#thanks for absorbing all my grief and my wife angst

[teethcore]

ok so i guess the good thing about having Extreme Compartmentalization Disorder is that when there are enough horrible, painful, and stressful factors, i section off my feelings into a guy, and that lets me accomplish things i would've otherwise been incapable of?

[stvrchaser]

forgive me ( regulus arcturus black )

word count : 1,300

warnings : angst because i don’t know how to write anything else, death

summary : she takes it upon herself to destroy slytherin’s locket and mourns the life she’ll never share with regulus

There’s a calmness in the way the earth seemed to tremble beneath her feet. Like the rocking of the chair which used to lull her to sleep.

She wondered if he sat there now, her dear Regulus. Maybe he’d be vexed she hadn’t showed. She promised she would, after all. Well, better angry than worried.

He couldn’t know about what she’d done. Not yet.

He probably waited in her room with a present in hand.

She always insisted, “It’s only my birthday. Really, you shouldn’t fuss over it. There’s no need to get me anything.” And every time, he did just that.

Regulus was a stubborn boy. Clever, but incredibly stubborn. She admired his persistence— his courage and dedication to all that he cared about. She was happy she’d made sure to tell him that. She was pleased that he would know at least one person who was guaranteed to care for him. Always. She knew he didn’t get much of that.

But, again, he was stubborn. His curiosity could fuel his will to venture far, no matter the journey. But he had surpassed the limits. He had taken it too far.

Regulus discovered a secret better left untouched and forgotten. But this was Regulus, and so it was not.

——————————————

He snuck in through her bedroom window, as per usual. She had left it open for him. It didn’t matter that his family, too, were purebloods. The knowledge that the two of them spent time together, alone in her bedroom, would be scandalous. And so, it seemed like a normal afternoon, a mere continuation of the routine they had gotten used to.

But she noticed the way he stumbled in. Regulus had never been clumsy. And he walked carelessly, dragging his feet. He looked tranced— disturbed. So she stood from her rocking chair, dropping the book in her hand onto the small side table.

“Reg?” she spoke softly, trying to make out his features in the weak light.

“The thing he’s hiding. I’ve figured out what it is.”

Voldemort.

“Come,” she held her arm out, inviting him closer. She’d intended to get him to sit down, stop his swaying. But she found herself in his embrace. “What can I do?”

In their line of work, explanation was scarce. She had long since stopped asking “what happened” and went straight for assistance. This wasn’t the first time Regulus had sought her comfort while under Voldemort’s orders. She’d healed his wounds, dried his tears, perfected the dreamless drought to keep his terrors at bay.

Yes. She was quite familiar with his work.

“I shouldn’t have sent Kreacher,” he mumbled into her hair.

Regulus had always cared for Kreacher, no matter his age and bitter nature. She supposed that the house-elf was the first friend he’d ever made that wasn’t Sirius or one of the purebloods that his parents had insisted he befriended.

She made note to thank him for that someday.

“You didn’t have a choice.”

“He could have died.” His shoulders tensed. “He was… he nearly was.”

“I’m so sorry, Regulus.” It was a phrase she often uttered with a heavy heart. With so much sorrow and rage. With guilt. Regulus Black deserved the world and her ‘sorry’ wouldn’t suffice. It never would. It couldn’t make up for the sacrifices he’d made. Not for all that he’d lost.

“The world will set itself right someday.” ‘I’ll set it right for you,’ she said to herself.

“Not while He exists,” Regulus insisted with a shake of his head. “There’s no hope for this world when someone— some thing as vile as he can exist.”

“Light can have no purpose without darkness—“

“He’s split his soul.” Her grip on his arms tightened.

“What?”

“He’s taken a life to preserve a piece of his soul. He’s made a horcrux and I’ve just helped him keep it out of everyone’s reach.”

She sobbed at his confession— at the heart wrenching guilt in his tearful eyes.

What had this world done to him?

“It can’t be. The dark magic that it would have required—“

“He’s got it.”

She looked back at him with an open mouth, yet she couldn’t find it in herself to speak.

Horcruxes— they required an act so dark that a person’s soul was supposedly beyond redemption. It took intent— a sickening willingness to take a life in exchange for your own soul so that one could become immortal. Invincible.

“I didn’t— I should have known. I should have guessed what he… but it’s too late.” A cry tore through his throat. “Forgive me,” Regulus begged.

She held him closer, her hands running through the curled obsidian at the nape of his neck. She steadied his trembling body with hers, as if absorbing it. His fear seeped into her skin. But she let it. She always did. She welcomed his misery alongside his love, as well as every other aspect of him within her reach. He was intertwined with her nerves, carved into her bones.

So while she welcomed his pain, she made up her mind. Regulus would not suffer at the hands of the Dark Lord.

———————————————————

“Forgive me,” she sobbed at the skies. Her mind was distorted, seeing visions of him with every turn of her head. Even at the shut of her eyes.

She writhed in pain, the liquid running down her throat like sand, but Kreacher held a shaking hand to her chin as she had instructed him to do.

She had coaxed every bit of information from Regulus since the night of his visit. She had concocted a plan without his knowledge. Deceived him. Betrayed him.

He had trusted her with a plan. To destroy the damned locket and to risk his life doing it. Of course, she would not— could not— let him.

And she’d sworn to protect him, hadn’t she?

He’ll hate her when he finds out. And she knows he will, her wonderfully clever Regulus.

“Mistress mustn’t stop,” the house elf reminded her, but his voice was barely coherent between her sobs.

“He’s going to hate me, Kreacher. Regulus is going to hate me.”

The internal debate in his eyes were obvious. But Kreacher was loyal to her and, more importantly, Regulus. And he had ordered him to obey her as he would his family. Hence the reason she was so often addressed as his “Mistress.”

It was a shame she’d never know the joy of being his wife.

“This is for his safety,” she told him when he contemplated to tell Regulus about her plan. “It’ll always be for him.”

“Mistress has to drink,” Kreacher pleaded with tearful eyes.

“I can’t have him hating me,” she whispered through gasps of air. “Tell him I’m… I’m sorry.”

“Mistress needn’t apologize for wanting the young Master to live,” Kreacher responded with the last of the basin gathered in his hold. He held more emotion than she had ever seen in him. He tried to comfort her to the best of his abilities. To stay true to his word that he would protect Regulus at all costs.

Still, he looked ashamed. Full of grief like nothing she’d ever seen. She felt horrible for dragging him with her. For causing him the pain of disobeying Regulus’s orders to keep her safe.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done, Kreacher. For Regulus. For me. You’ve done your job well.” With she drank with one last sob as the liquid clawed at her throat. “Get the l- locket and l- leave. Take c- care of him. T- tell Regulus—“

She never did get to finish that sentence, but her pleads for forgiveness rattled in Kreacher’s head.

“Master Regulus could never hate his beloved Mistress,” the house elf cried at the sight of her lifeless eyes. “But Kreacher will do as Mistress says for he serves the most Noble House of Black.”

[jawritter]

Merry Christmas Sweetheart

Summary: Time doesn’t heal all wounds, sometimes it just drives them into our bones and festers there, until forgiveness is a four letter word, and it’s to late for second chances. 

Pairing: Jensen Ackles x Reader

Written for: @spnchristmasbingo

Square Field: Presents

Word Count: 2048

Beta’d by: @miss-nerd95! Thanks again love!

Warnings: Language, Heart break, Heavy angst, (This one is gonna hurt your feelings), Not really a very happy ending, a bit of a cliff hanger, Tears, past heartbreak, unrequited love. I think that’s it.

A/N: Merry Christmas @msmarvelouswinchester!! Lol, glad I found someone who loves their feelings hurt as much as I do! LOL. Hope you all enjoy this one! Please don’t copy my work! I promise my next bingo one shot will be fluffy. I was just really in my head when I wrote this one. 

***MASTERLIST***   ***BECOME A PATREON***

It was cold today, especially for Austin. Your breath fogged in front of you with each puff of air from your lungs that burned in the bitter cold. A light dusting of snow fell around about, not much to keep everyone locked in their homes, but enough to gather on the top of cars that were parked out in the lot just beyond the safety of the airport terminal hanger that you were standing in front of with your bag slung over your shoulder, hands stuffed deep in your pockets. 

The congestion of traffic appeared to be even thicker than what you remembered it being, even for the holidays.  Everyone that walked by to get into cabs or ubers, seemed to be absorbed in their own little bubbles; either talking on phones or to one another as they made their way to their awaiting ride. 

If you listened hard enough, you could hear the faint sounds of the customary cheerful  music of the holidays playing in one of the little shops inside of the airport as the doors opened and closed not so far behind you. Off in the distance you could see the Christmas lights strung up in an elegant way on a lamp post and draped over shrubbery in the fading light of another day. It almost looked like a scene from some shitty Hallmark Christmas special, and it made your stomach churn uneasily. 

It had been eleven long years since you had stepped foot on Texas soil, and you were seriously considering getting the hell out of here before he showed up, but it was too late to turn around. You could always tell him you missed your flight, or it got delayed by the weather so you just cancelled it, but you just knew that he wouldn’t buy it. 

“Come on Steve,” you grumbled to yourself as yet another car pulled away from the hanger you were waiting under, and a happy, probably newly married from the looks of it, love-struck couple nuzzled together to fight against the bite of the cold wind that whipped around and sliced through your bones. 

You probably would have been better off calling an uber to pick you up, but hey, Steve didn’t charge, and you really didn’t want anyone else to know you were here. Not yet atleast, mostly because you didn’t know if you were even going to stay. 

Just as you were about to take your phone out and call him, the pair of headlights you had been waiting for pulled up in front of you.

You didn’t even let the car come to a complete stop before you pulled the door open and slipped inside, shaking slightly from the cold as you pulled the seat belt over you, meeting a pair of green eyes that were so not what you expected to see, and your heart dropped to your feet. 

“Hey,” he said, his deep voice sounding like warm honey against the chill that was still making you shiver, and you hated the way you could still so easily drown into it. You were going to murder Steve when you saw him again. 

“What are you doing here?” You asked through gritted teeth, and you could have sworn you saw him give out a shaky sigh as he pulled out onto the road. 

“Steve mentioned he was picking you up today, and I told him I’ll do it because I wanted to see you,” Jensen said, tightening his grip on the steering wheel and shifting nervously, avoiding the death glare that you were giving him. “You left the night I told you Danneel and I were getting married, and I never saw you again. Not even a fucking word. Then I heard you're coming here, and I wanted to see you. I missed my friend.”

“The term ‘friend’ is a matter of one sided opinions, Jensen,” you told him shortly, not missing the way he flinched yet again out of the corner of your eye before trying to subtly readjust himself in his seat. 

An awkward silence fell in the car, and you did your best to stare out the window and not at the man that was driving. Even though your eyes were trained on the blurry and dimly lit scenery you could still sense his every move, smell his cologne in the thick air that laid stagnant between you, hear every deep sigh that left his perfect lips as he struggled with words he wanted to say, but nothing would sound right; nothing felt right anymore. 

“What are you doing in town,” he finally asked cautiously, as if he knew that one wrong move would set you off and you were suddenly demanding he pull over so that you could walk the rest of the way to Steve’s.

“Business,” you answer sharply, not in the mood for small talk, but it looked like Jensen thought awkward conversations won over awkward silences and pressed further. 

“Business? This close to Christmas?” he asked, but your nerves were beginning to wear thin, and the old scars on your heart felt like they were being torn open inch by inch the longer you sat next to the man that had put them there all those years ago. 

“It's real estate,” you snap, turning to face him in the seat fully in your building frustration. “Does your wife know you're here right now?” 

You watched as the rebuttal question cut through him as if you had thrown a sword right at his chest. The visible shift and the clearing of his throat as he avoided your sharp gaze was speaking loud, but it only added to your growing confusion that was still somewhat blinding your judgement with old grief. 

Jensen cleared his throat as he turned onto Steve’s street, still avoiding your gaze. “What kind of real estate?” he asked, trying to divert the topic, and your blood boiled under your skin. 

“So you're just going to answer my question with another question? That’s real mature Jensen,” you snapped as he pulled in front of Steve’s little place, and put the car in park.

“Because I don’t want to talk about Danneel, I wanted to talk about you. I told you, I’ve missed you. You were my best friend Y/N, why did you leave me without so much as a goodbye or even a fuck you if you were so mad at me, and then show up again all these years later on 'business,' I deserve some answers too.”

You shook your head and bit back the tears that the taunting memory of the night you’d boarded a plane to New York with only a bag full of clothes, and the shattered pieces of your heart ripped through your out of repair. 

You turned away from his broken gaze that still managed to make your heart clench, and gripped the handle of the door tightly, ripping it open and letting in the chill of the night air that only seemed to grow colder due to meeting Jensen to blow into the car.

“Oh you missed me so much, didn't you?” you asked, pure venom seeping into every word as your eyes threw daggers into his astonishing green orbs in the dim light that illuminated the small space between you. 

“Did you miss me when you stood before God and our friends when you did your vows with that whore? After everything when I’d stood by your side, after all the years we had been together, did you miss me then? How about when she gave birth to your three children, and you were standing there in the delivery room with her? Or better yet, how about every time you were balls deep in that bitch while I was only in the next room, listening to you rip my heart out and stomp on it over and over again? You didn’t miss me then Jensen, you don’t miss me now. You feel guilty, but you shouldn’t. You can only feel what you feel and can't change what you want, but apparently pretty narcissistic bitches are more of your taste than people who actually care about you. I was right there in front of you for years and you never gave me the time of day, but one month on a movie set with her and ‘you were so in love. I left all those years ago because you left me a long time before I even landed in New York. So don’t sit here and act like you missed me, when you never saw me there at all like I wanted you to. Don't make me feel bad for leaving when you know it hurt me less than staying here.” 

You tore your eyes away from him before your emotions could get the best of you, and stepped out, making your way into Steve’s home to hide from the past that was still sitting in the car outside, staring out of the window as the snow fell on the windshield. 

Jensen bit down hard on his lower lip, trying not to choke on the sobs he refused to let out. 

See, he had missed you, he’d missed you so damn much. He had missed you when he looked at the woman he settled for instead standing at the altar across from him on his wedding day, only marrying her because it was what people were telling him that it was the right thing to do. That she was in the same industry, and the marriage would be good for the two of them.  He missed you during every milestone his kids made that never got shared with you, wishing it was you by his side. He didn't love his kids any less, but even though they weren't yours, he wished he’d have been able to share them with you like he’d always wanted to share everything. He couldn’t count the times he’d hidden away to call you, just to hear your voice, but chickened out over the years because he’d known he hurt you, he’d always known but let you get hurt just to play it safe. 

That time you were talking about, how you'd heard Danneel and him before they had announced their engagement, he didn’t know you were even there. Danneel had come onto him and he was a little too drunk to say no. Not that he hated her, because he never could hate her, she’d done nothing wrong. It was his twisted mind that painted you underneath him every time they were together, not her. 

Jensen took off his ball cap with force before throwing it at the dash and running his hands harshly down his tear stained face. He’d lost you all those years ago and never told you how he felt, and now it seemed like he was too late. 

The cue he’d staged, the house he’d decided to look at that he had his lawyer call her to tell her that his client wanted to buy from the best realtor in New York, all to tell her that he loved her, always had and always will and that he knew how huge of a dick he had been by ignoring her feelings for his own selfishness. It looked like it was too late for any of it anyway. 

His hand drifted to his pocket, pulling out the small, neatly wrapped box that contained his and Danneel’s wedding rings. He was planning to show them to you tomorrow for Christmas. He was going to tell you that they were over, and that he wanted to fix what he’d broken all those years ago with you if you'd be willing to let go of his stupid mistakes. He wanted another chance, but it was much slimmer now. 

Jensen flipped the box in his hands before getting out of the car, trudging through the white blankets of snow to the front door, and placed the little box carefully on the step before he stood, leaning heavily against the door frame, trying to stop himself from falling apart. 

“Merry Christmas Sweetheart,” he brokenly whispered into the unforgiving wind. Leaving his present to you, as well as his heart on his best friend's front door.

Forever Tags: @deanwanddamons @rvgrsbrns @chevyharvelle @onethirstyunicorn @i-love-superhero @akshi8278 @lyss-dw79 @magssteenkamp @lemondropirwin @squirrelnotsam @hobby27 @spnbaby-67 @mrsjenniferwinchester @defenderrosetyler @screechingartisancashbailiff @thecreatiivecorner  @aflamboyanceofgays @vicmc624 @busy-bee-angel-misska @justanotherwinchester @brilovesdeanwinchester @idksupernatural @lyarr24 @amandamdiehl @love-jackles-37-blog @miraclesoflove @Waywardsistershy @emoryhemsworth @dean-winchesters-gardian-angel @softsebastian @tatted-trina6 @anaelsbrunette @hayleeharling   @flamencodiva @coldmuffinbanditshoe @bxbyizzy @dirty-pan-goblin @itmejado @supernatural3002 @teresa-67 @thoughts-and-funnies @hearteyes-j2​ @miss-nerd95​ @writers-whirlwind​

[onelastbreath-writes]

I’ll Meet You There (Part 3)

Pairing: Marcus Moreno/ Wife!Reader (AFAB, no y/n) 

Word Count: 2.6K

Warnings: Talks about loss of spouse, loss of child, medical conditions/inaccuracies, grief/mourning, manipulation/brainwashing (subtext/implied, but we’ll get into it later *winkwink*)

Tags: Hurt/No comfort (for now), ANGST, eventual happy ending, one really sad man for whom I just keep making things worse, #sorrynotsorry, and now I’m just making stuff up as I go along

Summary(lite): You are Marcus’s wife, and you’re definitely not dead. No one is having a great time right now, but like hell if there's a force on this earth that’ll keep you apart forever. This is not a goodbye, its just a see you later. And the interim is going to be everyone else’s problem, you’ll make sure of it.

A/N: Hello dears, welcome back to my twisted mind story,,, guess who showed up like 2 weeks late with a smoothie! So things about this new chapter: I am a criminal with italics and someone needs to stop me, hello switching scenes and perspectives because I just want to fast forward to the good stuff but y’all don’t live in my head and don’t know all the stuff that happens to get us there so here we are taking the slow lane, and I keep brainstorming new and horrible things for my characters because I am A Lot, All The Time, and will not be stopped. Also hey, Marcus the Simp is here for you, so much. I hope this is acceptable to be a reader fic still, because I am giving you some serious personality traits... ehh, it is what it is. Tell me if you spot any of my various references, there’s a lot of ‘em. Thanks to everyone who has liked/reblogged/commented, y’all are gorgeous and I’m so grateful for the love <3 Drop me a message/ask if you want a secret about one of the characters (specify which one), I need an outlet for my endless b.t.s. plotting >;) Please enjoy p3!

AO3|Masterlist

[Previous Part]

---

There were more casseroles in his fridge that Marcus knew what to do with, and more sympathy and “thinking of you” cards stacked in piles around the house than he could count. He appreciated everyone’s gestures, but he could recognize the difference between people who were kind in the interest of helping others, and those who were kind only to help themselves. It was quite obvious which type were flooding his mailbox.

Hell, most of the people sending him cards, his fans, didn’t even know his wife, never spoke to her, didn’t feel the empty Her-shaped-space in their very souls. They just wanted the clout, the prestige, of being ‘involved’ and sympathetic to a grieving superhero. It was exhausting, but no one seemed to empathize with him on that.

The Heroics upper management, and the director specifically after his press conference and the publicity the attack had brought the organization, had insisted on Marcus taking an undetermined amount of leave from the team so he could “process and mourn his loss in the comfort of his own home.” Like he didn’t look around and see every piece of himself and his wife over the years; the Home they built for their family, filled with all the hopes and dreams of two starry eyed lovers ready to take on the world together. Like her absence wasn’t slowly killing him. 

And it wasn’t like she was gone gone.  

Dead.  

She wasn’t dead.

No way in Hell.  

Whether it was because she worked with superpowered people, her experience as a medical professional, or if she was just more paranoid than most, his wife was a planner, and she was prepared for this. “In the event of my death...," like she just knew it would be necessary.

Truthfully, she had schemes and contingencies and all manner of reactionary plans prepared for if (and when) the worst happened; terrified to be blindsided or caught unaware, unable to help those she would have been able to, if only if she had the time to think. Unpreparedness costs lives in both of their careers, and she refused to leave anything up to chance if possible. And so, she’d plan, and he’d listen.  

All throughout their relationship, from before they’d even gotten serious enough to discuss marriage, to when they heard their unborn child’s heartbeat for the first time, and just on random weekday afternoons when they would take Missy for walks around the neighbourhood to show her the beauty in their lives, his wife would paint her theories and ideas like artwork. She’d tell him a story, full of action and mystery, humour and theatrics, tragic romance and harrowing adventure; she could spin a tale like she had a silver tongue, but she never lost herself in her own narratives. In the end, they were messages, lessons, for him to remember when everything was going wrong.    

“It’s all about momentum, babe. Bleeding off energy and taking a bad hit instead of a fatal hit. You can’t just full stop; you’d absorb all the kinetic energy, and the resulting trauma will turn all your squishy internals into, like, body soup, which is just super unpleasant. And of course, head is always number one priority. Bracing for impact works better at giving you fewer serious injuries, especially for your neck and head. Muscles should absorb as much of the energy as possible, instead of letting it fall to your ligaments, discs, and nerves to take the force. So, tense up and roll in the case of a low air evacuation.”

Low air evac... she was concerned he was going to have to jump from an aircraft without a parachute at some point in his life. Which was probably accurate he’d admit, but still, he wasn’t hoping to actually need that plan.

Thankfully, it wasn’t always fire and brimstone with her, and she had many strange and terrible schemes to keep the common, everyday superhero family on their toes. Always carry at least two lip balms... never tell someone you don’t have plans for the evening... don’t smile in your mugshot... no clowns. Ever.

She was so weird, a total nerd, and so completely the girl of his dreams.  

He loved teasing her about her unending train of thought, the brain that never sleeps, how she’d go on tangents while on tangents but always circle back around; even nicknamed her (quite cheekily, and because it made them both laugh) Doctor Batman, which was usually saved for when she was being particularly dramatic and gloomy. Turn the supercomputer off for a second, Bats, come see what Missy’s doing!  

He was her anchor, always ready to pull her back to earth when she started drifting off too far from them, but he never asked and never wanted her to change. He adored her, silly or serious, or when she woke him up in the middle of the night to make him promise that he’d never get their kid(s) a pet owl (because they’re “scary”, and “our kids would be too powerful, Marcus. Promise me!”), or that in the event of them inviting a third to their bed, it would “absolutely never, ever, ever be Miracle. No way!”  

He thought it was quite entertaining most of the time, listening to her plan for zombies and old gods and what to do if everyone just started hating cheese one day, but if it was all so important to her: having him remember this or agree to that, he’d accede to her requests in a heartbeat. Most of it was cute, harmless stuff he didn’t think would even happen, but sometimes she would hit him with serious stuff. Entirely out of left field, she’d go for his heart, and ask him for things that would hurt him, destroy him inside, if he ever had to follow through with it.

“Marcus, if it’s a choice between my safety- my life, and Missy’s? I’m always going to choose her. Kids come first, okay?”  

She wasn’t superpowered, didn’t have a shred of anything other than pure, normal human in her, but she was easily the strongest person he knew. Fearless and brave, kinder than this world deserved, she’d do anything for the people she cared about. And she’d promised him, maybe as a way to repay him for all the things he’d agreed to over the years, that she’d move heavens and the earth to return to their family. That nothing in this world, or beyond, could keep her away. “Eventually,” she’d stared into his eyes, glossy with tears from how forcefully she believed, “I will find my way back to you. I swear it, so keep a weather eye on the horizon.” See? A whole-ass nerd, and he couldn’t have loved her more.

So, she wasn’t dead. Pure and simple. She was somewhere, somehow, and he was going to find her again.  

---

“Marcus, the grieving process is different for everyone, but it is always unpredictable and painful. You will have days where you will feel like you haven’t made any progress, or even lost the progress you’ve previously made, but please know that this is natural; it's something everyone experiences, and that it doesn’t mean you’ve failed in your objective. Healing takes time, and a major part of recovery is learning to forgive yourself when you slip up. No one expects you to be back to normal tomorrow, or next week, or next month. Healing from grief is not a race, so we will go at your own pace, and we will work together to accomplish your recovery goals. You aren’t alone in this journey, and you don’t need to handle everything by yourself.”

The grief specialist he was seeing was someone he would describe as an “old soul”. She exuded the patience and peace of someone who had watched empires rise and fall, seen the turning of the wheel of time and drifted along with the current. Her voice was deep, rich in emotion and empathy for those who needed guidance, calming and intriguing with a soft lilt on her vowels. Timeless and ancient all in one, and even if he wasn’t actually mourning the death of his wife, he did find himself deeply grieving being without her. They were two halves of a whole, and though his soul was at a loss without its partner here, he still had their greatest creation, their pride and joy, their baby girl to raise.  

He would do whatever he had to do to be the best parent he could for Missy. And so, if meeting with a physiatrist every week was something that would help, then he would be here, every week. He'd learn to live with his grief, his sadness and loneliness, with just the memory of his Everything, and he’d help their kid with all hers too.  

It’s what he promised to do, after all.

“If anything ever happens to me, you’ll just have to love her enough for the both of us.”  

---

There was nothing they could recover of the people closest to centre of the explosion. No remains, no blood, nothing. Like they hadn’t been there at all.  

Suspicious.

Upper Management had brought in a team of private investigators to handle the case, people who would keep the details quiet and the public appeased with what little information they’d choose to release.  

Marcus was a superhero, and sure, his job was to hit things until they weren’t a problem anymore, but he couldn’t understand why all the highly trained professionals didn’t question the sheer amount of evidence that just wasn’t adding up.  

He tried to bring up the inconsistencies once with the lead investigator, but they had just given the distraught, widowed husband, so lost in his own denial and grasping at straws, a sad smile and told him they would do everything they could to find the truth for him and the rest of the victims’ families.

Typical.

After being brushed off without a second thought, he decided to keep his ideas quiet, and since they’d proven their unwillingness to listen, he’d just have to solve the mass disappearance himself.  

“Have you ever thought about how to commit the perfect murder, mi amor? I have. First: If there’s no body, they can’t prove the person is dead. No evidence of death? No murder. Simple. But of course, completely vanishing a full human would be a challenge. Short of having the superpowers necessary to, like, erase someone from reality in their entirety, there would be a lot of chances to leave evidence. Ordering suspicious chemicals leaves a trail, driving out to a pig farm in the middle of the night is shady as hell and all neighbors are professional narcs, and fires? Hah! Do you have any idea how hot the fire needs to be to cremate human remains, and how long they would need to grill for? Huh, maybe the perfect murder isn’t a murder at all...  

Hey babe...  

Always doubt a body, but always doubt no body, more.”

---

You tended to lose time when there was no one else in your room. It was hard to tell when your eyes were open because you started dreaming about the only things you could see since you first woke up: drop-ceiling tiles, white walls, and pale blue curtain dividers. And it was easier that way, in the end. Your heart didn’t hurt when you only dreamt of the room. You couldn’t mourn the things and people only your soul could remember if you thought of the room. Drifting in and out of consciousness was how you were coping.  

---

You had been here, left in this room alone, for ages. You had agreed to help the man who had saved you from the explosion that killed your family, but apparently you couldn’t help him until you had recovered enough. You’d read your charts, grilled your nurses and doctors more and more the longer you were kept here. What were they all waiting for? There was nothing wrong with you except the mild post traumatic amnesia, and the whole not-remembering-much-(or anything, really)-about-your-personal-life-and-family-of-the-recent-few-years thing you had going on. It was nothing compared to when you first awoke and could remember nothing. It killed you to be without the memories of your husband and child, to know only of them instead of actually knowing them, but there was nothing you or the doctors here could do. The brain was a tricky thing, and you had to accept that your memory loss might be permanent.  

That just meant that you had to put all that you could remember to good use. You could help people here, and work towards getting justice for your family. Years and years of school, practical experience and training, you had gained it all back; re-read textbooks and studies, wrote papers on your re-emerging knowledge and jogged your memory about long nights and early mornings, surgeries and follow ups... it was all still in your head. It had returned to you easily, like diving into a cool pool on a hot summer day. It was like coming home and taking off your shoes; it felt good, freeing, as-it-should-be.  

But still they weren’t letting you leave. So: what were they waiting for?  

“Ah, Doctor, it’s lovely to see you, as always. How are we feeling today?” Okay, so the guy who “saved” you (read: paid the people who actually saved your life)  gave you the heebie-jeebies. He looked like a classic pompous asshole bigwig, like, oil tycoon or something. And he definitely had some sort of thing for you. Gross.

“I’m doing as well as can be expected, trapped in a room with nothing to do, you know, brain rotting, et cetera. Thanks for asking.” The sass was a choice, probably not a great choice, but your choice none-the-less. You really hadn’t had many opportunities to choose anything for yourself in a while.  

Well...

You were bored, and that was going to be everyone else’s problem.  

“Ah, well, good news then! You have been cleared from observation and you’ll be able to be discharged soon. Isn’t that just delightful!” Mister Craig (“Please, just Greg is fine”), was some sort of horrible group hallucination, you were convinced. No one was that cheery, that animated, unless they were on something, or you were on something. “I’ll have someone bring you your personal effects shortly, and then I can show you to your new apartment. The complex isn’t in the best neighbourhood unfortunately, but it's got some real charm, very vintage! You’ll love it!”

“I’ll look forward to seeing it then; sounds like it’ll be a real interesting place to stay. You can also explain what it is I’m going to be doing with your organization. Because you haven’t specified yet. And I expect a proper contract and wage agreement. Legally binding preferably, for your sake, of course, Mr. Craig.” Even if you weren’t the most physically intimidating person around, you knew how, and more so, when, to assert your dominance in a conversation. Especially with men like him. He was the type of guy who would pinch a nurse’s ass and then accuse them of not being able to take a joke.  

“You wound me, Doctor, I am a man of integrity! I promised you an opportunity to make a difference! To get justice for the loved ones so cruelly torn from you! You have nothing to worry about!”  

Sounds legit. Totally above board. Can’t wait.

---

Taglist (omg!! thanks love): @killtherandomness​

Drop me a line if you want to be added <3

[thatordinaryoddity]

UPDATE: Once In A Blue Goddamn Moon

a 💗 Jamie & Dani Fanfiction 💗 [The Haunting Of Bly Manor, Netflix 2020]

written by thatordinaryoddity

Rating: K+

Words: ~9,5k

Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort

Status: Complete (will be uploaded in three chapters + Prologue)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475423/chapters/67177879

FF.net: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13742358/2/Once-In-A-Blue-Goddamn-Moon

Summary: Jamie leaves Flora’s weeding more wrapped up in her thoughts than usual. In all those years, there hadn’t been a day without thinking of her deceased lover Dani. But sometimes, once in a blue goddamn moon, events coincide in an exceptional, odd way.

A/N: Hey there darlings! I hope you’re all doing well!

I’ve just managed to upload my fanfiction on AO3 and FF.net *yay*. In short, here’s the new update, have fun! Next chapter will be out tomorrow, same time, same place(s) - until then, stay awesome!

The Garden Above the City

____________________

 Jamie dropped off her luggage and went straight to the kitchen to get herself a cold, clear glass of water. Finally, after what felt like way more than an almost seven hour flight, she was in her usual environment again. To tell from the dawn outside the window, the day had just begun here in England since they had been on a nightplane. A little bit jetlagged, she pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders as she seated herself in the dark-green, cosy vintage loveseat. Like some sort of weird compulsion, she checked the water surface with every sip she took from her glass, hoping to see her reflection – as always, even after all this time, even after all this disappointing time.

In hope of getting some distraction from her train of thoughts, she grabbed the remote control for her radio and switched it on. Restless as the past few days had left her, she shifted around nervously on the seat, unable to find a comfortable way to sit. After a few fidgety minutes, the grey-haired woman gave up on finding any rest and decided to make herself a little something to eat instead. In the background, the music from the radio silenced to make room for the daily news. A female voice started talking:

And now to the weather forecast. This Friday autumn morning will be sunny in all parts of South England. It’s supposed to get cloudy with thunderstorms in the evening. Over the weekend, we expect rain in the greatest parts of Britain. Also, a rare Blue Moon will appear this weekend, coinciding with Halloween for the first time in more than 70 years. The full moon will rise in the east at 4.53 pm in the UK on Saturday, less than 20 minutes after the sun sets.

Jamie wasn’t even really listening. It was more like she heard the voice of the radio lady but couldn’t catch what she was saying. She was just tucked so far away in her own thoughts.

After she had eaten her breakfast and unpacked her suitcase, she decided to visit her favourite place in the world – Teddy’s little rooftop garden – one of the few things left to give her soul some comfort.

~

When Dani left all those years ago, Jamie had been unable to set another foot inside their florist’s shop back in America. Everything was connected to too many memories. There wasn’t a single spot where they hadn’t kissed. Sometimes, Jamie even came across a blonde hair here and there which would leave her as a sobbing wreck for the rest of the day.

She couldn’t even remember what she had been doing all day long during the first few weeks, if she had eaten or not, but she knew she hadn’t been sleeping for more than an hour at a time. She hadn’t even been able to bear collapsing into unconsciousness, because waking up from it to once again face her loss had been torture. She had begun to feel even worse since that one time she had gone to the shop, only to find all their plants dead due to the weeks of unintentional neglect. It hurt so much. All of it felt miserable.

After what had seemed like an eternity, some kind of inner healing had set in. Something inside her had told her she needed to move on. And although no hour had passed without her being reminded of that awful grief, Jamie had managed to move on one day. She had sold the flower shop and also her – their ��� flat, packed only the indispensables and booked a one way flight back to England. The woman had been aware that she couldn’t stay in America, in that cosy apartment, near the charming florist’s. It had been their dream, their life – and she would have perished had she stayed there.

Fortunately, she’d had some money left over from selling the flower shop and Henry Wingrave’s noble inheritance – he had sold all the antiquities and expensive, century-old furniture in Bly Manor to get rid of “all the old dust”. And since he was one of the only four people to remember what exactly had occurred at Bly Manor, he had decided to split the money between them as some sort of indemnity.

Back in Britain, Jamie had moved into a charming, suburban brick row house on the outskirts of a larger city. She’d been unable to bear living on the landside all alone because her own thoughts seemed too loud in all that silence. Likewise, living in the city centre had not been an option because the rush always unsettled her. Therefore, her current, modest accommodation had been just the right choice in her situation. Yet as the seasons had changed and one year had turned into two, the green-eyed woman had felt that something was missing inside her heart – the presence of a garden, of real flowers and plants. Since her row house didn’t have much more to offer than a few tiny window cills which were far too small to make a suitable home for all of her pot plants, Jamie had decided to search for something else. As luck would have it, she had found just what she had been looking for one day on the empty bus seat next to her while on her way home from grocery shopping. The forgotten newspaper on the seat right next to her had revealed just the right page of small ads:

Retired Gardener needs helping hand with his 40 sqm rooftop garden including a conservatory. All those interested please contact Theodore Campbell under ….

This ad had been more than just written words on the newspaper, it had been the beginning of something great, of something essential for the woman’s soul to find a little comfort and silence after all this time.

The years had gone by and turned her hair a steely gray, and she had gotten used to this new reality. Dani was never gone from her mind, not a single second, but it had become easier to live with all that screaming numbness inside her.

Theodore Campbell – Teddy – who suffered from multiple sclerosis and was confined to his wheelchair, had provided Jamie with so much love and understanding that he had become family to her. Truthful family, unlike those people who were related to her by blood. The elderly woman had shared her story with the old man and he had listened, understood, and remained silent when she had just needed to cry. Thus the little garden above the city had become not only a diversion, a pastime – but instead it had become home to her.

Teddy was 85 years old by now and Jamie visited him at least five days a week. Just as much as she saw him as a father, the old man loved Jamie like his own daughter. His wife had also passed away many, many years ago and the couple never had any children. Somehow, Teddy was a kind of role model for the green-eyed woman, because he himself had been through really hard times and yet, he always had a smile on his lips and another joke to tell every day. When his health began to deteriorate, he became reliant on his wheelchair, unable to attend to his gardening duties all by himself. Unwilling to give up the rooftop garden and sell it to someone who might just turn it into a rooftop terrace, he had place the ad in the newspaper.

Luckily, the pensioner was able to draw from his savings to pay for his treatments and special care, but with that burden and the rather lousy annuity a gardener gets, money was short nonetheless. Despite his financial status, he insisted to pay Jamie for her help, but she had always declined. His company and the garden had always been more than enough compensation for her. That, and the afternoon tea with shortbread biscuits, of course.

~

“It’s fine Teddy, I’ll get it,” the elderly woman put away her gardening gloves as the doorbell rang. The passionate gardener had spent almost the whole day on the rooftop, nurturing the plants and flowers with care and dedication, as she had been away for almost one week. Utterly absorbed in her work, she hadn’t even noticed that the sun was setting.

“Good evening Madam, trick or treat,” three colourfully dressed up children stood outside the door, gleefully grinning and bursting with excitement.

“Oh hi there, I love your costumes, you’re all exceedingly spooky! Let me see what the secret sweets stash has to offer!” Jamie smiled back at them, rushed into the kitchen, grabbing a handful of chocolate bars and handed each kid a few of them.

At the back of her head, she remembered the radio announcement about Halloween and the occurrence of the rare blue moon this night. If the kids hadn’t turned up in their costumes, she wouldn’t even have recalled that tonight was Halloween. She hardly attributed any importance to holidays like this, always assuming them to be a day like any other, but unbeknownst to her, this Halloween would turn out to be a very special one.

Without the sunlight warming her in the chilly autumn breeze, Jamie decided to lay her work on the rooftop garden down for the day and put on some good night tea for Teddy and herself.

“Ah thank you my dear, you are truly an angel!” Teddy said gratefully, as he took the hot tea mug from her. “You care to join me for a while?” The old man had hoped to be able to spend some time with her because he had noticed that something was especially strange since the moment she entered his apartment this day. Since she had returned from her trip to America for the wedding ceremony, Jamie seemed to be more absent-minded than usual.

“Would you mind if I go outside to the garden? The moon is so pretty tonight and I just want to admire it for a little bit on my own.” With a faint smile she placed her hand on the old man’s shoulder, trying to let him know that he needn’t worry. With a soft nod, he accepted her wish.

The sun had set entirely by now and the clear sky was embellished with its shiny stars already. The full moon tinted the rooftop with all the plants in a pale, silvery light. Despite her brown turtleneck pullover, made from very warm and soft linen, the elderly woman slightly shivered in the cold night air. Nevertheless, she sat down on the iron garden bench, wrapping her elegant, slender fingers tighter around the warm mug. With every sip, the warmth of the tea seemed to spread inside her body, stopping her from freezing any longer. The night was so very calm, and soon, her heavy thoughts, too, appeared to fall silent. Before she knew it, sleep somehow overcame her after a day of hard work and all the mental tension over the past week.

Jamie woke up, trying to figure out where she was for a moment. She didn’t know how long she’d been sleeping there, outside, on the cold iron stand of the garden bench. But somehow, her surroundings appeared to be ghostly silent and the cold night suddenly seemed very mild, more like a summer night really. There wasn’t a noise to hear, not even some distant hustle of traffic, not even the wind playing with the leaves of the plants. The green-eyed woman felt uneasy, odd, somehow dizzy. With one last glance upon the sky to the gorgeous moon in all its glory, she went towards the door leading inside. Suddenly, she was interrupted by a voice. A voice, so obviously real and present, that denying it or blaming it on the wind would have been utterly pointless:

“Jamie...”

She was thunderstruck. It was as if all her body cells, every membrane and every fiber froze to ice. A cold sensation rushed through her body from head to toe, leaving every inch of her electrified. This voice – could it be real? Was it another dream? Suddenly, she heard it again, louder this time, but with the same fragile gentleness.

“Jamie...”

The elderly woman didn’t even dare to turn around, she was literally frozen. A sudden gasp escaped her lungs, when she felt a soft touch on her shoulder. She squinted her eyes, trying to wake up from what she believed to be a dream, but the touch tightened.

[hydrospanners]

every doubt we had

like a scene from a nightmare he'd never admit to having, darth marr's ship goes down and takes his sister with it. rhese velaran has never had to live in a galaxy without nirea, and he's not sure he knows how. he leans on an unlikely shoulder while he figures it out. SWTOR genfic. M!Jedi Knight & Doc friendship (fraternity?) fic. Background Established F!Jedi Knight x Doc. Grief & angst. 3300 words. AO3.

The chrono reads 0300 hours. 0400 hundred until their arrival on Coruscant. 17 minutes since he checked last.

 Rhese turns his eyes back to the ceiling. Landing prep starts at 0600. He could still get three full hours of rest if he could just get to sleep.

 He draws in a slow, deep breath, willing his racing heart to slow. There is no emotion, he reminds himself. There is peace. No emotion. Peace. No emotion. Peace.

  Peace, peace, peace.

 Peace is a damned lie. There’s only war, constant and consuming. War, where the players may change but the game never does.

 He’s fucking tired of war. Tired of running and killing and being too little, too late. Tired of leaving people behind.

 Marr’s flagship explodes in his mind’s eye. Again and again, a bloom of sparks and flame stretching up and out until it’s nothing, fizzled out. Until the space where she was is nothing but dust and cannonfire and distant winking stars.

 Blood rushes in his ears, the pounding of his heart the only sound in the heavy quiet of simulated night.

Dammit. Rhese taps the comm by his bed, wincing away from the bright blue-white gleam of the indicator light. Teeseven answers immediately, chirping a greeting that’s no less cheerful for having possibly lost his master. His friend.

 “Any communications?” Rhese asks, and the comm terminal flashes, hundreds of messages flooding the screen. From the Council. From the Senate. From SIS. Saresh. “Anything from--” Even if she had survived, she would have had no way to send word. Not yet. “Any new information on Nirea?”

 “Jedi = still missing,” the droid reports.

 It’s what he expected, but knowing the knife is coming never made the cutting hurt any less. He swallows his disappointment. “Keep an audio sensor to the ground. Let me know the second you hear anything.”

 “T7 = Looking. // Jedi = Still alive.”

 “I know, Teeseven.” He’s reasonably sure, anyway. “Thank you.”

 The indicator light blinks out, leaving Rhese alone with his thoughts.

 He remembers a time when he would have killed for this kind of quiet. A chance at sober reflection. Isolation. When he believed peace could be achieved from structure. When a steady heart and an ordered mind were still his best chance at salvation. Or absolution. He’s still not sure what it was he spent all those years looking for, but he’s pretty damned certain it’s gone now.

 Ringing fills his ears again. Someone’s talking shit about you, Ranna used to say. An old Corellian superstition, or maybe a spacer’s. She had so many superstitions it was hard to tell which was which.  Either way, he didn’t inherit Ranna’s penchant for mysticism and the only person who’s ever cared enough to talk about him anyway is--Well, the point is that it’s just a symptom of his hearing giving out. He’s been meaning to have Doc look at it for a while now, but there never seemed to be any time.

 Rhese glances at the chrono. 0321 hours. 21 minutes since he checked last.

 He gets up and dresses quickly, trying not to think of all the shit Rea would give him for picking the robes. The ship is dark and silent, the passageways empty this deep into the night. Not that anyone is actually asleep. Rhese can sense the crew in their quarters as he passes them, all awake despite the hour, all pretending not to be.

He senses Kira’s restlessness. It’s familiar to him as his own anxiety, and he can almost see the defensive hunch in her shoulders as she paces back and forth in the too-small space of her bunk. He can see the little wrinkle between her brows as she kneels, trying her damndest to meditate. He can see the tremble in her hands as she opens up her saber, taking it apart and putting it back together as many times as she has to for the adrenaline to fade.

 Rea would have gone to her. Would have laid upside down on her bed while Kira ranted, absorbing all her rage and being the soft place to land once it was spent.

 Rhese keeps walking.

 He senses Rusk’s tension. How tightly he’s coiled, primed and ready to strike at the first actionable target. He pictures Rusk standing at his worktable, the lines in his forehead cutting deep as he methodically disassembles his cannon. He pictures his hands, rough but nimble as he cleans every part, as he sets the chrono to time his reassembly. He pictures the way he keeps glancing at the comm, twitching at every noise like it might be the news he’s waiting for.

 Rea would have offered to spar. She would have worked him until his muscles were loose and warm and tender, and then she would have worked his mind, cracking open some shitty beers to swap stories about the stupid shit they did when they were young and green. He would have laughed like only Rea could make him laugh. He would have slept a little easier.

 Rhese keeps walking.

 He senses Scourge’s fury. It’s a raging wildfire, consuming everything it touches and Rhese can almost hear the groan of metal bending beneath Scourge’s fists as he burns, feeding everything around him to the furnace of his anger. He is hungry to destroy, to quench the flames in his heart with carnage and violence. He wants a fight.

 Rea would have given it to him. She would have poked and prodded until he lashed out, swinging his lightsaber at full limb-severing power, nothing held back. She would have let him. She would have matched him blow for blow until his fury burned itself out and when it was done, she would smile and complain at the scorchmarks in her deck.

 Rhese keeps walking.

 He senses Doc. Alert and focused, thrown completely into some project or the other. There’s none of the usual thrill he feels from Doc when he’s working, none of the anticipation or pride. The purpose of his work doesn’t matter right now as long as the work is consuming him, leaving no room for other thoughts. For worries.

 He feels clear and steady in a way the others don’t right now, and Rhese sees, just for a moment, what it is that Rea must see in him. What it is that draws her to him.

 Rhese enters the medbay without knocking, his left ear ringing.

 “You should be asleep,” Doc says, not looking up from the viscous green liquid he’s measuring. Beneath the goggles Rhese can see his eyes are puffy and shot through with red. “Got a long day ahead of you.”

 “And you don’t?” Rhese raises a brow, folding his hands in front of him. He tries not to think what jokes Rea would make about his posture. Something about the stick up his ass.

 Doc just snorts. “I’m not a Jedi. Nobody cares what I think. Here.” He puts the green liquid down and pulls a small metal tube from his pocket, tossing it to Rhese. “Take one of those. It’s a low dose; should only put you down for an hour or two.”

 “You carry sleeping pills in your pocket?”

 “You’ve met my wife, right? About this high--” Doc raises his hand a foot over his own head “--brown hair, blue eyes, great ass. Only sleeps if you make her.”

 Rhese smiles, feeling none of the usual discomfort and inadequacy he feels when he has these chats with Doc. For once he doesn’t mind being reminded what a giant Rea is in everyone’s mind, how much taller she seems despite being shorter than him by four inches. For once he isn’t embarrassed and annoyed by the reminder of his sister’s very active sex life. For once, he just feels… fond. “I may have seen her around,” he says.

 “Well if you see her again, you tell her to come home. Her family’s worried.”

 Do you hear that Rea? Your family is worried. Rhese wonders if she can feel their concern. He wonders if she can feel anything at all. He can’t feel her. She’s always been good at hiding, and there were years on Tython when he couldn’t separate the feel of her from the rest of the Force, but he could still feel that she was out there somewhere, could still feel their connection. This is the first time she’s ever just been gone, a hole in the Force where the tingle of her warm, fervent energy is supposed to be.

 He reaches for her on instinct, and the void he finds in her place leaves him cold. For the first time in his life, he feels really alone. Careful what you wish for, Liss always warned him. You might just get it.

 “You okay, kid?” Doc, with his bloodshot eyes and exhausted pallor, is watching him carefully, his brow furrowed in concern. Rhese can only think how he’s going to get wrinkles, scrunching his face up like that. How Rea’s going to kill him for aging her husband prematurely. ‘I only married him for his looks,’ she’ll say. ‘Now I’ll have to trade him in for a younger model.’

 Rhese laughs a short, humorless laugh. Is he okay? “I’m going deaf,” he says. “In my left ear.”

 Doc sighs. “Sit down.”

 Rhese does as he’s told, climbing onto the exam chair and pushing his shoulders back, trying to keep his chin up. Trying to hold it together because someone has to now that Rea’s gone.

 But there’s no point. That pinch in Doc’s brow says he isn’t fooled, that he knows too many of Rhese’s secrets, sees too much through Rea’s eyes. It says there will be no fooling him and Rhese can’t find the energy to try. He tips his head back against the chair and lets his shoulders sag, only a little embarrassed by his ragged sigh of relief.

 “Ringing?” Doc asks, wheeling over one of his scanners. He pulls a headset with an alarming number of wires from the drawer.

 Rhese nods. “Started a couple months ago, but things have been--” He thinks back to Ziost, to Tython, to Manaan. To all the blaster fire and running and death. “Well, you know how things have been.”

 “No kidding. I’m surprised your ears lasted this long, the way you Jedi go on.”

 “You mean the way Rea goes on.” She’s had cochlear implants almost as long as she’s been a Jedi. Went in for her first operation the day the treaty was signed, not even a year after Marefka scooped them up on Corellia. He’d been on Tython at the time, but he’d read the reports from her surgeries. It had taken six. “Most Jedi don’t spend so much time getting blown up.”

 He sees the explosion again. Marr’s flagship consumed by inferno, sparks and flame spitting from the cracks in the hull, a ring of fire expanding slowly around the whole fizzling mass. The only sound the static of the comm crackling over the speakers, the echo of her last words ringing in his ears. His own voice, shouting Rea’s name.

 Rhese flinches.

 Doc’s hand settles on his shoulder. “She’s gonna be fine,” he says, and there’s something in his eyes, in the warmth and certainty of his voice, that makes Rhese turn away. It feels too familiar. Too much like--Rhese can’t feel her in the Force, but he can feel her in the tender way Doc is looking at him, in the way Doc is caring for him, gently and thoughtfully, like family.

 Stars. They are family now, aren’t they?

 Doc’s hands are steady as he lowers the headset onto Rhese’s forehead. The nodes are cold but Doc’s fingers are warm as he massages them into place along Rhese’s forehead and around the delicate insides of his ears. And if he notices the way Rhese shivers, Doc is merciful enough not to mention it. “I know you’re worried, Junior, but this is Rea we’re talking about. She’s survived way worse.”

 If anyone knows what Nirea Velaran can survive, it’s Doc.

 “But it doesn’t take worse,” he argues. “One stray blaster bolt. One piece of shrapnel. One mistake.” Force knows she makes mistakes, no matter what she’d have people believe. “She’s not indestructible.”

 Doc says nothing. A stream of rhythmic beeps fills Rhese’s ears.

 He knows she’s alive. This nothing--the gap in his consciousness where she’s supposed to be--it’s not what death feels like. Rhese has felt death before. He’s felt it in strangers and in allies and in friends. He’s felt it in family. In Ranna. In Qarric and Daeleth. He would have sensed his sister’s death. He would have felt a piece of himself die with her.

 Hell, if she was really dead she’d probably be here, complaining about it. She’d be haunting him the way Master Orgus Din haunted her, refusing the peace of death just so she could pester him.

 Rea has to be alive. But for how long? And where?

 Doc lifts the headset, gently peeling back the little nodes as he goes. “How do you feel about implants?”

 Rhese sighs. “Resigned.”

 “I’ve got a friend on Coruscant. She might be persuaded to do it for free.”

 “Persuaded?” Rhese raises a brow, very nearly smiling. “Just what kind of a friend is this, Doc?”

 “Don’t get your panties in a twist, that was a long time ago. I’ve got no interest in persuading anyone but your sister these days.” He pauses, considering. “Well, no interest in persuading anyone without her, anyway.”

 “Ugh.”

 Doc laughs, and it’s an effort to not laugh with him.

 He feels better. No one is more surprised by it than Rhese--if you’d told him back on Balmorra that Archiban Kimble would ever make him feel anything other than annoyance and disgust, he’d have laughed you into the next sector--but here he is, sitting in the medbay and feeling better for having Doc there with him.

 Here he is, sitting in the medbay because it’s where he wanted to be. Because it’s where his feet carried him when he was feeling lost and alone and there was no Rea to collapse into.

 He’ll have to tell her when he sees her again. That she chose well. That he loves this little family she’s built. That he’s grateful and he’s happy and if she ever leaves him again he’s going to lose his starsdamned mind because he can’t keep doing this--

 “Hey.”

 Rhese blinks and finds Doc’s eyes boring into his. Dark and bloodshot and so, so serious. Worried. Scared. For him.

 “Breathe, kid.”

 Rhese realizes he hasn’t been. He gasps, once, twice, until his lungs remember how they’re supposed to work. He tries to recite the Code, but the words keep getting jumbled in his head. It’s like everything he’s been trying not to think and not to feel is breaking free and rushing over him all at once. “I feel like I’m drowning,” he confesses, voice tight like it’s trying to hold onto the words, trying to keep that truth hidden. “I don’t know what to do.”

 “Must run in the family,” Doc says, surprising a small, shaky laugh out of him. “Now c’mere.” He opens his arms and Rhese only hesitates for a second before sitting up and leaning into him, his forehead pressed to Doc’s chest, hot tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. They start to fall when Doc’s arms wrap around his shoulders.

 At least it isn’t blood. Doc’s always complaining about how many shirts he loses to bloodstains; tears should be easier to clean. Rhese doesn’t know why he’s thinking so much about Doc’s shirts, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. And he can’t stop thinking how that’s a stupid thing to be thinking about at a time like this. Can’t stop thinking how he’s blowing this out of proportion. Can’t stop thinking he’s not taking it seriously enough.

 He can’t stop thinking. Thinking, thinking, thinking.

 His breaths are coming too fast and too shallow, desperate, ragged things just barely escaping the tightness of his throat, and his skin feels so hot. Too hot. He wants to climb out of it. He wants to climb out of his whole body and just--He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants but he knows everything is too much.

 Doc pulls him in tighter, blunt nails scraping gently at the nape of his neck, and it’s so much like--His mind swims with memory, of nights spent curled into Rea’s lap, of her body wrapped around his like a shield, of her fingers in his hair, her kisses on his forehead, her voice in his ear, whispering how she’ll protect him, how she’ll always be there no matter what, how it’s the two of them against the galaxy.

 Where the fuck is she now?

 “Me too, kid. Me too.”

 “I don’t want to lose another family.” Rhese whispers the words into Doc’s chest, his eyes squeezed tight against the brutal truth of them. A brutal truth he’s been hiding from for years now. Years of keeping people at arm’s length, of reciting Codes and turning his back and telling himself he’s above it all. Years of trying to keep himself from connecting with anyone because he was so fucking scared of having another connection break.

 You can’t lose what you never had, he reminds himself, thinking of the rest all locked away in their cages, drifting to their own orbits in the absence of Rea’s gravity to draw them together. They were Rea’s family. They’re always just Rea’s. Never yours.

 But then Doc is kissing the top of his head, just like Rea would, and holding him just like Rea would and he can’t be doing it for her cause she isn’t here to see it. He can’t be doing it for any reason but--

 “You aren’t losing anything,” he says, with so much conviction that Rhese almost believes him. “I don’t know where Rea is or what she’s doing, but I know her. I know she loves you more than anyone in this galaxy, and I know she won’t let anything keep you apart for long. She’s coming back, kid, and we’re all gonna be here when she does.”

 Rhese thinks of Tython. Of ten years��� worth of secondhand reports and unanswered messages. Ten years of lonely nights and insecurities. Ten years of waiting.

 “It could be awhile,” he says.

 “We’ll wait.”

 “I waited for ten years last time.”

 “We’ll wait.”

 Rhese lets his eyes fall shut, tilting his face up to the ceiling as breathes a long, shuddering breath. “Okay,” he says, his throat a little looser, his chest a little lighter. “Okay.”

 He sits like that for a long time, listening to the slowing rhythm of his heart and the quiet gurgle of Doc’s equipment, bubbling away on some experiment he doesn’t want to know the particulars of. Listening to the distant ringing in his left ear. He flexes his hands against the exam chair, feeling the cool, smooth fabric shift beneath his fingers, and with each slow breath he feels the sharp sting of chemical cleaner burning his nose.

 Doc is still standing there when Rhese opens his eyes, the little tube of sleeping pills back in his hand. “You’ve got a long day ahead of you,” he says again.

 This time, Rhese takes the pills.

 He curls onto his side on the exam chair, and when Doc lays his lab coat over his shoulders, Rhese pulls it up to his chin and breathes deep of the cologne that always seems to rub off, just a little, onto Rea’s clothes. It makes him feel warm and the drugs make him feel hazy and Doc, steady, certain Doc, shuffling around the medbay behind him and never leaving him alone--Doc makes him feel safe.

 By 0430, Rhese is finally asleep.

[porkchop-ao3]

Charlie Foxtrot: Part 7/7

Finale! Hurt/comfort, angst.

-

Christ it was awkward, standing in Rick's kitchen again with a cup of coffee, just like day one. It'd been a week since Tailor had seen him. Rick had of course been texting, but Tailor hadn't wanted to deal with the whole mess at the time, and so he'd waited. In that time, he'd finished the robe's for the council, and had met up with them for a few drinks here and there. A couple of the council members had taken a shine to Tailor, something that he wasn't at all displeased about. But he knew he couldn't keep putting it off, and he wasn't one for completely ghosting somebody unless the situation was extremely bad, so he finally texted Rick back and agreed to meet him at his apartment.

It was just the two of them, no sign of the roommate, and they hadn't said much outside of meaningless pleasantries since he'd arrived, but Tailor could see that Rick wasn't happy. His usual smile was absent, his voice was monotone, and he stood on the other side of the kitchen with his arms crossed.

With a sigh, Tailor broached the subject. “Did your roommate give you any grief?”

“Not really,” he shrugged, not looking him in the eye.

“I didn't do that on purpose, you know. I-I-I just felt- I was angry and I didn't think before I acted. That was inconsiderate.”

“Yeah, it was.”

Rick finally looked at him, and Tailor suddenly felt this horrible ache in his stomach at his blatant disappointment in him.

“Sometimes my emotions get the better of me–” Tailor rushed to excuse himself, only to be spoken over.

“It's fine. He didn't say much about it. Told me he wouldn't ask and that he never saw nothin’,” Rick shrugged. “Nothings happened since and I don't think it ever will, 'specially if he doesn't see you here again.”

Oh God. Tailor wanted to hurl, only this time it wasn't because Rick was being too affectionate, but because he was cold. This should please him, but it didn't.

“So you're saying I'm not welcome here?”

“I said nothing like that.”

“It certainly sounded that way.”

“Well I guess you need your ears checked,” Rick narrowed his eyes, giving Tailor a dirty look.

Tailor stared for a few long moments, silenced and rendered completely unable to respond. Rick was always so mild mannered and kind and understanding yet he was so sharp with him today. Tailor didn't know what to make of it, but he knew he didn't like it.

“You say that it's fine, but you're clearly unhappy with me,” Tailor finally managed to say, placing his cup of coffee down on the kitchen counter, no longer interested in drinking it.

“I'm not.”

“You must think I'm stupid.”

“I absolutely do not,” Rick hissed, his brow coming down into an arched V as if Tailor had said something extremely offensive. “You're far from stupid, Tailor. I wouldn't dream of suggesting anything like that.”

“Alright. You don't think I'm stupid. But you are definitely angry with me, you've never acted like this before. I'd rather you just be honest with me.”

“I'm not angry with you, I'm just waiting for you to rip the damn band aid off, but you're taking your sweet time,” Rick told him with a heavy sigh, tilting his head back and leaning it against the fridge behind him. “Ain't no point to me being a kiss ass if you're just gonna tell me it's time to move on.”

“You think I'm here to put a stop to this?” Tailor asked. He had no idea where the incredulous tone was coming from, because this was exactly what he was doing.

“Am I wrong?” Rick asked in a dry tone.

Tailor neither confirmed nor denied it.

“It's probably for the best anyway, right?” Rick admitted, his voice dropping quieter. “You ain't interested in sticking around with a guy like me, sharing a shit hole apartment with some other guy.”

“I'm sorry?”

“You just wanted to get laid, right? You don't want nothin’ else. I'm wasting my time sitting around expecting a call from you asking to do something other than get you off. And that's fine, I ain't judging. I just don't wanna be a part of it anymore.”

“Hold on. No–”

“I know that I'm a rarity. A Rick who actually wants something that means something! You probably ain't used to this so I'll make your life easier and leave you be. It's been fun while it lasted, though. Thanks.”

“What're you saying? You can't be serious, you're not–”

Rick suddenly raised his voice. “Are you arguin’ ‘cause you're disagreeing, or because this ain't going how you planned?”

Tailor jumped at the sudden shift. He didn't have time to respond before Rick kept going.

“‘Cause I know your type. You're only happy when things are going your way, when you're the one calling the shots. I might be saying all the right damn things and you'll argue, ‘cause it ain't you saying 'em. I ain't got time for time wasters, if you ain't prepared to consider what I want out of this relationship, I'm out.”

Tailor was stunned by the outburst but absorbed every word. He hated how accurate he was, he never considered how transparent he might be, nor how observant Rick was. He swallowed the excess saliva that had formed in his mouth and looked down at the floor, frowning. When he spoke, his voice was small.

“You're right. I don't want anything other than sex,” Tailor simply said, his face burning and his throat feeling weird, eyes stinging. It took him a moment to realise it was emotion and not a nasty allergic reaction to something he'd consumed. “And I did come over here to end things with you.”

“Well there you go. No need to argue, it's all done and dusted.”

Tailor stayed where he was, scowling down at the floor like it was his worst enemy. He felt such a tumultuous mix of emotions in his gut. He was angry, he was sad, he was relieved, regretful, grateful, confused. He hated himself, mostly. He wasn't entirely sure why; but it definitely had to do with having himself so annoyingly, accurately summed up by some guy he only thought of as a fun lay.

He could deal with all that, though. It was the strong urge to cry that was causing him the most problems. He wasn't the one who was meant to be in tears, he wasn't supposed to feel so terrible, he wasn't the one who should've been dumped. None of this was right, none of it at all. Anger built and he let out an audible growl, snapping his head up and jabbing a finger in Rick's direction.

“You have no idea why I am the way that I am. I for one cannot believe how selfish and ignorant you have been throughout this entire ordeal, expecting me to be more than I can be! You ask too much! You're so needy, always texting and wanting to touch me and be near me, it's been suffocating!” Tailor exploded, yelling louder than Rick ever had.

Rick straightened up, pushing away from the fridge, his eyes widening a little in surprise.

“I'll be glad to finally be free from it! I never gave you the impression I wanted more, you just took everything I gave you and- and- I gave you and inch and you took a mile! And then you have the cheek to make all these bloody assumptions about me, and you're dumping me?” Tailor finished with a humourless laugh, though it was more like a jerky exhale that he had to try very hard not to allow it to turn into a sob.

“Nobody's dumping anybody, I was under the impression this was a mutual thing, I–”

“Shut your stupid mouth!” Tailor shouted, stomping a foot on the ground, the slightly raised heel of his loafers clacking against the kitchen tile. He hadn't intended to look like a petulant child, but he had.

“I've had about enough of this, if you're not gonna act like an adult I want you out.”

“Don't worry. I'm leaving of my own accord.”

“Calm your Goddamn ass down, you ain't finished your coffee.”

“I don't give a bloody shit about my coffee! If it weren't for that stuff I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place.”

“What mess? It's over! If you're that bothered you can tell everyone you dumped me, I don't care. I was hoping we could do this amicably.”

“I just- I-I-I just–” Tailor stammered, feeling everything rushing at him at once.

He felt so embarrassed, so foolish, why on earth had he blown up like that? He was better than that, or at least he should've been. He'd reacted appallingly and now that he was giving himself space to breathe, he wished he could rewind time.

“Come here.”

“What?” Tailor's voice sounded weird, he tried to clear his throat but it didn't help the obnoxious feeling of being on the edge of tears.

“Git your ass over here,” Rick's voice was sharper and despite himself, Tailor did as he was told.

Rick was a little rough with him as he pulled Tailor into his arms, rougher than he was before. Tailor wasn't strong enough to break away so he stayed still against his chest, his arms hanging down at his sides as he felt a hand patting and scrubbing between his shoulder blades. He assumed it was meant to be soothing. It wasn't a hug that was in anyway romantic or affectionate, it was a hug that said everything's okay in the most basic way possible. Tailor didn't particularly like hugs when he was fully clothed, but he didn't fight it. Despite his best efforts to keep them at bay, a number of stubborn tears rolled onto his cheeks and he allowed Rick's wife beater to soak them up, hoping he wouldn't notice.

“Now, I'm gonna let all that slide, ‘cause I know you didn't mean any of it,” Rick said quietly, and Tailor squirmed in his arms.

“You don't know anything.”

“Relax. Nobody's here to see this.”

“You are.”

“And? It's not like I matter all that much,” Rick chuckled. Tailor didn't respond, he just sighed and snorted up the snot in his nose without grace. “Listen Tailor, I know when I see someone who's hurting. I've known since I slipped up and told you I loved you, and you nearly tossed your cookies.”

“That was because m-my assistant brought some of her cooking into work that day and made me eat some,” Tailor lied.

“No it wasn't,” Rick deadpanned in response.

There as a stretch of silence. Rick wasn't letting go, and Tailor wasn't making any attempts at getting away from him.

“My wife was a bitch,” Tailor murmured.

“I thought as much,” Rick sighed, giving another vigorous rub to Tailor's back before gently prying him off of him.

Tailor turned his head, avoiding looking at him. He knew his eyes would be bloodshot to hell and his face would be blotchy.

“I should be the one comforting you, you're probably heartbroken,” Tailor quipped grumpily.

Rick made a passive humming sound in response.

“I knew what was coming, I prepared myself,” he said, startling Tailor into looking at him.

He hadn't expected to be taken seriously. Rick looked at him with a certain look in his eye, it was soft and warm with just a little bit of detectable sadness. In a way, Tailor was grateful for that, because it reminded him of the reason he went there in the first place with a sudden wave of nausea.

Tailor took in a sharp, cooling breath and turned away from him.

“Well, I suppose I'd better leave you be. I'm sure you have things to do,” he said, pulling out his portal gun and twisting the dial for his home dimension.

“Jus’ wait a sec,” Rick said, grabbing hold of Tailor’s arm, getting a glare tossed his way for his efforts. “Are you gonna disappear off the face of the earth ‘cause of this, or am I gonna get to see you again?”

“You think that’s a good idea?” Tailor questioned, raising a brow and gently removing his arm from Rick’s hand.

“Shit, I don’t know. It’d be a shame if I never got to at least talk to you after all this. Believe it or not, I enjoy your company. And not just the physical aspects of it.”

Tailor jerked a little in surprise, both brows shooting upwards. He didn't often hear things like that from the people he slept with.

“Well, we’ll see. I have your number, you have mine. There’s no harm in the occasional text message, I suppose,” Tailor allowed, shrugging his shoulders stiffly. Rick nodded and gave him a small smile, which Tailor awkwardly returned.

Wasting no more time, Tailor opened up a portal and with a final nod in Rick’s direction, he left. Alone in the comfort of his studio, he felt different. He wasn’t as angry or sad as he’d felt when in Rick’s kitchen, but he certainly wasn’t happy. There was a certain hollowness in his belly, one that he’d gotten used to for a while in his past, it was like an old friend coming to visit. He sighed and plopped down in one of the nearby chairs and cradled his head in his hands for a while. His sketchbook lay open on the table in front of him, showing him his own illustrations of a shirt with intricate tribal patterns embroidered into the back. He groaned quietly to himself; that was going to be a struggle to make in more ways than one, but there was no denying it’d look incredible. He couldn't call off the whole project due to his break-up… though, it was hardly a break-up; they weren’t ever dating in the first place.

Tailor heard someone coming through the front door. There were only a couple of people who had a key so he had a good idea of who it was; he took a breath and sat up, grabbing his sketchbook and flicking to a blank page so he could pretend to be working. His assistant walked in a few moments later, she was holding a carrier bag from the supermarket and a cup from the local coffee shop.

“Hey Tailor. I'm glad you're here, I brought you your coffee and–” she started and Tailor sighed loudly, cutting her off.

“I didn't say I needed you today,” he snapped, giving her pause. She looked at him for a few moments.

“Have you been crying?” She asked, a frown colouring her face with concern.

“Of course not, don't be ridiculous,” he grumbled, looking down at his sketchbook to hide his bloodshot eyes.

“I guess you spoke to Rick today,” she said softly, cautiously. “How did he take it?”

“If I wanted to speak to you about it, I would've brought it up. Will you get your nose out of my business?” Tailor spat through a clenched jaw, not looking up at her.

“Of course. I apologise,” she said timidly, placing the coffee cup down next to Tailor on the table. “I brought cake again, if you'd like some with your coffee?”

“Are you trying to fatten me up? I don't want your bloody cake, stop trying to interfere. I don't need you here today, go away and spend the day with your little boyfriend.”

Tailor felt a calmness with the resulting silence from his harsh words. He'd done that.

“I wanted to make sure you were okay,” she said after a while. Tailor's eyes closed and he felt a lump in his throat. He hated when people were nice to him like this, it loosened his control on his emotions.

“I'm a grown man, darling. I don't need babysitting,” he managed to say with a level voice.

“I know that,” she replied in understanding. He heard the rustling of the plastic bag as she placed it down on the table next to him. “I'll leave you to it, then.”

“Thank you,” Tailor's tone was exasperated and short. His assistant left without another word, just a gentle touch to his shoulder.

When he heard the door close, Tailor sighed and leaned forwards, resting his forehead on his sketchbook with a groan. Why was he the one being coddled? Everyone knew it was his idea to break things off, he was fine! Rick was the one with inappropriate feelings, he was probably crying into his pillow at that very moment. Tailor was fine, he was just annoyed that things hadn't gone how he'd planned and he'd gotten confused, he'd made a fool of himself, he'd had a stressful few weeks and a lot of things had gotten on top of him. He'd simply been overwhelmed.

How embarrassing.

His phone buzzed inside his pocket and his heart dropped to his stomach. He lifted his head, retrieving his phone and taking a cautious look at the message. It was from that Hairstylist Rick, thank God. He was alone and he was bored and he was wondering if Tailor wanted to take advantage of that. He wasn't exactly in the mood for sex, but it would be a distraction, at least. He could just lay down and let him do the work, and it would surely take his mind off of things for a little while.

Tailor replied promptly, then left his coffee to go cold in the studio.

Fin!

[lostinfic]

Lost, a 'deep' prompt if you have the time or interest: "Trick" for Will & Holly, lost love/love lasting beyond death, 'communication' from the other side. Thanks!

Dear Nonny, might not be exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.

Game Night. 2/2 

[Part 1]  [Ao3]

Pairing: Will Burton (The Escape Artist) x Holly Shawcross (True Love)

Rating: Teen

Word count: 2.4k

Summary: Fluff and some angst. Will and Holly are part of a group of friends who meet every week to play board games.  Although there is more than friendship growing between them, their pasts prevent them from acting on their feelings. Until one week, they play with a Ouija board.

A/N: I also wrote a fem!Will x Holly : Sweater Weather. Some details might escape you if you haven’t seen the shows, but I think you can still enjoy the story.

○ Trick or treat prompts // All my autumn fics

CW: past death/grief (Will’s wife) 

🍂

The sky was a pink shade of gray, a reminder that the sun still existed despite the clouds. Sheets of rain slashed through beams of street light. Holly cracked opened a window to let the soothing sound and scent of rain permeate the air of her small flat. She wished for lightening and thunder.

This week, game night was at her home. Sometimes, work permitting, Will arrived early, under the pretense of helping her set up. “Setting up” usually involved folding out a card table at one end of her kitchen table for extra seating, and then just chatting until the others arrived. But she doubted he would come early tonight.

All week she’d waited for a text from Will, an apology or a simple “hello”, even a “sorry wrong person” would have soothed her worries. Holly herself had started typing more than one text she never sent. She shouldn’t have rushed out of his car, she should’ve stayed and pretended it was nothing but a joke. She didn’t want to lose him as a friend even if she longed for more.

She’d channeled her nervousness about game night into crafts: a garland of paper ghosts fashioned from the pages of an old book, a centerpiece of squashes and mini-pumpkins she had no intention of ever eating and charcoal sketches of creepy Victorian kids. She had to talk herself out of adopting a black cat; she could barely take care of herself let alone a pet.

She sat at her kitchen table and arranged the pretzel sticks, candy corn and Reese’s pieces into a pattern. She was so absorbed by her task, she jumped when someone knocked at the door. It was still early for the game, so it had to be Will. She sprung from her chair.

“Come in.”

Sabrina and Jerome came in. “Hope you don’t mind we’re a tad early, we dropped off the kids at a friend and it was closer than we thought.”

“Isn’t Will already here?” Jerome asked.

“I am.” Will peeked inside from around the door.

Jerome and Sabrina shuffled over to let him in without stepping off the door mat.

Holly waved at him shyly, he didn’t avoid her gaze which she supposed was a good sign. He even took his usual place next to her. She was dying to ask if he was pretending nothing had happened or had changed his mind about her. But she couldn’t ask in front of their friends, and her home was too small to find a private corner. Nevertheless, her mood increased tenfold, and by the time all seven of her friends had arrived, she was dancing on her chair to “Monster Mash”.

They alternated between playing Dungeons & Dragons one week and regular board games the other, either old ones they loved or new acquisitions. Today being Halloween, someone suggested they played with a Ouija board.

Some groaned, among them Patrick who preferred games like Risk and Settlers of Catan. “It’s not a game!” he argued.

“Back in the days, it was marketed as family entertainment,” Sabrina replied. “Parker Brothers distributed it.”

“C’mon just for a bit, just for laughs,” someone else enthused.

“Wait, let me set the mood,” Holly said.

She selected a Halloween playlist on her mobile. She brought her collection of candles to the table and closed the lights. The scent of burnt match and melted wax rose with the smoke.

There was a thrill in the air, they all exchanged glances and giggles. Everyone, except Will, wanted to put their fingers on the planchette. They tugged it this way and that, spelling swear words and booing like ghosts.

“Let’s do this seriously,” Jasna said. “Be silent.”

It took a moment, but everyone calmed down. Jasna cleared her throat and breathed in deeply. Holly snickered, and Jasna’s mouth twitched from repressed laughter.

“Alright.” She placed the planchette so the hole in it was positioned above the G. “I am trying to contact the spirit world.”

She had a deep voice for a woman and a Bosnian accent that lended a hint of mystery to her words.

First they moved the planchette across the board, anti-clockwise, to warm it up, then Jasna asked: “Are there any spirit in the room?”

The planchette moved to “yes”.

Holly’s hair stood on end. She bit the thumb nail of her free hand.

“How many spirits are in the room?”

Jasna closed her eyes. The planchette dragged down the board to the numbers.

One.

Two.

Everyone laughed, notes shrill with unease. It kept going. Three.

Four.

Five.

Sabrina gulped. Jerome looked over his shoulder.

Holly scooted closer to Will. She felt a prickled on the back of her neck. A candle flame flared up, and almost burnt her sleeve. “Fuck,” she whispered.

“What are your names?”

This time the planchette jerked to the letter “K”, zigzagged across the board as if wrestled over, then touched the “A”. Will dropped his hands. Then it pointed the “T”. When it moved towards the “E”, Will stood up, startling them all. He clenched his jaw and glared around the table, breathing fast through his nose. Then he just grabbed his coat and stormed out.

“Which one of you arsehole did that?” Holly asked.

They all exchanged suspicious looks but none dared admit culpability.

*

Will drove around aimlessly, swearing under his breath. His hands shook so he gripped the wheel tighter. His knuckles turned white.

How could his friends do that to him? With one joke they’d revived the ache in his chest, like taking a scalpel to a stitched wound.

Heavy rain blurred the traffic lights and road signs. He felt dizzy. He shouldn’t drive in this state. But he didn’t know where to go. He didn’t want to go home, Jamie was at a slumber party, all by himself he would just churn these dark thoughts in his head. Why was he so freaked out? Ghosts weren’t real.

Will slammed the breaks. His whole body jerked forward. The wheel stamped in his chest with a long honk. He’d nearly hit a pedestrian.

He parked the car on the side of the road. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. He rested his forehead on the wheel and took deep breaths.

It was only a joke. They didn’t not it would hurt so much. None of them had known Kate. None of them had seen the shell of a man he was after her death. None of them knew he’d murdered for her… In fact, he’d never told any of them about Kate at all. His blood ran cold. No, he’d told Holly, but he didn’t believe her capable of pulling such a cruel prank.

*

In Holly’s flat, candles were still burning but everyone had gone. She’d texted Will and rearranged the candies’ pattern while waiting for his reply.

Instead of texting her back, he showed up on her doorstep. His hair dripped with rain. He smelled of cigarette, so she knew the whole event had really unnerved him.

Without a word, he pulled out a chair and slouched on it.

“I’ll make you a cuppa,” she said softly.

She popped the kettle on and browsed her tea collection. She bought far more than she drank, she couldn’t resist a whimsical name– “Buddha’s blend” or “seaberry spa”. But tonight called for traditional English tea. She debated which cup to pick, yellow to cheer him up or green for hope. She chose one that said “you are deer to me” underlined by a set of antlers. He smiled at the pun, though very briefly.

Holly twirled the tea bag in her mug, watching the dark swirls it left in its wake. She did it with her left hand so the right one could rest on the table, close to Will’s.

The thunder she’d wished for began. Ominous rumbles, like a giant cracking his knuckles.

In the other room, the Halloween playlist ended, and an old jazz one started. Notes of saxophone and a lamenting blues voice travelled through the wall like something from the past.

“Did you tell them about my wife?” he asked.

“Of course not, you told me that in confidence. I think some reality show starlet called Kate died last week, that’s probably what that was about.”

He bit the inside of his cheek, nodding unconvincingly.

A lightning strike illuminated his face. He was looking at the Ouija board still on the table. Whoever had brought it over, hadn’t wanted it back.

“Do you want to try again?” she asked him.

He hesitated. “Do you believe in spirits, Holly?”

“I’m open to the idea.”

It was too romantic a notion for her to discard entirely, the possibility of a connexion beyond death.

Will picked up the game, and they settled in the living room. They sat on the shaggy carpet, their backs against the couch and placed the board on the coffee table.

Will shook his hands, clenched and unclenched his fists. She wanted to pat his shoulder or rub his back, something to comfort and reassure him, but she couldn’t help thinking that if Kate’s ghost was still around, she wouldn’t like Holly touching her husband.

They placed their fingertips lightly upon the planchette. There were no giggles or joking around like earlier. Her stomach was heavy, her mouth dry.

“Kate, are you still here?” he asked.

Thunder answered him.

They waited. One minute. Two minutes.

“Kate?” he asked again with a tremor in his voice.

The planchette didn’t move.

Will sighed and leaned back against the couch.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked him.

“I don’t know… I’m relieved, I think.”

“Relieved?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “The reason I freaked out so much is that I’ve been thinking about Kate a lot lately. More than usual, I mean.”

“Oh.”

“I wonder what she would think. I wonder– I’m afraid it would make her sad that there’s someone else in my life.”

“You met someone?”

His meaning didn’t dawn on her until she met his gaze, his eyebrows slightly arched, his front teeth in his bottom lip.

“Me?”

“Aye. You’ve become important to me. Holly.”

Holly hid her blushing face against the couch cushion, peering sideways. She touched the tips of his fingers, and he slouched down so his face was closer to hers.

“You’re important to me too. I like you a lot.”

He smiled, a wide grin, thin lines fanned out from the corners of his eyes. The kind of smile that can only come from the happiness and heady relief to know one’s feelings are returned. A smile that mirrored her own.

She felt like her heart was glowing. She wanted to kiss him, right then and there, but he had more to say about his late wife.

He entwined their fingers and gathered his thoughts.

“I don’t want someone to replace Kate,” he said. “She used to say my brain was full of holes, but sometimes it feels like it’s my heart that’s full of holes.”

Holly touched his chest, and he placed his hand over hers.

“She’s still in there, but I need someone who is really here. Someone whose voice I can hear. Someone I can touch.”

Holly might have wondered if she could stand sharing his heart with a ghost, but he grazed her cheek with the back of his fingers, lightly, hesitantly, and she melted on the spot. She leaned into his touch, and he cupped her face firmly this time. His long fingers cradled her jaw, his thumb stroke her cheekbone, his gaze dropped to her lips.

“Oh, Will…”

A window flew open, wind toppled a pencil holder and scattered a stack of art prints across the floor.

Will jerked his head back, and Holly yelped. Her hand flew to her chest where he heart raced.

He closed the window while she collected the fallen items with shaky hands. She turned on all the lights in the room.

“That scared me half to death,” Holly said.

“Maybe it was Kate’s ghost.”

“Don’t even joke about this,” she said good-naturedly. She elbowed him lightly in the ribs.

They sat on her overstuffed sofa, it dipped in the middle, bringing them closer.

“Holly, are you all right with this?”

She rubbed her thumb in her palm. In a way, a widower was an improvement on a married man, and even on a divorcee.

“I have my own baggage,” she said carefully. “So I don’t know how it will go. But I feel so close to you, you know?”

“I know.”

“If you like, how come you reacted that way last week, when I took off my shirt?”

“You caught me by surprise!” His voice hitched an octave.

“Yeah, I don’t know what I was thinking.” She bit her bottom lip.

“I have to say, I admire your boldness.”

“Yeah? Would you like a do-over?”

“You mean…?

“I’ll take off my jumper again, and you make sure you have a better reaction.”

“Okay.”

“D’you need a minute to think about it?”

“Aye.”

She worked hard to hold back a grin when his brow furrowed in concentration. He signaled with a nod that she could go ahead. Holly rose to her knees and grabbed the hem of her sweater, displaying more confidence than she felt.

“Sod it,” Will mumbled before lunging for a kiss before she’d pulled it off completely.

Holly laughed against his mouth, but he pressed on. There was an anxiety to it, as if he might lose his nerve any second. His back muscles were rigid under her fingers. She moved her lips slowly as she rubbed up and down his spine.

The moment he truly yielded to his feelings, his weight pressed against her, and they fell back on the couch, mouths still locked.

His lips were eager, his hands roamed her stomach. He kissed down her neck as her legs cradled his narrow hips.

He broke the kiss to look at her. His eyes were bright, his hair a dishevelled.

“Much better reaction,” she said with a laugh.

He pecked her lips, then rested his head on her chest. She stroke his hair as he hugged her tight.

He stayed all night.

They marathoned classic black and white horror movies. Bela Lugosi grunted and Vincent Price laughed maniacally, as Will and Holly ate all the candies. They kissed too many times to keep up with the plots, and talked about everything long past midnight, never breaking physical contact. A happy tangle of limbs. They had so much to discover about the other now that they weren’t trying to hide their feelings.

They fell asleep in the wee hours, and Will’s phone alarm woke him up not much later.

“Don’t go,” Holly mumbled, clinging to his warm body.

He allowed himself two more snoozes before separating from her.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, and kissed her head.

Despite the lack of sleep, he felt renewed. His patched-up heart beat more freely.

On his phone, he had several texts and voicemails from his concerned friends. He couldn’t hold a grudge for long given their prank had lead to finally kissing Holly.

On the way to his car, he whistled an old jazz song. But as he put his hands in his pockets, he found a green apple he didn’t remember putting there.

Fin

(More Will x Holly?)

[lordavanti]

Hvitserk Marathon #5

Request: Can I request a hvitserk Drabble where you get into a fight/argument before he goes raiding but you still show up to say goodbye? Sorry if it's shitty. thanks! Note: This got me more emotional then anticipated. Hole in my heart. Warnings: Angst, a lot of it. Words: 1501

Taglist: @itharley @missbrightlyred @burningsunshin3 @inthenameofodin @float-autumn-leave @zombie-zayde @decaffeinatedeaglefart @nothingbuthappydays @dani-si @sweetvengeancee @supervalcsi @ivarbarnes @kolvanismirk @mysticsthinking @kirah34 @odins-missing-eye @oddsnedsfanfics

If he every day rolled down the mud or fight his way through training you wouldn’t be getting out of work soon. Hvitserk had his way on making everything dirty, caused you to sit here over a tub of water trying to get the stains out of his tunic. It was the most frustrating thing to do, cleaning that and seeing him coming home with a new piece that needed some cleaning. But as his future wife you did it with love and it didn’t made you complain, he made up for it anyway. But days like this, when it was getting colder you did harder your best to get it clean, trying to get away from the cold despite the stroke of sunlight brushing your day goodbye.  You looked over your shoulder when you heard footsteps getting around the house. ‘What are you doing outside, it’s getting cold.’ He said as soon as he saw you sitting there. See, you suppressed a smile and looked up to him. ‘Somebody loves to place me outside and wash his dirty clothes.’ ‘I’m sorry,’ he began with that innocent smirk. ‘you can do it inside to, before the fire.’ He suggested, crouching down aside you. ‘I don’t want to have the whole house smelling.’ You protested gently. ‘And I thinking you loved my smell.’ He bowed closer and you leaned over, placing a kiss against his lips. ‘I do.’ You grinned pulling back from him. He looked down to his tunic while you went further. ‘How was the meeting?’ You asked curiously. Ever since Ragnar and Aslaug died half of Kattegat was shaken up with Lagertha back in charge. It was silent and you looked aside to him, he was gazing. ‘Hvitserk?’ You asked curious. ‘We leave tomorrow, I’m going.’ He announced. Of course he was going to avenge his father, you wouldn’t hold him back. Kattegat was preparing that for some time now. ‘Good, I’ll make sure we will have everything.’ ‘You can’t come Y/n.’ He reacted. Your hands froze in the water before looking aside. ‘Why?’ You asked flat. ‘To dangerous, you aren’t a fighter.’ ‘So you gonna leave me with Lagertha? The woman that not only hates me but also has it out for me because I love a son of Ragnar.’ You said it quietly and he knew what quietly meant, it meant you were angry. ‘Y/n.’ ‘You don’t want me to come at all do you, because I would see things.’ ‘I want to keep you safe.’ He tried. ‘I’m not safe with Lagertha.’ You hissed, pushing up from the log you were sitting on. ‘You know,’ you went further. ‘all this time I thought that you would let me come, to give me a change to tend your wounds, to cheer you good luck, to be the wife I will become. But all that time you knew already?’ You asked. He was so distracted lately and you blamed the dead of his parents for that. ‘Do you love me?’ You asked slowly. ‘Yes off course, Y/n,’ ‘Then why can’t I come.’ ‘I don’t want to see you bleed to dead on a battlefield!’ He reacted angry. ‘So you rather come back seeing your future wife already berried because she stood to close to Aslaug.’ ‘Y/n!’ He shouted. You throw water to his head and pushed his still wet tunic against his chest. ‘I’m afraid of Lagertha Hvitserk, if you are not willing on understanding that then what is even the point to marry.’ You fell out for the first time since you two were together. He just stood there, not being able to say anything. ‘Prep yourself for tomorrow, and if we see each other again in Valhalla, I won’t feast with you.’ You finish the whole argument, walking away. He didn’t even stop you. It turned your eyes blurry within seconds. You stayed at your brother his place, what wasn’t really easy because he was preparing himself to go with the Heathen Army to, so did his wife who was a powerful healer. You had gazed towards them the whole evening, how they let you alone for you needed the time to think. Somewhere you hoped that Hvitserk would knock at the door but he didn’t. Every time you heard something you turned away from the fire to the door only to meet the darkness from outside. And when you looked to the dancing flames you lost yourself in your grief. He didn’t stop you and he didn’t came after you … so did he really needed to answer that question, he didn’t love you. That spooked through your head the whole night, certain that you wouldn’t go to the harbor when they leaved, that you wouldn’t speak to him again. It was over and your heart broke under it. But then that dream came. You were on a field, chasing the butterflies over it. You were giggling, running as hard as you could before his two strong arms wrapped themselves around you from behind, placing his lips against your ear, feeling his hot breath against your neck. ‘You are the best thing that ever happened to me.’ He had whispered, kissing down your neck. ‘I can’t lose you.’ ‘You don’t have to, I would run right after you.’ You had closed your eyes, absorbing his lips against your skin, his fingers that started to untie your dress. ‘Promise me.’ ‘I promise.’ You startled up out of the dream, gazing to the light cracking though the wood. You buried your head in your hands, repeating the dream, the first memory of Hvitserk and you sharing your bodies. You promised him to run after him. You stepped out of the bed, noticing that your brother and his wife already left. A part of you wanted to get back to bed, you had way to little sleep this night and you needed it. But the other part couldn’t just leave Hvitserk, not like this. This fight would maybe be the last memory of him and you didn’t wanted that. So you dressed and walked over to the harbor only to see a large part of the ships where already sailing out a few miles. It shattered your heart, you felt a slight panic crawling through your chest as you pushed between the people, hoping on seeing him one last time. When you came out at front your eyes scouted the remaining ships, people still getting onto them. Your eyes went to Lagertha who said goodbye to her only son. And when your eyes found Hvitserk you reminded yourself to breathe again. He seemed sad, hardly listening to Ubbe, it was like he lost something, his shoulders down, his expressions hardly worthy to go into battle with. Ubbe looked your way before he knocked Hvitserk against the arm and nodded your way. He looked up, the eye contact immediately letting go of the tears again. He walked over the wood of the docks, his steps slowing down as he came closer to you. You looked up to him, not knowing what to say or do. But that single tear did it. He lifted his hand and run it away over your  cheek with his thumb. You leaned in on his hand before you couldn’t hold back and you started to cry. He pulled your head against his chest, wrapping his other arm around you while pressing his lips onto your hair. ‘Don’t go.’ You begged. It was quiet for a verry long time before he cupped your face, pulling you gently away from his chest. ‘You know I have to.’ He whispered, hardly even hearable. You wrapped your fingers around his wrist, closing your eyes while nodding. He contacted his forehead with yours. ‘I’m sorry.’ ‘It doesn’t matter, not anymore.’ He reassured you. You opened your eyes and looked up to him. ‘Please come back to me Hvitserk, please come back and marry me. Be safe.’ You urged him. His grip tightened around your face while he nodded. ‘I will.’ ‘Promise me.’ ‘I promise.’ He whispered. You lifted your chin, contacting your lips with his. The taste was salty from your tears, your fingers clenched into his braids on the back of his head, taking everything you could out of this kiss before he pulled back. ‘I love you, truly.’ He smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. ‘I love you to.’ You nodded, pulling yourself away from him because you knew he had to go. He caressed your face one last time. ‘Be safe.’ And he turned around, walking back to his brothers. They carried Ivar into the ship before the men started to sail. You gazed to him and he looked back until he was nothing but a dot on the horizon. You crouched down, closing your eyes and letting go of the rest of your tears. He left and there was so much unsaid between the two of you. You had married him before he left, now you could only hold on to the hopes he would survive. The saddest part was that that kiss was like a goodbye, the last kiss every, a goodbyes kiss shattering you in pieces.