...uh… Less things on them.”

“Less words on the flashcards?” Mama clarifies.

Jesus nods.

“You’re not ready for words yet? So maybe just the letter flashcards for now?”

Jesus nods, but feels defeated. The fluorescent light above his head won’t stop buzzing and somebody somewhere is eating a Big Mac. His head is splitting.

“Hard..” he manages, blinking tears back.

Mama covers his left hand with her own. Their fingers lace together.

“I can’t imagine. I’m sorry it’s hard, honey. I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Breaks.”

“Definitely. I can tell him when you need breaks. I’m sorry I waited too long before.”

“And Tylenol.”

“Right.” Mama reaches into her purse and shakes out two pills. She hands them to him and fills a paper cup with water.

He takes them. Wishes they worked right away, but hopefully soon.

“Hey, Jesus. Ready to get back to work?” the therapist asks.

Jesus sends a look Mama’s way. Hopes she’ll remember about the flashcards.

“Looking at the words is a bit much right now. Jesus needs to backtrack a little. Just try letters for now. Is that possible?”

“Sure, that sounds like something we can do.”

They get back to the table. It’s still terrible in here. The letter flashcards make him feel small but at least he can read the E as it swerves, and then the K as it blurs. He can read about half of them before he gets exhausted and overwhelmed again.

By then, it’s time to go.

Jesus falls asleep in the car on the way home.

Grasping

(0:01-0:02)

Because it’s not enough that Jesus is devastated in the morning by his sibs going to school and that reading actual words is beyond impossible, even with his glasses, he has to do even more therapy when he gets home. Fine motor therapy, which doesn’t even make sense. His motor stuff is obviously not fine.

If it was, he wouldn’t have to spend boring-ass minutes trying to pick up coffee beans and pennies and putting them in containers.

The kitchen light is bright. Mama’s talking to Emma, and they think they’re being quiet, but Jesus can still hear them whispering about some Pinterest project Mama wants to try.

“This is hard.”

Jesus says it more to himself than to them, but Mama responds anyway, coming over.

“I know, honey, but Tomas said that it will help you with your tremor.”

He tries to force his right hand to keep a grip on the penny he’s managed to pick up, but before he can get his hand over the container, the penny drops on the table.

This is humiliating.

Even though Emma’s looking at Pinterest on her phone. Even though Mama doesn’t comment. It’s enough that they’re in the room with him when he screws up something so simple.

“Can I have some water?” he asks, wanting nothing more than for them to be distracted. Focused on something that isn’t all the ways he still needs to improve.

Just like he hopes, Mama nods, and gets up, heading to the sink. The minute she moves, he picks up the one dropped coin from the table and puts it where it goes.

Then, he takes his left hand (the one that has to stay in his lap for this exercise) and shakes all the rest of the beans and pennies off the plate.

“Hey!” Emma whispers, smiling.

“What?” he asks, picking up a spilled bean and tossing it at her.

“Don’t,” she laughs, still whispering.

She throws one back at him. He laughs. This feels like the most typical thing he’s done in a week.

“Oh wow…” Mama says, turning back from the sink with his glass of water. Jesus is pretty sure she took a long time pouring it on purpose. “That’s--that’s great.” She sets the water down for him.

“Yeah. I’m done,” he says. And he is. Hell if he’s going to keep doing this with an audience. His self esteem can’t take the hit.

He can see Mama wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods. “Why don’t you take a break?”

Jesus is already trying to get on his feet. He’s using the wheelchair less and less in the house. The cane more. But he’s not used to it yet. Just getting up from the table is a huge deal. The hem of his sweatshirt drags across the plate and knocks it to the floor.

“Damn it!” In seconds, Jesus has pushed everything else off the table, too. The sound of so many little things clattering on the floor and the containers falling makes Jesus’s head split and his ears ring.

Grabbing the cane, he does his best to get the hell out of there and back to the living room. Mama sends Emma out, too. They can take a break together.

He sits on the couch because it’s easier than trying to climb into the hospital bed. Puts his head in his hands.

“What can I do?” Emma asks, after a pause.

There’s a pause on Jesus’s end, too. All that noise. All his anger. It makes talking that much harder. “No. No. No. No. N-No…” he stutters. The only damn word that will come out.

“No?” Emma asks.

“No...big deal…” he manages, the words finally there.

“That?” Emma jerks a thumb to the kitchen. “That wasn’t a big deal. It was an accident. Don’t worry about it.”

Jesus waits. Hopes his head will stop throbbing. He can hear Brandon and Mama talking in the kitchen. Hears him offer to take over cleaning up Jesus’s mess. Offer to take Jesus to therapy tomorrow if Mama needs a break.

“Your brother’s not a burden, Brandon. And you’d need to ask Jesus if he’s okay with that,” Mama says.

Jesus closes his eyes again. She just said he wasn’t a burden but her basically agreeing with Brandon sure as hell makes Jesus feel like one.

Brandon taking him to therapy. Since when did Brandon wanna be involved in any family stuff? Last time Jesus checked he was living with a girl and her kid, and paying her bills with his money.

And Mama’s really leaving this up to him? What’s Jesus supposed to say? No?

It’s bad enough having your mom watch you struggle but having your big brother there? Who makes it a habit to tell you how much longer he’s lived here than you and that your own parents don’t want you?

No, thanks.

Minutes later, Brandon sticks his head in the living room and asks: “Hey. Is it okay if I take you to therapy tomorrow?”

“Why?” Jesus asks, annoyed.

“Just wanted to help out.”

“Brandon? Emma? Will you let me talk to Jesus alone for a minute, please?” Mama asks.

They clear out and leave him and Mama in the living room alone.

A weird feeling streaks through him - seeing them leave together. It reminds him of the dream that he had while he was in his coma. Where Jesus skated into Mama’s office in his hospital gown and found Emma kissing Brandon. When he asked what was going on, Emma said: “Sorry. You’re too dumb for me.”

It still feels super real. Like that really happened. He wants to tell them to come back. Don’t go anywhere together. But Mama’s here, looking at him all serious.

“Are you okay?”

He shakes his head.

“Jesus, I know this has been a tough day for you. Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

“It was--wasn’t on purpose…” he manages.

“I understand that.”

“So why?”

“Why, what, bud?”

“Why...do you want...Brandon...to take me?”

“I want to do whatever works for you, Jesus. If you don’t want Brandon to take you, he doesn’t have to. I can. If you heard Brandon ask to take you to therapy, did you also hear me tell him you are not a burden?”

Jesus nods.

“What do you think about that?”

“I f-f-feel like one.”

“How so?” Mama asks, so honestly he has to look away.

“You said...I wasn’t...but you didn’t...you didn’t...say no...to Brandon. You said...ask me.”

“That’s right, I did. So the fact that I didn’t turn him down makes you feel like a burden?”

Jesus nods.

“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry we had that conversation away from you. We should have had it all together. I thought that by leaving it up to you, I was giving you a choice.”

“N-n-no choice. If you...want him to help...and I say no...then what?”

“We’ll work it out.”

Jesus brings a hand down forcefully on the end table.

“Take a deep breath for me,” Mama coaches. “I can see you’re frustrated. I’m here. I want to listen. I have time.”

Jesus tries to breathe.

“What if…?” he starts. “What if he… I mean… I don’t…”

“Are you worried about how Brandon will react?” Mama guesses.

Jesus nods.

“Would you feel better if I asked him to find something else to do once he’s there? Not to hover?”

Jesus doesn’t move.

So Mama waits, too.

“Not ready…” he confides. “I’m not ready…”

“For Brandon?” Mama wonders.

He nods.

“You’re not ready for Brandon to take you yet?”

Nods again.

“Okay. That’s fine, honey. I can take you.”

“No… Too much. I’m too much,” Jesus protests.

“You have a right to your feelings. They’re yours and they are valid. But accepting an offer of help doesn’t mean you’re too much. Not to me.”

“If I was...okay...you wouldn’t need help.”

“Mom and I have help all the time, Jesus. No one goes through life alone. You and Mariana help each other, right?”

“Because...we can’t...alone. It’s too hard.”

“Right. Nobody can alone, bud. It’s--”

“I’m too hard.”

Mama’s quiet. Then she puts her arms around him. “I’m so sorry it feels that way, Jesus.” She presses a kiss to his temple. “Because you are so easy to love.”

“Not...anymore…”

“Do you feel that? Unloveable?” Mama asks, surprised.

Jesus nods. “Not me. Anymore.”

“You don’t feel like yourself. You feel different. So, it’s no wonder you feel unloveable now. This you hasn’t gotten nearly enough love.”

Mama sits with him. Holds on.

“Do you...love me now?” Jesus asks.

“Honey, I never stopped. I loved the person you were before. And I love the person you are now.”

“I get mad…” Jesus ventures. “Yell.”

“And it makes sense. You have reasons when you yell. It doesn’t make you bad. It doesn’t make you less.”

“Even though..I can’t read…”

Mama cocks her head.

“You love me?”

“Yes.”

He likes that she doesn’t hesitate. That she stays. That she keeps holding onto him.

But it’s gonna take a while for the love to build.

For Jesus to feel okay in this new skin.

Coping

Mama promised to drive Jesus to PT herself today, but after everybody leaves, she sits down and talks to him, saying she’s sorry, but plans have changed.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“Mom and I have to meet with Callie and her lawyer this morning. It’s important. That means you need someone else to take you to therapy.”

“Brandon,” he sighs.

“I was thinking so, yes. I know you told me yesterday that you weren’t ready to have Brandon drive you. I don’t imagine that’s changed overnight.”

Jesus shakes his head.

“So, I wanted to talk to you first, about talking to Brandon.”

“About...what?” Jesus wonders.

“Things he should know. Whatever you think those are. I want you to be comfortable with this. Or as close as you can be. So you can take some time. Think about this. And tell me whenever you have an idea.”

“Don’t...don’t...don’t...don’t--” he tries. Just thinking about this one is stressing Jesus out. It has since yesterday. It’s why he doesn’t feel good about Brandon being the one to take him.

“I’m listening, Jesus. Don’t what?” Mama asks, patient.

“Don’t um...don’t…” he tries again. And again. Nothing works.

Mama waits. Finally, she speaks up again.

“Do you want to keep trying?”

He shakes his head. This isn’t working.

“Would it help if I made a suggestion, and you can tell me yes or no?” she wonders.

Jesus nods, relieved.

“Would you like me to tell him to bring something else to do? Not to stare or say too much while you’re working?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She pauses. Makes a note in her phone. “Would you like me to tell him to pay attention and back you up when you need a break? Should I tell him what words you say so he knows to listen for them?”

Jesus nods again. He’s still thinking, though. About the first thing. That Mama hasn’t mentioned.

“Is there more you’d like me to include?” Mama asks.

Another nod.

Mama just watches him and waits. She’s great at being patient. It helps him not to feel stressed. Even though this is still hard to say. Embarrassing. And actually hard because of his brain. It’s a good thing he takes about two naps a day. And sleeps in.

“Scared,” he admits.

Mama leans closer. Holds his hand.

“Don’t want him to...say things...to me…” Jesus says and takes a deep breath. “Things...like...he’s smart. I’m not.”

“You’re saying you don’t want Brandon making fun of you. Is that right?” Mama checks, putting her arms around him. “You’re scared he’ll tease you?”

Jesus nods, feeling super small.

“So, I’m going to tell Brandon that making fun of you cannot happen. That it’s against the rules. Because it is. We don’t mock each other in this family.”

“He does.” Jesus protests, quiet.

Mama’s eyes widen. “He had better not.”

“He says...he lived here more than us. That you...and Mom...took us in when our mom...didn’t want us.”

Mama looks disapproving.

“Tell him not to?”

“Absolutely. I’ll tell him not to. He should know better than to tell you two things like that. That’s very rude and hurtful and untrue. You three have lived in this house the exact same amount of time. And your mom did want you. She just couldn’t take care of you.”

“C-Can you?” he asks.

“Can I?” she echoes, a question.

“Take care of me? Now that...I’m different. Not me. Too much.”

“You are not too much, Jesus. Mom and I love you very much. This you right now. We love you and we can take care of you.”

“You can...return me...Callie said before...about her.”

Jesus knows that Callie and Brandon talked a crap-ton about the possibility of her adoption being reversed when she did something. .She checked into it. It’s real. They could just decide to undo this It could be like his nightmare.

Mama takes his face in her hands. Looks at him hard. Starts speaking, soft but firm:

“We are not returning you. You are our son. We love you.”

“Later?” he checks.

“We’re not returning you now. Not later. Not ever. Plans changed today. That doesn’t mean we would ever want to give you back.” She wraps her arms around him.

It doesn’t really sink in. Just skates on the surface of his skin.

(Because what if they change their mind?)

He thinks of the empty house. How unnerving it was to be there. Everything blank. Everyone gone. No way to find them.

Mama holds him for a while, but then she has to go get Brandon. So they can all talk together.

The drive to St. Michael’s is quiet, but Jesus doesn’t mind. Riding in the car makes him dizzy, so he just tries to sleep. He’s glad Mama mentioned that Brandon should load the wheelchair, because he’s already so exhausted. This will save him energy. He’ll be more tired soon enough.

Once they park, Brandon gets out, and unloads the chair first. Then he opens Jesus’s door and helps him out. He’s still dizzy from the car and fuzzy from sleeping.

“Ready? Want me to push?” Brandon asks.

Jesus nods.

He doesn’t have to talk much here. He just has to do stuff. Today, he has the helmet, and the glasses and the stupid belt on all together. He’s on the parallel bars, taking steps.

It’s noisy in here, and hard to concentrate. But at least Brandon’s not staring or trying to cheer him on. He’s on his phone, but close enough that he can hear what’s going on. Like Mama said.

Now there’s something on the ground. He has to step on it. It gives under his right foot and makes everything move. It takes all his energy. Feels like he has no center of balance. He’s just stuck in this weird ass position. (He already did this once, and it sapped him.) He has nothing left.

People are working all around him. It’s loud as hell. Would they notice if he fell? Would they point and laugh? Maybe not the ones like him. But maybe Brandon. Jesus risks a look at him.

“Come on, Jesus, stay focused,” the PT says.

“It’s hard!” he exclaims.

“It is. You did this once. Let’s try for twice, huh?”

He’s shaking and all sweaty. He’s gonna fall.

“Help…” he manages.

“I’ve got you. You’re not gonna fall. Focus on putting your weight on this leg. Push down to the ground.”

But it doesn’t feel like there is ground. That’s the whole problem. In this position, he can’t anchor himself. He’s got all his weight on his arms, and his right is about ready to give out.

Just like that, Brandon’s there, between the bars, too. In front of him.

“Can you finish?” he asks. “If I stand here?”

Jesus doesn’t have extra energy to talk, but Brandon being where he can see him does give Jesus a little more confidence. He glances at the floor. Tries to get his right side to cooperate. Finally, it finds the foor. His other leg can swing through. He can make it to the chair at the end. Brandon ducks out. Jesus all but collapses in it.

By the end of PT, Jesus is spent.

Brandon helps him back into the car. Loads the chair. Gets in.

“I know you’re tired right now. Maybe after you get some sleep, I can talk to you about something, though?” he asks.

Jesus nods. Then, he falls asleep against the window.

When they park, Brandon shakes him awake but not hard.

“Hey. We’re back.”

Jesus feels like he just closed his eyes. It’s all he can do to get in the house before he makes it to the bed in the living room and falls asleep again.

When he wakes up for real, Brandon’s still there.

“Creepy…” Jesus tells him.

“Just because I’m watching you sleep?” Brandon asks, but he’s smiling a little. “Listen, I didn’t know if this was a great time to talk.”

Jesus nods. It’s as good a time as any.

“I was looking at stuff on my phone earlier, about how music can help the brain make new connections…”

Jesus ducks his head. Here it comes.

“So I was wondering...if you wanted me to teach you piano?”

Glancing up, Jesus’s brow furrows.

He seriously has so much going on right now. He doesn’t have a spare second to learn piano on top of everything else. But...it might be cool to do something that doesn’t feel like therapy.

“Emma?” he asks. Because it would be boring as hell to learn alone, but she can make anything fun.

“Sure, Emma, too, if she wants. We can ask when she comes over after school.”

Playing

(Scene)

Emma agrees.

So, she and Jesus sit next to each other at the piano. Brandon’s been teaching them ‘Row Row Row your Boat’ for...a while.

If it’s possible, Emma’s worse at this than Jesus is. The truth is in Brandon’s praise, which he can’t fake, especially if he’s teaching music.

“There you go. That’s it, Jesus. That’s great. Emma, not so much...but it’s okay.” They all laugh. And Jesus can see Mama out of the corner of his eye.

“Brandon’s..teaching Emma...to play piano…” Jesus tells her, a smile on his face.

“I see that,” Mama nods. She seems happy. “Emma, how’s it going?”

“Um...pretty terrible,” Emma admits, laughing.

“Try it again, guys. Try it again,” Brandon urges.

So they start over. Jesus can’t stop laughing, because Emma keeps messing up. They play it through again, and she says, “You’re so good!”

“You’re so bad!” he laughs.

Brandon cues them to start again, even counting them off this time. When they start to play, he says, “That’s good, that’s good, and Emma, just make sure you keep your hands here…” he touches her hand. “...and there...when you go all the way from the top. That’s good. There you go. Just like that. Got it?”

Emma laughs and says yeah.

“All right. Let’s start over. You’re doing good,” he says, patting Jesus on the shoulder, so he feels like an afterthought.

It’s not that he wants to be corrected. It’s that seeing Brandon touching Emma. Seeing her laughing? It reminds him so much of his dream. Where they were making out.

She would be happier with a guy like Brandon.

Not a guy like him.

It makes Jesus’s heart sink.

They play again. But it’s not fun anymore.

Deception

(Scene)

After the piano, Jesus falls asleep again. The house is quiet, so he sleeps a long time.

When he wakes up, his heart starts beating fast. He’s all alone. For a second, it feels exactly like his dream. Except the house isn’t bare inside. It still has all his family’s stuff. So maybe they didn’t leave him.

Hopefully…

“Hey…” he calls out.

Usually the intercom feels like a huge invasion of his privacy. Knowing Moms can hear everything he says. Everything he and Mariana talk about. It forces them to stick to surface stuff, unless they wanna whisper. Which they had when he told her he can’t read anymore. Even though Moms already know about that, it’s still embarrassing. And Jesus doesn’t want anybody else in the house knowing.

Now, he finds himself hoping that someone’s on the other end of the intercom. Still in the house. That they didn’t leave him here alone.

Time drags. For all of it, Jesus feels himself pulled back through time. To that memory of being cold. Hungry. Dirty. And so scared. At least then he’d had Mariana with him. Now he has no one.

Footsteps.

Emma.

Then Brandon.

What were they doing upstairs together? Why does Emma look so upset?

Jesus spreads his arms, because too many questions are crowding in at the same time (Where were they? Why? What’s wrong with Emma? Did something happen? Is it his fault?)

“Hey. Sorry. We’re back,” Brandon says, holding up the other end of the intercom.

Jesus’s eyes flicker to them. He can see how they stand close. The way Brandon looks at her like he knows something about why she’s crying.

“Okay?” he asks, looking Emma in the eyes.

“Yeah. I mean no, but yeah. I will be.”

And Jesus gets that she’s somehow managed to tell him the truth and lie to his face all at once.

Later, when Moms get home with groceries, Emma’s acting like nothing happened earlier.

“You got a ton of cards from both the volleyball teams.” She tosses one at him. Laughs. Then she says, “Check out this one from Laurel.”

Panic has him swatting away the card. Emma doesn’t know he can’t read. Moms promised he can be in charge of who he tells, and he has not wanted to tell Emma. He didn’t even want to tell Mariana, to be honest, it just sort of came up in conversation, and he ended up telling her.

“Y-- Y-- You have too much makeup on.”

She doesn’t. And besides that, Jesus knows that he is the last person who gets a say over her body. But he knows how to piss her off. Needs to drive her away. Before she finds out that he really is too dumb for her after all.

“God, Jesus…” she says, hurt.

“W-Well, I’m tired. You sh-- You should go.”

He turns away from her. Stays still until he hears her stand up. Leave.

It’s his biggest fear.

But better for her to leave now, when he’s ready, than for her to find out the truth when he isn’t.

People leaving unexpectedly is the worst.

At least this way, Jesus can see it coming.

(Scene)

That night, when Mariana’s sleeping a few feet from him, Jesus reaches out for his glasses. Puts them on. Then, for Laurel’s card. It takes way longer than it used to. To reach. To pick up the card he wants. To bring it toward him.

But he does it.

He closes his eyes. Wills the glasses to work this time.

Jesus opens his eyes. Looks at the card.

Everything moves.

Even the short message is impossible to read.

It feels like Jesus maybe made some progress crawling out of that depression pit. Piano hadn’t been all bad at first. But now, it’s like he’s just sliding back down. And no one even knows to look for him here.

Devastated, he tries to breathe. Tries to destroy the damn card but his hand won’t let him.

So even though he wants to be quiet, so Mariana can sleep, his sadness is right at the surface too, and he can’t keep it in.

Taking off the glasses is the final straw.

He sobs. Covers his eyes so he doesn’t have to see Laurel’s stupid card.

Fear and hopelessness rip through him.

(Is it always gonna be like this? Will he ever be able to feel like himself?)

He thinks of all the things he’s losing. All the things that gave him identity:

Skateboarding. Volleyball. Construction. Being Emma’s boyfriend. Mariana’s protector.

All of it. Gone.

All of a sudden, the bed beside him gives. Arms are around him. Someone’s here with him. Hugging him. But not trying to fix this. Not saying anything at all.

Mariana.

She just holds on. And breathes.

And it’s still lonely. He loves her as much as it’s possible to love anybody, but he’s jealous as hell of her, too. None of this is easy.

He’s so different.

But for now, at least, he’s not alone.

He holds on tight to her.

#fic: the fosters 4b take two #fosters fic

4 notes · View notes

sibillascribbles08 · 7 years

Text

Alone

When u feel bad and wanna do something to get ur mind off it, write about characters getting hugs.

Little Spirit!AU scene I couldn’t put into the main fic. Featuring Jack and Reinhardt because Reinhardt is?? such a good friend.

Jack sighed, running a hand over his face as his head rested on the arm of the sofa. It was at least big enough for him but it lumped in far too many places, no doubt from the amount of use it saw.

What was he doing in here?

He told himself not to. Told himself that his stay would only be a few days, but of course Ana was lingering with the insistence of repairing these relationships. Something that backpedaled heavily when McCree found out who Reaper was. It’d be amazing if he or Fareeha ever spoke to them again.

“We should just leave.” He’d tried to convince her, but she refused.

“He deserves to know the truth. They all do. We should be telling them everything we know.”

“No, not right now. It’s too damn risky.”

“Your years alone haven’t served you well, Jack.”

“We’re not arguing about this Ana.”

“You’re right. We’re not. You can go if you like but I’m staying here, and if you know what’s good for you then you’ll stay too.

“I know you won’t admit it, but you need this.”

No, he wouldn’t admit it. He’d done damn fine on his own the past few years, and that was with his loss of eyesight.

“She’s right pup, and you know it.” Whitefang spoke up. “You sleeping in here is proof of that.”

“She’s snores,” he mumbled and rolled over.

“You are used to that. I thought we already went over you trying to lie to me.”

“Stop.”

“You aren’t built to be on your own Jack.”

“Don’t give a damn.”

“You’re in here because you want to make sure they’re all safe.”

“I said stop.”

“Now that you’re among friends again your old habits are coming back.”

“Stop,” Jack pressed his palms against his temple, forcing back the emotions scratching at his chest. He refused to do this now. He refused to let himself get attached. They couldn’t stay here. There was too much to do. Jack Morrison was supposed to be dead. It’d be better if everyone treated him that way.

“Jack,” Whitefang sounded desperate. “Please stop doing this to yourself.”

“What could I possibly even do here? I’m not going to let them send me off on a bunch of hero missions. That’s not what I am anymore, and you know damn well why.”

“That was not your fault.”

“Like hell it wasn’t!” He shot up when he said that, rubbing his face again. At this point he actually wished he could just sleep. This kind of chatter was just pissing him off.

He didn’t want to deal with this. He didn’t want to-

“Didn’t you make a promise?”

“Don’t use that against me,” he muttered into his knees.

“You know me Jack, I will do whatever is necessary to force you to improve yourself. If you are going to make me force you into a corner, so be it.”

He sighed, not really responding. He knew the wolf was right. As much as his personality came off as playful and relaxed his spirit would never hesitate to correct him or push him. Part of his original profile, Jack supposed.

He caught the sound of footsteps, lifting his head toward the source of the noise. Heavy, familiar, he kept his eyes focused on where he knew the door was.

“Jack?” Reinhardt said.

“Hey,” he blinked and looked away, hoping his eyes weren’t reflecting the light again. He’d never seen it himself, but judging from the reactions he remembered it made most people fairly uncomfortable.

“What are you doing in here my friend?” The footsteps approached, stopping at the end of the sofa.

“Sleeping. Sort of.”

“Ah, Ana’s snoring keep you up?”

“You know I’m used to that.”

The man laughed and Jack could easily picture the expression he was making. “That is true.”

“What’s got you up?”

“Ah, well, dreams you know. I often walk to clear my head. A good reminder to think of where I am now as apposed to where I was.”

Jack looked up to meet his gaze, or at least he hoped he did. Never really thought about it that way. Sometimes he envied all the ways Reinhardt found to ground himself, despite everything he’d been through.

“Are you doing alright?”

He blinked before opening his mouth.

“I understand if you do not with to discuss it.” Reinhardt added. “Your reasons for keeping yourself hidden from us still confuse me, but perhaps I’m still not seeing things the way you do.”

No. Jack thought to himself. There really isn’t a damn excuse.

“But I am still here if you need me Jack. That has not changed.”

He snorted and found himself smiling. “Course not. If anyone around here stayed the same after all of this it’d be you. I... I don’t know how you do it.”

“As I said, different perspectives. I was forced to retire before everything became... Perhaps if I had been there-”

“Don’t.” Jack stood up. “Didn’t you just say to focus on where you are?”

“Right you are. Care to join me? I can guide you if you need it.”

He only just realized it was the first time he’d been caught around the base without his visor. Honestly, wearing it off the field frustrated him more than anything else. The headaches were unbearable.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got my ways of navigating.” A part of him didn’t want to leave. His gut churned with all the possibilities of doing so. Talon could find them. Reaper could find them. What was he supposed to do if they walked too far? What if he wasn’t quick enough?

There was a gentle grip on his shoulder and his hand snapped up on instinct, grabbing Reinhardt’s wrist.

“Come now, my friend. You do not need to worry about anything if I am here.”

That comment made him laugh, almost made him cry at how familiar it all was. One of his best friends grabbing him by both arms to practically shake the nerves out of him after his first week as Strike Commander. Fiercely reminding him that even in his position he didn’t need to do it all alone.

“Yeah, fine, where are we headed?”

“I often go outside for some air, if that’s alright.”

“Lead the way.”

Jack followed behind him, in silence for a while. He kept his eyes fixed on Whitefang who kept glancing back at him, tilting his head as if urging him to do something. Do what?

“Talk to him, pup. You have not had a decent conversation with him since you arrived. Does he not deserve that much at least?”

He grumbled to himself, knowing the wolf was right, but not knowing where the hell to start.

He was out of practice.

“You uh...” He cleared his throat. “You like it here?”

There was no telling if Reinhardt was looking at him. “It is wonderful to be helpful again, yes, and these are all wonderful people to be allied with.”

“No need to sell it to me.”

“Haha, that was not my intention, although I would like to help if I can.”

“Not sure it’s helping.”

Jack thought he had mumbled that, and kept walking when Whitefang didn’t stop, only to bump into Reinhardt’s shoulder.

“I do not know what you have been through Jack,” that hand was on his shoulder again. “But I must say this is very unlike you.”

“A lot of things have changed.” He muttered. “And it’s not this place, really. I just can’t pursue my goals if I stay here.”

“We would be willing to help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” He gritted his teeth, keeping in mind to keep his fangs from showing up. He didn’t have his mask to hide them.

“You do not need our help? Or you do not want our help.”

“Both!” He snapped and took a step back. “I can’t drag all of you into this mess. I refused to back then and I refuse to do it now.”

“You allowed Ana.”

“Because she was already involved. Why do you think she went missing?” He took in a sharp breath, trying to bury his emotions again. “I don’t want to bring something like that on this place. I know what you’re all trying to do here but you’re putting a beacon on your heads. You’re putting yourself at risk. With Talon, with the government, with dozens of other enemies. If they haven’t already, they’re going to try and come after you. Damn it, Reaper never left that damn city because he knew you guys would show up.”

He clamped his mouth shut. Damn, he was saying way too much. It wasn’t as if the base was still oblivious to Reaper’s identity, but it still wasn’t something he wanted to discuss.

Suddenly Reinhardt laughed.

He laughed, long and loud, the kind he did when he threw back his head and grinned.

Jack could only stand there in confusion, not sure what was so funny about all of this.

“There is the Jack I know.” He gripped both of his shoulders this time. “Always thinking about the safety of everyone else.”

“What? Am I not allowed to care?”

“Sometimes it seemed that way, with the way you behave towards everyone.”

“It’s better if they stay away from me.”

“I disagree Jack. You never did well on your own.”

“How would you know?” Jack tried to sound angry but could hear his voice failing him. “I’ve done it for the past five years haven’t I? I made it that far even without my eyes. I don’t know why you and everyone else keeps acting like I’m incapable of-”

The hug took him off guard. Tight around his shoulders and lifting him off the floor in the way only Reinhardt could.

“I do not think you are incapable.” Reinhardt said. “But you always dedicated yourself toward other people. I at least imagine it was rather hard without anyone by your side.”

He opened his mouth to argue but the lump in his throat stole his voice. He felt the tears, cursing himself, trying to force it all back down. He didn’t need to be getting emotional over a hug. It’s not like it was a big deal.

So what if he hadn’t any kind of contact since he started fighting with Gabriel? So what if the first time Ana touched his hair he almost punched her? So what?

So...

Oh god.

It was so warm.

The dam completely broke under that realization. All that time spent in isolation he’d grown completely numb to how cold his body usually ran. Suddenly it was hitting him how alone he’d actually been and it was overwhelming.

He tried not to think about how silly it was to be sobbing like this, clinging to Reinhardt. Instead he tried to focus on not babbling his thoughts out like an idiot, like he used to do whenever this happened. Whenever Reinhardt would find almost anyone on their team trying to bury everything only to dig it up with a hug like this.

He supposed he should be glad the man only used it for good.

Only when the tears slowed down did Reinhardt let go, and Jack damned himself for almost complaining. He rubbed at his eyes, praying they weren’t red from that mess. He expected Reinhardt to say something but the man remained quiet.

“Don’t tell anyone that happened.” Jack muttered.

His friend laughed again, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I understand. But I have said it before, this is what happens when you try and hide it all.”

“Most people aren’t that magically good at making me talk.”

“To be fair you did not actually say much.”

Jack took a deep breath, trying to clear his nose as he pressed his palms against his eyes.

“Perhaps it is time for you to get some rest.” Reinhardt nudged him to head back the way they came.

“Hah, we’ll see how much of that actually happens.”

“Would it help if I hung around?”

“You don’t need to-”

“Oh, I know, Athena has a bunch of our favorite films still saved. We should dig one up.”

Jack realized that arguing would be useless. He just nodded, letting Reinhardt practically push him down the hallway to make him move faster. Too fast. Whitefang wasn’t in front and he ran clean into a door frame.

Reinhardt apologized far too many times, going as far as picking Jack up and carrying him the rest of the way.

“I can walk,” Jack put little effort into trying to free himself, laughing too hard to do it properly anyway. “Put me down.”

“Nonsense, I must assist the elderly.”

“You’re older than me.” He shoved his hand against Reinhardt’s chin, making his head tilt back but he didn’t slow down. Somehow this made him laugh harder, letting his head fall back. Damn it. He needed to quiet down or he was bound to wake someone up.

Reinhardt finally let him go by dropping him on the sofa. A few seconds later the man plopped down next to him, asking Athena to play Lord of the Rings.

“Oh god,” Jack mumbled, curling up under the blanket already. “You really do want to put me to sleep.”

“Say what you like, but I know for a fact you cried twice over Frodo and Sam.”

Jack refused to confirm or deny that, although he knew it was true. He’d never been one for fantasy stories, but friendship stories? Got him every time.

He allowed himself to flop over, pressing against Reinhardt’s shoulder. The warmth flooded back to him and so did his exhaustion. Suddenly it felt like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

He dozed off before the opening even finished.

#scribbly fics #overwatch #Spirit!AU #I love Reinhardt spending time with literally anyone where are the fics #I need 800 #did u know #u can turn off Jack's insomnia if he's with someone he trusts #but be careful because he will usually sleep on top of you #or at least next to you #also did u know #Jack is the type of person who rly craves physical affection #and he's been starving himself for like years #even now during the fic if u suddenly hugged him he'd probably cry #or at least his voice would crack as he aggressively insists he was NOT crying #just take it

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storiesof2018 · 6 years

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For the umpteenth time, Bucky stared bearily in front of the glass sliding door leading the terrace against the modicum of heartache he stowed back. The ambiance of utter emptiness left him despondent while he remained in a motionless stupor, his pointed ears arched, twitching to the faint cooing of his infant pups snuggled within folds of lavender scented blankets. Grudgingly, the young alpha hated sulking, emitting squeaky whimpers that conveyed the scourging gravity of his despair. It was a cacophony of unbridled emotions he couldn’t restrain back.

His memories were relentless specters that gauged an icy wake of grief into his heart, making his veins throb until unshed tears dampened his furred muzzle. Everywhere he looked during his morning treks throughout the city with Steve guiding his paces on a tugging leash, he was barraged with heart-shaped decorations in store windows, boxes of chocolate and stuff animal teddy bears that hugged a scarlet heart with “I Love You” switched over the material.

Indignantly, Bucky would scrunch his muzzle up, and fix razor-edge intensity on those unbidden remainders, sometimes reining up the feral urge to rip the stuff animals to shreds. He wanted nothing to do with Valentines Day-the whole damn flaunting of artificial devotion, the depth of romance that felt impermanent-just a blissful ecstasy to stave off when midnight rushed through.

Nothing carried the unshakeable intent of a heart’s surrender-the infinite promise of everlasting love that left him utterly thunderstruck-breathless every time he dared to glance at Selina’s captured pearlescent, lethal beauty saved on his iPhone when he morphed back into a human. It only induced self-punishment, fueling the constant ache in his swollen girth to increase. He could only reach for his snarky kitten in his dreams, share a tantalizing embrace of her curvaceous and svelte form meld against him as pure elemental heat combusted ablaze through their warring veins. Nothing compared to that exquisite tenor of their joining, they fitted naturally like a blade into a sheath, a visceral resonance that would drive needs full throttle.

Right now against the stoke of tractability, Bucky felt the infectious fever of heartbreak infusing within his massive canine form-emanating soul- deep until he was paralyzed to extent of unleashing a torturous yelp. He couldn’t shake the intolerable compulsion of stalking aimlessly through Mid-Town, hoping to grapple the distractingly alluring scent that would lead him back to her. Doing his damnedest to hold back the onslaught of tears, Bucky cast a dismal gaze of his gleaming steel-aquamarine depths holding a lilt of heated menace back to the snowy hazed street below.

Fight against the diffusing hope, Bucky needed an outlet to escape the void, and his fussy and preciously adorable pups were fully dependent on him. He was a Daddy and a lethal predator that was a silent intimidation in Central Park. His and Selina vitality merged within their little pudgy forms, he wouldn’t allow his own unebbing misery keep them distant from him.

“What the hell are ya doin’, Barnes,” he grumbled out with a vexatious rasp while pinching out a prick of wetness in his eyes. He instinctively sensed the potent thrum of telltale hunger radiating from the drowsy babies that commanded his attention-seizing him back into a dormant thrall. Inexplicable calamity seared into his mind. Tilting his muzzle a fraction lower, he grimaced tautly a reactive, fanged sneer against the expansion of heaviness mounting in his furred girth. Holding down a snarl resonating deep, he stubbornly complied to maternal instincts. “Urgh, you gotta be there for em’, don’t be a damn idiot…Get back in the game.”

Quashing down the fierce urge bash against the glass, Bucky felt his ears pinning down, as he turned fluidly on his paws drive by automatic -elemental instinct, and tentatively advanced towards the heap of blankets, lowering his canine muzzle down as his jaws clamped delicately over one, and deftly yanked it off, exposing a pudgy lump of dark cinder fur that squeaked fussily at moment his intimating presence was detected. His gut twisted, knowing that he would be immobilized while his baby pups relentlessly supped, nipped and guzzled down his milk reserves.

“Okay-Okay, pal, Daddy hears ya,” Bucky grumbled in soothing timbre, nudging his little-hellbent son. Brennen was incarnate of himself, boyishly headstrong and utterly defiant. A true Brooklyn pup. He craved for stillness to breach his domain-a moment of relief. The spacious loft was hard to take in, and he felt like a damn intruder. Everything was restrictive. His daunting visage of canine menace wasn’t exactly approachable on the congested sidewalks; hostility was tempestuous aura radiating off his massive form, as he vented out his frustration. Every day was a test of adaptability to reach beyond his limits, he was becoming attuned to the rhythmic dissonance of traffic, klaxon sirens and the stench of burnt diesel. His babies squeaked in unison against every blaring strait that disturbed their tiny forms. He needed to isolate them.

“I hate to say it Buck, but he’s spitting image of you,” Steve’s warm voice carried from the kitchen with all the comfort and reassurance of a cozy fireplace. Outside remained an irreverent chill as the January weather cast a storm of flurries over the quiet neighborhood. The wilderness had a way of following Bucky and for once Steve wondered if his friend wished for the noise that could distract him from his own turbulent thoughts. At hearing a snort come from the massive and imposing direwolf sitting on the floor of his living room, the blonde man spared at glance over at him while he busily prepared an evening meal for his life-long friend. “Good looks and no patience. It’s a wonder he’s already got you teetering on the ropes after this mornin’.”

“Yeah…Um…He can sure pack in,” Bucky replied with a terse rasp, scrunching his muzzle as he forced a visage of a snarky grin, but the sharp point of his fanged incisors morphed his soured countenance, making him appear dauntingly menacing against the gleam of wintry light. His luminous glacial orbs remained unwavering on Steve, glinting tellingly with instinctual distrust that he couldn’t easily stave off.

Stiffening with his bushy tail lowered, Bucky tried to quash down a vibrating snarl cracking up his throat, as his bulked mass instantly seized up against the slightest detection of encroaching footsteps that his flattened ears registered. He automatically went into protective mode, hunching his shoulders and kept his long muzzle eclipsed over the basket securing his pudgy babies. His eyes slitten into a deadened cast of raw intensity. “Don’t come in here…” he warned with a bite, ghosting the urgency of his graveled undertone.“Can’t really trust what I’ve become, Steve…Don’t wanna hurt you again.”

Despite his greater inclination to be at his best friend’s side, Steve paused at the entry-way of the kitchen with a small plate of raw meat he recently bought from the local butcher. Though it had only been a few short weeks since he brought Bucky and his babies to Brooklyn, he had grown used to the wolf’s habits and routines. He slept well into the afternoon, and was wide awake through the darkened hours of the night when he was more attuned with nature. He had the appetite of a Hulk, and a temper shorter than any fuse if he sensed he was being provoked. There were times when the blonde felt as if his emotions could be treated the same way as a human’s, but the fact was Bucky was now a wolf. Wolves could not be tamed easily, and despite how fearless Steve felt of his friend, he knew it was right to tread cautiously; mostly for Bucky’s sake if not his own.

“You don’t gotta worry about me, Bucky. I’ve tackled hard-hitting opponents before; not all of em on two legs. I’d like to think I can handle myself…But if you want some space, that I can understand.” Steve said a soft smile as he brings the plate down until its rested on the floor and against the wall. Beside it was a doggy-bowl poured with fresh-water. Steve had always wanted a dog in his youth. The call of duty often kept him away from home that it made the responsibility seem impossible. Now that he no longer had a shield to carry, the opportunity to shelter an animal had come, but he never imagined it would turn out like this.

“No-No…I’ve been a big jerk lately,” Bucky whimpered back, the huskiness roughen drawl felt lessened to the squeaky resonance that emerged out of him, as his demeanor became passive when he gazed intensity at the offered plate of fresh beef. He nipped on his underlip, fighting against the wage of feral impulses and reeled back from the basket. He was aware of his dark shifting wolfish aggression and felt compelled to deliver some gravity of trust back to the stalwart First Avenger.

Dipping his head down, he conveyed brotherly radiance through a gleam of errant tears, as if his captive spirit was unhinging within.“S'it’s not fair to you or em’…This is your place, Steve, and I don’t mean to act like this, you’re my best friend and if anythin’, I..uh…gotta quit being so damn selfish…”

A remorseful sigh blew past Steve’s lips. Many times he sensed the turmoil waging through his best friend that began and ended with the burden of his identity; his past and present. Bucky Barnes was once just a kid from Brooklyn that loved to play ball and go out with pretty dames. He later became a soldier—one of the bravest and honorably remembered by his country before he was taken and unmade; like a mold of clay, reshaped into an instrument of terror as an assassin working for Hydra. What he was now was a myriad of his past identities fused into one new feral form. Despite the number of atrocities that his best friend was forced to contend with in memory, and his conflict of identity, Steve felt the biggest failure laid on his own two shoulders.

“C'mon, Buck. Stove that talk, you’re not here to feel like you can’t be yourself,” Steve tentatively made his way over. Wearing gray socks, his steps made no sound as he eased himself down to a sitting position beside the massive wolf who continued to stare listlessly into the basket containing his sleeping litter. “You’re here because this is where I want you to be. I want this to be a home for you too, Buck. Been a long time since you’ve had one… Can’t say for me its been any different.” Remorse glimmered in his eyes and for once Steve appeared every bit his age. His growing stubble itched as he brought his calloused digits up to scratch it.

A moment of silence passed as his blue eyes focused on the cinder-furred mammoth in front of him and conveyed a soulful look. “I can’t imagine what it is you’re growing through, I just want you to know that I’m still with ya, Buck. I’m not gonna let you go through this alone. These little guys…they’re family, just like you.”

“D'ya wanna help me feed em’…” Bucky murmured in deep timbre, unguardedly, as his muzzle curved into a half-simper that was a ghost cast of his boyish smile, and his reactive instincts mounted with a resurgence of calmness against the inevitability that loomed between them as he stared deeply into the unmistakable cool serenity fused with the oceanic azure of Steve’s passive depths, finding the pure, unshakeable promise of home again.

He felt a wash of heat raze increasingly through his veins, reining up his grounded trust, to convey that clashing sense, he slowly eased down his muzzle over the furry bundles that cooed in unison against his loving touch, his steel-aquamarine orbs alight with gracing light, measured assent, giving Steve a chance to grip onto this beautiful moment with him. It felt like daybreak. He would never be distant with Steve, not by a longshot. They had to recapture their brotherhood and salvage all resistance to put his curse on the ropes. He could sense that Steve was still hesitant about drawing a hand near the basket, to deliver a new stroke of reachable love over the baby pups.

Engaging this paramount and tamed moment, Bucky deftly moved toward’s his best friend with painstaking momentum with fluid predatory grace, holding onto echoes of his humanity, and with a lightning flash of motion, nudged his whiskered muzzle tentatively over Steve’s denim-clad thigh while the super-soldier braced himself. A bond was being forged-man and wolf.

“S'alright, I know the playing field is gonna be different now,” Bucky whispered shakily, a faint whinny squeak reduced the depth resonating in his graveled voice, nudging his muzzle against Steve’s muscled calf, aware of the usurp of the relentless bloodthirst that channeled through him, also conscious of the vital delivery infused in Steve’s anchoring promise. It was innoxious cadence he would follow. “..and I really don’t know where this damn curse is gonna take me, but my pups need you, and I think it’s time for you to really…Meet em’.”

Humbleness and gratitude moved through Steve, almost enough to overwhelm him with an outpouring of emotion at the gesture. Though the situation they now were in wasn’t ideal; Steve a fugitive Avenger living under a new identity and Bucky, no longer a human but a nursing wolf alpha, they had somehow still managed to come together and strengthened the bonds of their friendship into something unbreakable such as family. No further words were needed to exchange between them, he knew; not when all that was needed to be said had been finally outspoken. Instead, he graced the cinder-furred direwolf with a winning smile and an accepting nod.

“I’ve definitely been waiting for this,” he said with excitement in his tone. Scooching on his knees closer towards the dire-wolf’s side, he gives him a questioning look of permission before the wolf bobbed his head in encouragement. It almost felt like unwrapping a gift, and Steve could think of no better feeling of anticipation as he unraveled the blanket and stared in awe at the three tiny little balls of fur that laid bundled close to each other in concealed warmth. “Wow, Bucky. They’re so small.” Steve said with a glint of mirth in his sparkling blue eyes, taking in the fascinating sight of cinder-colored fur and tiny little faces with closed eyes.

“Except for this little guy. Looks like he’s chugged a few too many times with no signs of stoppin’,” Steve joked at the sight of the larger of the three pups. While the two she-wolves’ size could be compared to tennis-balls, the male would have to be closer to that of a volleyball at the rate he was growing. He briefly wondered if it had anything to do with genetics and if Bucky carried on a certain serum in his blood to his children. Strong kids meant stronger appetites after all.

Feeling a sense of ease rush over him, Bucky quirked his mouth into a half-slanted grin, listening to his baby pups squeak out a cadence of faint coos against the deft caress of Steve’s gracing hand tentatively lowering to their pudgy forms. It was an indescribable moment to absorb as phantom treks of unassailed heartache felt derailed by the encompassing warmth of brotherhood. His glacial depths held a soulful light, as his pointed ears twitched when Steve drew out a breathless, hearty chuckle. He was falling deeper into a jovial stupor.“You can pick em’ up, Steve, these little guys kinda like being held,” he murmured throatily, lowering back down on his hind legs in front of the wakeful basket with subtle tenderness. “They can’t really see yet, not until five weeks at least, so until they do, my voice is what they respond to, kinda make’s em’ feel safe, I guess…” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“I know that feeling, Buck. There was a time when it made me feel safe,” Steve responded easily while reflecting on the many instances in his troubled childhood where he felt like a sheep in a land of wolves. His mother couldn’t always protect him, and his father died when he was too little to even remember him. All he had to make him feel safe was Bucky. It was no surprise his children could feel that connection as well. But the blonde resolved to help the tiny little furballs realize they didn’t only have their daddy to look out for them; but their big generous uncle Steve as well.

“These little guys look ready to wake up, especially this fella; Brennen?” Steve asked, sparing a confirming glance at Bucky to which the direwolf nodded with an amusing grunt. Yeah, Steve didn’t pity what this feisty little guy would put Bucky through. “Brennen…” Steve tasted the name of his tongue, finding it suited a first-son. “Guess James Jr. would’ve been too on the nose, but I’m glad he doesn’t have to compete with his dad. That wouldn’t be pretty.” A growl of warning nipped at his shoulder and Steve found himself bubbling with a hearty chuckle. “Kidding, ya big jerk.”

Steve distinctly heard Bucky mutter some that vaguely sounded like “once a punk, always a punk” beneath his growling breath, which made the blonde’s smile grow ever brighter as he scooped up the large squirming wolfling.

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Bucky lightly chuckled with a faint snort, teasingly arching his brows up while he registered the pitched gnarl generating from his tubby little guy, and intensely fixed his steel-blue orbs unwaveringly at Brennen who was cozily secured within the cradle of Steve’s arms.

The hellbent cinder furball was nipping at Steve’s flexing knuckles as if blindingly seeking dominance, the young alpha knew each of the telltale signs that his ravenous son was conveying-shaking his head, Bucky released a disgruntled huff, vehemently feeling his rounded girth pulsate with the expanse of heated milk that needed to be extracted out. It evoked a gut- sloshing sensation, racking through his canine form, sometimes he felt achingly nauseous to comply with his instincts, but nursing his pups was vital and he wouldn’t reject their constant throes of hunger pangs.

“Y'know it’s still hard to get things into full swing with em’,” Bucky quipped out a husky drawl, stubbornly feigning a taut wince that scrunched up his muzzle, and bowed his head down, akin to a deflated sulk. He deep, guttural exhalation gusted out of him, followed by a feigning groan. He didn’t have enough recovery time to nap without feeling tiny snouts aggressively nudging against his girth and draining out a quart of milk until his lower regions pulsated against the ravenous wake of unquenched thirst.

“M’ not use to feeding these furballs like a wolf dame, hell, I feel like a damn cow, probably even be fat as one, no thanks to that little furry butterball you’re holdin’…” he chuckled throatily in a noncommittal, derisive snort, as snuggling his baby boy squeaked akin to a fussy response, while Steve curved his lips into a smug grin. “Yeah, you heard me, little kiddo…” Once he gained a steeled resolve, he paced close to a quilt spread out in front of a gray cushioned fort that he utilized as a makeshift den.

Vestiges of bone-deep exhaustion gripped him to relent, as Bucky straightened out the crumpled wool fabric with a tug of his incisor fangs, against the nauseous pressure of sloshing milk expanding rapidly in his bloated girth-he needed to nurse his adorable, sightless babies. He glanced back at Steve with a soulful cast; believing in the depth of that brotherly promise mirroring his own, he needed to cut threads of resistance, and be the father his baby pups depended on.

'Breathe Barnes…Just breathe…You can do this…’ Feeling a mantra throb against his heart, Bucky pinched his eyes shut for a tense moment, quashing down the incessant urges to vomit against the sudden feverish-roiling wake of queasiness. Damn, he demurred that sickening churn with a blaze retaliation anew. “Um…Okay, punk, let’s get this over with, uh…” he drawled raggedly, as his massive canine form eased down with the barest intent to rest vertically.“D'ya mind bringing em’ over here?” he sheepishly urged with a rasping shutter. “Kinda can’t move…”

Understanding clicked as Steve watched his friend visibly stiffen and struggle from his hunched over posture. He might not know much about animals and how they bore their off-spring, but could tell when someone was in obvious discomfort or pain. To his credit, Steve maintained his composure and discipline in the face of an unknown situation he’d never dealt with before. “Sure thing, Buck. Just lay down and try and get comfortable,” Steve encouraged with warm look. Once he was sure that Brennen was secure in the crook of his arm against his chest, the bearded blonde carried him over to the nest of blankets that Bucky had made as his bed. Already he could see the massive alpha laying on his side, head resting against a stack of pillows with the swell of his rounded gut sticking out.

“Okay, here he comes,” Steve gently rested the tiny bundle beside the resting alpha, holding him as if he were the most precious thing in the world.

Smirking dozily with a throated chuckle, the young alpha tentatively urged the pudgiest of his precious litter with a gentled invested nudge, steering the sightless pup closer to the bloated expanse of his girth, as Brennen’’s stubby pinkish muzzle greedily cinched onto him and started guzzling down a heated wash of milk. The pooling sensation was instant ease against the mounting pressure receding with every ravenous suckle as his undercoat was becoming drenched. Bucky graced his infant son’s plump form with a loving stroke of his tongue, soothingly bringing a sense of contentment over his suckling, messy pup. “Boy, he can sure pack it in, huh, Steve,” he murmured tiredly, shifting the glacial intensity of his steel-aquamarine orbs at the adamant First Avenger who looked genuinely out of place. “If you want, punk, you can feed one my little darlins’, there’s uh…a full bottle stacked in the fridge…”

For the second time in the day, Steve felt humbled with surprise as he took in the gravity of Bucky’s request. The effect was as empowering as invited into a special bond that he never envisioned having for himself at this point in his life. Since losing a life with Peggy to the ravages of time, and then his duty as Captain America to the Sokovia Accords; there was little else for Steve Rogers to cling to in his life other than what few friends he could still hold onto. That Bucky trusted him to not only provide him and his pups with safe shelter, but also feed them as well was a humbling feeling Steve felt almost too timid to accept. “B-Bucky, I’m not sure if…” He began to voice his uncertainty, until the room was filled with tiny little squeaks of distress emanating from the blanket where the other two babies were nestled comfortably.

One of them had awoken, and was no doubt calling for her daddy to come and nurse her.

Rearing his canine head off the cushion in a sluggish effort, Bucky glanced at the fastidious movement within the folds of blankets, his pointed ears twitched back as he registered the faint squeaky pitches of his baby girls in active unison while his chubby little guy hungrily supped at his girth. A delicate rosy snout wriggled out, sniffing for his pacifying virile scent; Bucky knew undoubtingly it was his firstborn-Aurora Barnes. His maternal instincts to seize her into his jaws were growing fervent to discard against the warring clash of unabated grogginess that was dragging him into submission. Being detached from his little darlins’ generated a hollow ache, as he increasingly listened to the distressed whimpers of the eldest of his sightless litter. “C'mon, punk, my baby girl needs you, she’s not gonna bite your hand off,” he quipped snarkily, with a fanged smirk, giving Steve a tilt of an encouraging nod. “You s'just gotta make her feel safe in your hands…” he whispered breathily.

With that nudge of encouragement, Steve rose to his feet and retrieved the cool baby-bottle of milk from the fridge. Instinct told him to gentle shake it as he made his way back into the living room, anticipation building inside of him as he stood in front of the bundle of blankets where he could see brown fur shifting beneath the comfortable warm folds. “Okay…Gotta say, this is about as intimidating as my first rope climb back at Camp Leigh,” he couldn’t help but smirk at the thought while the alpha snorted in what he thought was amusement. “Oh that’s funny?” He shook his head good-naturedly.

“What I’d give to see that, punk,” Bucky quipped back with a groggy cadence, attempting to flash a cocky smirk, teasingly as blazing mischief grew alight in his steel-aquamarine orbs, knowingly watching Steve unabashedly rein back his boyish shyness as faint grimace subtly tampered over his stern lips. Bucky throatily chuckled, as the soulful cast of his glacial irises intently drifted over the pudgy forms wiggling under raveled blankets. “I can assure you, Stevie, my little darlins’, aren’t gonna throw ya around, once they feel your trust it’s pretty damn cool…”

“Okay, here we go…” Though Steve was eager to assure his timidness had nothing to do with his own safety, truth was a part of him felt afraid of getting too attached. His life had always been a war that took until he was left with nothing. But somehow, he had was able to hold onto his best friend. There wasn’t a night that went by where Steve didn’t thank the Big Man upstairs for that in his prayers. Prickling nervousness flushed across his skin as he knelt down and gently began to undo the blankets until the little she-wolfling was reveled to his softened gaze.

Within moments, he was sitting on the floor in a lotus position, carrying little Aurora in the crook of his elbow with the nozzle of the baby-bottled tucked between her tiny muzzle. Mattie slept soundly beside him while Aurora’s eyes were closed, and her little paws were curled up against her soft tummy. Her light breathing was a good indicator of how relaxed and comfortable she was in Steve’s arms as she suckled the milk with tiny noises that made the super-soldier’s heart swell. She was so small, so innocent and too adorable for words. Steve couldn’t repress the emotional smile on his lips.

“How bout’ that…She’s so calm, almost as if she knows I can be trusted.” He says, almost to himself as he held the bottle steady. There was a pureness to this moment that Steve hadn’t felt in so long, he couldn’t help but feel shockingly unburdened and light. “It’s a humble feeling…”

The definite tension receded through the Brooklyn loft, the young alpha gently eased his long muzzle with conscious-instinctive effort towards the chubby male pup ravenously wedged against the deflating swell of his bloated girth; a telltale pinch of needle-edged puppy fangs elicited Bucky to quell down a throated yelp as he felt the pulsating flow being drained with every tugging suckle followed surprisingly in a wake of an unsated-tiny belch.

Listening to the low pitched snarl aggressively emitting from his supping pup, Bucky’s pointed ears speared upward at the instant he registered that one male defining noise that breached the contented silence around them. He gazed beamingly down at Brennen, who stubbornly was tucked under his curved hind paw, leaving a splash of milk to drench his bushy tail.

Groaning irritably, with a clench of disgust on his whiskered muzzle, Bucky felt incapable of recovering his virile dignity.“Nghh…Wanna trade,” he enticed huskily to the broadly smiling First Avenger who became trapped within the adorable thrall of his baby girl; smirking, his suave timbre was becoming croaky from a rack of nursing-induced exhaustion. Fussy whimpers arrested his drowsy focus, as Brennen guzzled another flow down in a heartbeat. “I-I bet this little butterball can down three bottles without messin’ your shirt…”

Steve chuckled heartily as he watched his friend’s open revulsion towards being stained with his own milk. He knew Bucky would have his hands full with his little guy. Brennen in many ways was a spitting image of his father which made him both stubborn and feisty. Boys will be boys, his mom used to say. They can be cute and endearing one moment and unbearably reckless in the next. They just needed more time to acclimate and trust. Whether he was the same as a boy, Steve couldn’t remember, but one thing was for sure, he knew Brennen Barnes would keep Bucky on his toes and it would be for the better. Gazing down at the now dozing she-wolf pup, Steve gave his friend a considering nod.

“Just as long as it’s the shirt, I don’t think there should be a problem. This cute little dame I think is ready to snuggle against her daddy. You look like you could use rest too, Buck.” Gently, Steve laid the sleeping Aurora beside Bucky then gingerly began to lift the still fussy Brennen up into his arms. The size difference between the boy and his two sisters was noticeable but Steve couldn’t help but feel it gave the wolf-boy more character. His little paws instinctively wiggled as if attempting to thrash the offending hands that now held him, but once Steve brought him against his chest, he was delighted to see Brennen begin to relax.

For a long moment, Bucky stared into the cool steadiness of his best friend’s azure irises, welcoming the ease as coiled tension in his throbbing underbelly receded against the nestled warmth of his dozy baby girl tucked cozily within the protective embrace of his curved paws. Exhaustion was grappling him down at stilted pace-just the presence of Steve made him feel stable against the feral instincts teaming to override his restraint. With the measured effort of his bulked mass, the young alpha shifted on the cushion, lowering his canine muzzle a breadth to Aurora’s slacken back, lovingly gracing her dark chestnut fur with a featherlight caress with unerring delicateness. He was innately aware of Steve’s firmed lips playing off a dopey smirk while Brennen demandingly squeaked for another guzzle-relentless hunger was manifesting to be a potent force not to reckon with. “Yeah, I think that chubby furball is definitely goin’ into a milk coma,” he drawled, snarkily.“He kinda doesn’t know when to quit…”

“That’s the spirit of a kid from Brooklyn. Too stubborn to quit, just like his old man…and uncle.” Somehow, it felt nice to say that, Steve realized. Family was something he hadn’t appreciated since his mother left this world. The word invoked remorse and dormant pain in his body as he had long since come to believe that family was something he would never have again. Having Bucky was what kept him from tipping over the edge and into an abyss of cold loneliness. Steve felt more than grateful to be receiving this second chance. It was something he would protect and make the most of in this unnatural life of his. He said nothing else as he watched Brennen succumb to his weariness and fall into a comfortable sleep, listening to the beating of his heart against his chest.

Somewhere in the midst of his thoughts, he hadn’t realized that Bucky had also fallen into a comfortable slumber. His baby girls curled beside him and relishing the warm safety of his loving presence. Steve had decided to set Brennen down with his sisters. Family was important and the three siblings would grow to appreciate that ideal and each other. The bearded blonde fell back against his seat on the couch, staring into space as he watched the family of wolves sleep soundly, peacefully. It was a picture that he would think back on fondly in the times to come and he wished he hadn’t just left his low-battery phone to charge. He couldn’t take a photo with his camera.

BUT, that didn’t mean this wasn’t a moment he couldn’t capture.

Moments later, he sat with a calm focus as he gently scribbled and stroked lead lines onto his sketch-pad. His azure eyes glinted in the light of day behind blonde bangs at his temple. The inner-teenager within glowed with life, as his latent talent was revived and enabled him to draw a moment he’ll be sure to always remember.

{Completed: August 23rd 2018}

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