#that dinosaur boy would be 6 feet under before he could even blink…

[ghonorrhead]

i don’t give a freak who this upsets SHIPPING DIE/JO SHOULD AFFECT YOUR CREDIT SCORE

[mycrofts-gunbrella]

Caring is the Greatest Advantage- Mycroft Holmes x Reader (Part 11)

A/N- Okay so this is just a short 2k fill in chapter! It’s kinda cute and kinda sad but it was too long to add to the last chapter, and it doesn’t fit in with the theme of the next chapter (though it sets it up quite nicely!). The next chapter is likely going to be a bit angsty but I promise it’ll have a rewarding ending to it! I hope to have it written and up sooner rather than later but, until then, enjoy this little piece.

Word Count- 2028

The ten minute drive from Baker Street to the Natural History Museum went by in a flash- most of it being spent by Mycroft giving you a mental tour of the building's various rooms and the 'most appropriate route to take'. Though it did also take a minute or two for you to convince him to not get everybody kicked out for a private visit, no matter how many people were there.. Admittedly, you hadn't been to the museum for 6 years or so now- after living so long in London it feels less of a luxury being only round the corner from it- but walking through the doors made you feel like a child again. Entry to the museum was free, but that didn't mean you didn't see Mycroft swiftly pushing a few notes into the donation bin at the front before guiding you forwards. Glancing up, you eyed the blue whale skeleton that hung from the ceiling and frowned. Mycroft caught your look and spoke up.

"Ah yes, Hope has been a relatively recent addition to the museum. She was found dead on an Irish beach back in 1891. It's a rather beautiful marvel to gaze upon, though, large as she is, she doesn't quite fill the hole in my heart that was left after my beloved Dippy was removed." Your eyes scanned the skeleton of the large mammal once more before looking back at Mycroft. "I did try to convince the board to keep the diplodocus somewhere but all attempts were futile. There's only so much force you can put into such a topic without exposing yourself as-"

"As a man who loves dinosaur bones more than he loves people?" Mycroft shoved his hands in his pockets and sighed.

"The very thing." Lifting your arm, you rested your hand at the crook of Mycroft's elbow to encourage him to move on.

"When we get home and have dinner we can raise a toast in Dippy's honour.. but for now, my mind's been taken over by that huge statue of Darwin." And the pair of you headed off, your hand very much staying place at Mycroft's arm as you wandered through the rooms- Mycroft more than willing to reel off facts about every deceased animal of history and, more often than not, even impressing the workers with his spiel of facts. Though you were very much enjoying wandering aimlessly through the room of human evolution, you most definitely noticed the pull from the man beside you as he was eager to reach his beloved dino-pals. As you turned the corner into the slightly darkened dinosaur room, you tripped over your feet slightly as you felt Mycroft stop in his tracks, his eyes wide and taking everything in. He looked as happy as a boy at Christmas and, quite frankly, it was adorable. You nudged him slightly when he still didn't move. "You okay?"

"Sorry, it just seems as though, no matter how many times I come here, it always feels like the first." He had shaken his head as though to bring his thoughts back to focus before taking a few steps into the gallery and leading you over to the skeletal remains of a Baryonyx. "The name Baryonyx roughly translates to 'Heavy Claw' from the Ancient Greek's 'Barys' meaning heavy and 'onyx' being claw or talon." He spoke, his voice smooth and relaxed as his fingers brushed over the board that announced the name of the creature within the glass. "It was also an excellent swimmer which it would use to its advantage while hunting." You listened to his every word as he spoke, grinning as he excitedly told you how many teeth it had and it's preferred techniques for capturing food before he moved you onto the next one.

"Oh these beauties have always been my favourite." You almost whispered, taking in the sight of the huge triceratops skull. You barely noticed Mycroft's hand shift from his pocket until you felt the heat of his palm against the small of your back, fingers squeezing slightly by your hip as he spoke.

"Mine too. Sherlock used to say they were boring and that we might as well have gone to the zoo to look at rhinos. He ended up spending 5 months trying to prove that the rhinos were descendants from the triceratops and then avoided me for 3 weeks when he realised there was no connection at all."

"That sounds about right. Though I can't imagine Sherlock enjoying it here very much anyway.." Mycroft began to guide you to a small bench just off the side to sit down, still giving you the view of the beautiful dinosaur bones.

"He didn't. When we were much younger he would kick off until Mummy and Father would tell us it's time to go and I had to go with them.. Then as we got a little older and Sherlock properly found his legs, he would simply run from the doors round to the science museum. Of course mummy and father had to follow him as he was so young, but one time I decided to stay here. They didn't realise I hadn't followed them until it was time to go home 5 hours later." Mycroft spoke quietly.

"Found his legs? That's at, what, four? Five? How young were you?"

"I was 9 the first time, I think." Now, Mycroft, you don't just 'think'; you know. Your hand moved to rest above his own on his knee, brushing your thumb fondly over his knuckles. "But it isn't all bad. Some of my best days as a child were spent here, and a lot of the staff were very kind and would teach me extra facts that weren't displayed. There was one gentleman who even gave me his own copies of some books that they had here. I'd wander the whole museum in time but I always found myself back here on this bench just.. watching. This room felt more like home than my very house sometimes. It was the room where I could escape the real world and find peace. Eventually Mummy, Father and Sherlock stopped bothering with the visits because Sherlock found the science museum boring after he'd prove them wrong on something each time, but I'd still pop back in on occasion without them.. Coming to think about it, I've never actually brought anybody here with me at all." You squeezed at his fingers and settled back into the bench.

"Well I am incredibly glad that I found out about your little interest, and I feel even more honoured that you let me come here with you." You beamed. And it was the truth. Evidently, this little museum meant much more to Mycroft than you could have ever imagined and it warmed your heart to know that he trusted you to see him nerd out over some bones.

"Eventually I used this very building as the scaffolding to build my mind palace. My files on Sherlock, very appropriately, are nestled in the human biology room. But most people's information is either stored in the entrance, where Dippy remains over Hope, might I add, or in a few of the rooms I find less interesting.." You didn't have to ask to know he was referencing 'that room with all the bloody rocks'. "I love most of the galleries too much to taint them with information on people that aren't important. The likes of Gregory and Doctor Watson now reside in Hintze Hall as the years have passed." His eyes remained focused in front of him, unblinking, as though he was wandering the very halls at that moment.

"And where.. where are my files?" You had to ask, really. Since he was on the subject anyway. "If you've put them in the marine reptiles room when you know I'm terrified of the ocean I shall never forgive you." Mycroft's hand flipped beneath yours so the pads of your fingers brushed before he blinked and looked over to you, a small smile on his face.

"Here." Oh. Well that's.. something. You shifted to give him a quick kiss on his cheek, knowing he wasn't overly fond of PDA and tugged him to stand.

"And on that note, I think we should go and grab some lunch before you make me cry in front of the dinosaurs."

---

After lunch, you both spent a few more hours walking from room to room (and of course circling round to the dinosaur gallery again) before you decided to call it a day at 4pm. Before departing, you headed towards the toilets that happened to be beside the little gift shop and you had a browse while Mycroft was occupied. Grinning, you picked up a deep blue plush triceratops and stroked a finger across its back. It was just small enough that, after purchasing, you could hide the little guy in the loose fabric of the sweatshirt you wore, acting innocent as you waited back outside near the wall. After going to the bathroom yourself, the pair of you headed outside where a car was waiting for you. Sliding in the back seat, you couldn't contain your little gift anymore.

"Surprise!" You laughed, producing the small toy from under your clothes and into the hands of the man beside you. He studied it briefly before beginning to laugh himself as he reached into his inner pocket and handed you the matching dinosaur, though purple in colour. "God, we're such children aren't we?" You noted as you swapped plushie companions, each of you brushing a finger on its nose as though it were a small pet. "I daren't think what your colleagues would say if they knew you were now the proud owner of a baby triceratops teddy that's.." You glanced at the tag. "..Suitable for children aged 12 months plus!"

"Probably nothing as bad as if they realised said triceratops was going to take proud placement on my desk at home." He beamed. "Thank you, this really does mean a great deal to me." You knew he wasn't just talking about the toy that rolled around his long fingers and you shifted to rest your head lightly on his shoulder.

"We can come back any time. I, for one, know I'll never get bored of looking through the galleries.. Or I'll never get bored of watching you light up as we walk through said galleries. Either or works, really." He hummed in response, his emotions slightly overwhelmed from the day and its revelations into his past. "Plus there were about 10 other little dinos in the shop and I've always been one to want a full collection.. so, if we pace ourselves, that's at least 10 more trips."

"13.. Although that could be tripled if we take the colour variations into account."

"Oh, of course! Can't half-arse a collection or it's just pointless."

"I concur."

"That's settled then. Almost 40 more trips to finish off our collection.. And thennnn we can move onto the figurines." Mycroft let out a laugh beside you and tilted to rest his head atop yours for the remainder of the journey home.

---

The evening between you was shared over a meal (where, as promised, a small toast was made to the memory of Sir Dippy) before Mycroft sat to finish the papers for Greg. Eventually you collapsed into bed at a relatively reasonable time, groaning at the throbbing in your legs from the day's adventure before finally slipping into rest.

---

The next day passed relatively quickly. The morning was spent visiting Greg in his office to drop off the papers before the pair of you took a small stroll through the streets of London. Eventually, Mycroft and yourself even got a text message from Sherlock giving a (albeit half-arsed) apology for his behaviour the day before and the rest of the day was spent in bliss. That was until exactly 17 minutes after you got back home when Mycroft's mobile began to ring. He swallowed deeply, showing you the caller ID of the person he had been dreading to speak to post-Eurus and answering.

"Ah, yes.. Hello, Mummy."

[alpaca-writes]

Mystics, Chapter 6

When Arch becomes hired on at Mystics, by Lyrem, everything seems to be going well- their life nearly becomes perfection. Soon enough, however, Arch realizes that perhaps not everything is as good as it seems…. 

 Directory: [chapter one] [chapter two] [chapter three] [chapter four] [chapter five]

 Tag list: @myst-in-the-mirror 

 CW: aggressive religiosity, deadname use, police questioning, hospital setting,

CHAPTER SIX: THUNDER AND PRAYER

       Arch awoke upside down in the passenger’s seat of the blue truck. The midnight storm was still sweeping through the ranches and into the city and they were alone there. The man who had thrown them against a brick wall and threatened them into their vehicle had disappeared. 

       The seatbelt dug into the side of their neck and injured shoulder. The moment it was released, Arch would fall headfirst into the top of the cab. They tried the clip as best they could with their left arm. It tingled, threatening to combust in a fury of pain if it weren’t for the rush of adrenaline fighting the broken glass and seatbelt. It was stuck. The clip wouldn’t release. They could be here for hours, for ages... all alone.

        Flashing lights came from above them- or was it ahead of them? And the shouts of a man and a woman could be heard overhead. Some kids were also talking and yelling.  

        “Call 911, Janey!” The man shouted. The passenger-side door was forced open with a crow-bar.

        Arch cried with relief as he pulled them out, supporting their head as they dropped down. The wife was speaking to someone over the phone as she helped Arch lay down flat on their back in the over-grown wet grass. A blanket was placed rolled up under their head. The comforting cloth mixed with a strong sense of relief. If they had the energy, Arch might have started crying, but doing something even that simple was just too exhausting. Raindrops splattered against their face until the recognizable sound of an opening umbrella prevented any more from dropping down. The family spoke amongst themselves but the words were jumbled now and nearly incoherent for Arch to pay attention too. A little boy was holding the umbrella. He couldn’t have been more than eight. Arch managed the tiniest smile for him as they floated in and out of consciousness.

       “You’ll be okay,” he said. “My mom’s a nurse. She’ll fix you up.”

       His raincoat was dotted with little red and blue dinosaurs. Arch counted them. There were six red tyrannosauruses, eight blue triceratops’ and then-

       There was a beep... And another... And another. Their throat was dry as a brick. Arch opened their eyes first. Glowing light of day from a veiled window to their right drowned everything around them in white. They blinked, becoming accustomed to the brightness.

        In the corner of the small room was a chair reserved for visitors. Alarm bells sounded in their mind as Arch narrowed their gaze and spied on the person sitting there, still yet unaware that they had awoken.

         He was reading a book; a used and reused copy of Meditations. Lyrem licked his thumb, and turned the page. The alarm bells calmed. Arch chalked it up to being beaten to a pulp and then waking up in a strange new place; a hospital bed.

        “Save some for me, will you?” Arch spoke dryly, literally, as well as figuratively. They managed a crooked smile as Lyrem looked up from his book of yellowed pages and kindly smiled back.

        In a fit of dry coughs, Arch tried and failed to lean up. They found the tubes leading to an IV out their arm and a blood-oxygen measure clipped onto one of their index fingers. Lyrem put his book down on a small side table and stood. He pressed a button on the side of the bed, and Arch was lifted to a more comfortable sitting position. He brought them a clear cup of water with a straw. Arch tried lifting their arm to accept it, but Lyrem shook his head at them and pushed it back down gently. He brought the straw up to their lips. Arch nearly drained the cup before finally nodding it away.

        Lyrem leaned against the windowsill and watched them carefully. Their whole body had been battered. Whether it was entirely from the crash or something else, he couldn’t be sure.

        Arch looked back at them curiously, and puzzled. Then they looked around the rest of the small room. The door to the hall was open and filtered through white noise from doctors and nurses all around.

        “What are you doing here?” They asked, “where’s my mom?”

        “She… was here. She called the store. She left to run a couple errands and said that she would return soon.” Lyrem grimaced as he answered. “I’m not sure what could have been more important than being by your side, but alas, I remain. I closed the store for the day.”

        “What? Why?” Arch coughed lightly. “You make the most dough on Saturdays. You should keep it open.”

        “I’d much rather not.”

        Lyrem left his response hanging there. Without more to say on the matter Arch shifted in their bed uncomfortably. Relieved, they were, they were also troubled. Angry, even, but for what reason, Arch couldn’t say.  

        “There were officers waiting by the door for you to wake. Should I let them in for you? Tell them it’s an alright time?”

        “Officers?”

        “Well, nobody knows what happened to you or how you ended up on a rural highway flipped over in a truck”- Lyrem stopped himself. Becoming too passionate, he sensed.

        “Huh. Right.” Arch nodded. Thinking back to the night before was causing a pain in the back of their eyes- like they were being pulled into the back of their head.

        “What if you told me what happened first, then I’ll let the officers in and you can repeat it back to them. It might be easier for you,” Lyrem helpfully suggested.

        “No, no, I can speak to them now.” Arch insisted. “I’d rather speak to them now.”

        Lyrem nodded, and then stepped to the door, finding the two officers chatting down the hall. One blue uniformed woman with a tight, blonde pony-tail glanced in his direction over a steaming Styrofoam cup. He motioned for them to come in with a wave of his hand. The other, a tall, younger man with a thin chin pulled out a small notebook as he entered. Their name tags read Parsons and Grenn, respectively.

        Detective Parsons began by explaining that the police were unable to find the driver of the blue Ford. The truck was both unregistered, and uninsured, so there was no trail to follow to know who it had belonged to. The last known owner died in 2003 and afterwards there was no trace of it anywhere in the system. The plates on the vehicle had been stolen, and if the driver was careful enough, its stolen plates would have gone unnoticed for as long as the registration would last on it.

        “At the moment, we have no leads on finding this individual”-

        “My attacker, you mean. They attacked me.” Arch spit out. “Labels are important, you know.”

        “I know it can’t be a comforting thought. And I am sorry, but you must understand that we are doing everything we can to find the person who attacked you.” Parsons implored. Never once had her professional demeanor faltered under the scrutiny of the rightfully furious teenager.

        “He was a man.” Arch started. “He was quite a bit taller than me too. Probably six feet at least… White. It was dark but I could tell he- he had dark hair. Kind of shaggy-like”-

         Grenn had written it all down, and Lyrem stared at Arch in interest as they described the man. Parsons stopped Arch from continuing to describe him as she placed her cup down on the side table beside Lyrem.

        “We’ll send this to the sketch artist. They will be flying in over the next couple days. With the disappearances of your classmates as well, we are pulling out everything in our arsenal to get a detailed picture of who attacked you. We will be calling you in a couple days and you’ll be coming into the police station to speak with them.” Parsons explained emphatically. “For now, we need a timeline- where did they find you? What time was it when they attacked?”

        “Oh…” Arch felt rather silly for some reason. “I… I was pulled into the alley by the flower-shop...”

        “Which flower shop?”

        “Bloom Treasury, downtown. Half a block from Mystics.”

        Lyrem looked concerned, or possibly angry… with the thickness of his brows and the wrinkle in his forehead, Arch couldn’t be quite sure what he was thinking.

        “Mystics?”

        “It’s just a store, where I work.”

        “Were you working last night?”

        Their heartrate started to increase. Arch carefully measured their breaths by seconds.

        “No... No, I wasn’t, I was just walking.”

        “What time were you walking?”

        “I..” Arch had the strangest sensation of being back in the passenger’s seat of the blue Ford. The voice of the man rang in their head in an echo of a memory. Missing time? He had said. “I.. I think I’m confused.” Arch finished.

        “It’s understandable. I know its very hard to think back to the incident, but for the sake of finding this man and bringing him to justice, we have to know what time it was when it happened.”

        “It was after sundown.”

        “Can you be more specific?”

        It wasn’t long after dinner that Arch had left, and sundown wouldn’t have been until after ten. It only took a half hour to reach the downtown core from their house so where was the missing time? There was an hour, maybe even longer that was completely unaccounted for.

        “I think it was just after ten,” they said finally.

        Grenn made his notes again.

        “What kinds of things did he say to you?” Parsons inquired. “Anything you can remember will be helpful.”

        Lyrem gazed across the room steadily at Arch who met his eyes. It was hypnotically comforting to know he was still there, watching over them and keeping them safe.

        “He was… kind of strange.” Arch said, almost in a mutter. “Though, he mentioned the other kids. He knew that the others were taken: Jess, Kyle, and … Marcus.”

        “Did he tell you they were still alive?”

        Arch shook their head slightly and winced.

“He said he killed one of them already. He couldn’t be sure when the other two would die- if they already were… y’know, dead.”

        Parsons paused and turned to Lyrem who was laid back in the armchair deep in thought. She had noticed an odd connection. Arch had been darting their eyes to the corner each time they responded. Seeking approval, she surmised quietly.

        “How did you escape?” Parsons asked turning back to them again.

        Arch thought for a moment.

        “I stabbed him… in the leg... with his own knife. That’s when he lost control of the truck.”

        Grenn looked up from his notes briefly, with brown eyebrows raised.

        “What kind of knife?”

        Parsons looked at officer Grenn; surprised by the question.

        Arch switched their gaze to them. “A hunting knife… the big kind with a dip at the end.”

        “How does a guy walk away from a car crash with a Bowie knife in his leg?” Grenn asked allowed.

        The question caused Arch a visible discomfort. They turned away from everyone and remained quiet.

        “I believe that is everything for now.” Parsons gathered herself and straightened her uniform, “Thank you for your time, -----. We may have more questions for you when you come into the station for the sketch artist. You’ll soon be contacted with a date and time.”

        Parsons handed over her card to the bedridden teen who was unable to lift an arm, much less retrieve it from the detective’s hand. Parsons placed in on the table beside Arch instead and then followed Grenn out the door, leaving her Styrofoam cup behind.

        Arch took a long breath of relief as they left. For the first time, they stared down at themselves. Fresh cuts littered up and down their left arm, while their right was also cut up, but supported by a sling. Beneath the blankets, Arch could feel the light stinging of several more wounds against their legs. Their neck ached with every miniscule turn of their head and their back…

        They wiggled their toes, thankful for the movement, but regretted it all as they tried mightily to bend one of their knees. The middle of their back screamed of pulled muscles and bruises that were carved into them. Arch seethed as they let their leg down gently.

        “Don’t try to move.” Lyrem advised, picking up his copy of Meditations once again. “You can press the button next to you if you want more pain medication.”

        “I don’t want more medication; I want to go home.”

        “And you’ll get to your house of horrors again soon, but for now, just close your eyes, and get some sleep.”

        “I can’t sleep. He knew my name, Lyrem. How am I supposed to rest if he’s still out there?”

        Lyrem looked up from his book, becoming impatient, but in his eyes, it was clear that he tried to be supportive. He steeled his gaze on Arch and opened his mouth to speak. He was interrupted by Arch’s mother, who peered in with a bouquet of pink lilies in one hand.

        “Is she awake? Oh, thank the Lord.” She crossed herself as she entered and put herself directly next to the bedside. Letting the flowers down, she planted a hard kiss on Arch’s forehead that was too close to the rest of the injuries already planted there.

        Lyrem rolled his eyes to the ceiling and stood up.

        “Well, now that your mother is here, I suppose I should get going; leave you both in peace”-

        “Oh no, you should stay,” Arch’s mother turned on her heels to Lyrem and ushered someone else through the door: a short balding man, recognizable to Arch as a family friend with a plain white collar around his neck. “I invited Father Ferley to lead us in prayer. Won’t you stay, Lyrem? The more hands we have lifting to the Lord, the better.”

        So that was the errand, Arch realized.

Lyrem stared at the woman and managed a facetious grin. There was a bit of levity to the situation after all. Arch nearly burst out in laughter as he stood there, unsure of himself or what to say to the invitation.

The presence of the priest in the room was clearly putting him off. It wasn’t that Lyrem was nervous or humbled by the man, as much as it was like he had just drank a glass of spoiled milk and was desperate to get the lingering vile taste off his tongue.

        “I’d prefer not to,” he stated simply.

        “Ah, you read Aurelius?”

        The priest lifted his thinly rimmed glasses, pushing them higher up the bridge of his nose. He inquired Lyrem innocently and continued.

        “Quite possibly one of the wisest Emperors of Rome. ‘Live a good life,’ he said. ‘for if the gods are just, then they will not care for your devotion, but will welcome you based on the virtues you have lived by,” the priest smiled to him warmly.

        Lyrem regarded him with suspicion, but played along.

        “You quote his Meditations like Corinthians,” Lyrem observed. The annoyance slowly drained from his face and he stood taller, squaring himself. “Tell me then, the next line of that heavenly wisdom. Do you recall what it is?”

        Lyrem waited for a beat and met Father Ferley’s gaze with a coldness he usually reserved for the most wretched of people. He finished the verse himself.

        “If the gods are unjust, then you should not want to worship them.”

        “What the hell are you weirdos talking about?” Arch spouted rudely. “Can we please just pray and get it over with, if that’s what we want to do?”

        “Yes, lets.” Arch’s mother pulled the two men by their elbows into a half circle around the bed. Lyrem stood at the foot of it, unhappily supporting himself on the bars of plastic and metal.

        Father Ferley led the small group in prayer. The details of the prayer itself were unimportant, except for the fact that Arch heard their name being correctly used. That was a nice change. The other detail that was noticed by Arch before the ‘amens’ commenced, was Lyrem, white-knuckling the edge of the bed as he suffered through the words spoken.    

        The man didn’t offer an ‘amen’. He turned around as it ended, and picked up the Styrofoam cup that was mistakenly left behind by Detective Parsons. He bid the three farewell, and finally escaped them.

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

        “I see it too,” Father Ferley fiddled with the edge of his glasses, as Arch’s mother breathed a sigh of relief. “It’s not uncommon for many older gentlemen to be wary of the promises of God. But I sense that there is a negative energy towards the Lord, and that Arch may be picking up on that.”

        “Her name isn’t Arch- It’s”-

        “Their name is Arch, Charlotte,” Father Ferley continued. “Your child has spent many years honouring you. Perhaps it is time that you also honour them. It may be this very thing that is driving Arch away from you and towards figures of authority that respect them. People like Lyrem. It is what drives them out of their home and onto the streets where they encounter devils like the one from last night.”

        Charlotte buried her face into her hands although there was little energy to stop the tears from flowing. The hospital halls were still bustling with activity though they had left Arch in their room to continue resting for the night. She sniffed, and finally lifted her head. Then she nodded. Clutching the small gold crucifix around her neck, she lifted it to her lips and breathed a deep sigh- thankful that her child was safe from harm.

“What happened was not your fault, but if you want to repair this relationship with your child, you must accept them for who they are. If I were you, I would try to get to know this ‘Arch’. You might even like them better than who they were before.” Father Ferley smiled lightly.

With her spirits lifted, Charlotte followed Father Ferley out of the hospital. She was already planning her words carefully to her child for the next time they’d meet.

[supposed2bfunny]

2doc Week Day 6-Milestones

This milestone is a modest one: the first time 2D stayed the night with Murdoc <3

Afterwards, when we have slept, paradise- comaed and woken, we lie a long time looking at each other.

I do not know what he sees, but I see eyes of surpassing tenderness and calm, a calm like the dignity of matter. -“The Knowing” by Sharon Olds

It’s quiet.

There isn’t a soul moving in Kong, and although white light streams into the windows of the Winnebago, 2D feels certain that he could fall back asleep if he only threw a hand over his eyes.

He’s too scared to move though.

He has never seen the room illuminated by early-morning sun before. The way it glimmers as it streams through the empty beer bottles on the small kitchen table is novel, the long shadows it causes to stretch out from the legs of the single stool beside the old boombox are alien. It’s sort of like going to your first school dance, the strange feeling of passing your classroom and seeing it in the darkness that Autumn ushers in so early, devoid of its usual fluorescent glow and apathetic teacher. It’s like being in a movie theatre when you stay till all the credits have rolled and the lights flicker back on and the chairs and the soundproof walls all look so outlandish in comparison to the film you just enjoyed.

He is in a new place, tangled in Murdoc’s bedsheets before noon, clad in only his boxers and with the older man breathing noisily beside him.

No, sleeping with Murdoc isn’t new. By now he feels familiar letting himself in with a sixpack or one of his novelty bongs or the mixtape an old buddy had made for him that he’s rediscovered while sorting through the boxes of shit that he’s moved from Crawley to Essex. He knows well the pattern, the drinks, smokes, songs, and the way they ultimately lead to kissing and kissing and kissing and finally to Murdoc’s unmade bed, the ratty sheets, the disposal of clothes onto the floor. It is a rare thing to be allowed into his Winnebago. Somehow, 2D has accelerated past that rarity and into a new realm entirely.

Still, this is unknown territory even for him. He wants to bolt.

He absolutely should bolt.

But getting up out of bed will jostle Murdoc. Plus, he’s never been known to move gracefully. Rising to leave will likely lead to him tripping over a table leg, a stray bottle of vodka, or his own feet. The inevitable yelp, crash, cacophony of debris being scattered in the wake of his flailing arms. Another routine he is accustomed to.

The only option, it would seem, is to continue lying here, counting his breaths to keep the rise and fall of his chest even, and watching Murdoc’s sleeping, morning sun-lit face with all the reverence he dares allow himself to feel.

Denying his feelings would be futile. He knows he loves Murdoc, and he’s known it for a long, long time. Despite the constant jokes from the rest of the band and from the press, 2D is not really as stupid as he’s made out to be. He understands well the uselessness of falling for someone so irreversibly damaged and borderline sociopathic in his treatment of other people as Murdoc Niccals.

So what, then, is he just supposed to look at those dark eyelashes, this bent, broken nose, the dark circles under Murdoc’s eyes and the splash of black ink just visible where his shoulder disappears under the blanket, and feel nothing? 2D has been raised to be a gentle boy: he doesn’t know if he’s capable of pursuing a carnal relationship without letting something soft and gooey and tender ooze in.

It’s one of the great mysteries of life how anyone can get to know Murdoc Niccals and not fall in love with him, 2D thinks.

That’s why he continues to watch the older man, to listen to the loud whistle of air traveling through his nose as he breathes. It’s why he drinks in the sight of the room, and then moves on to meditating on the places where their bodies touch: their bare knees are pressed together, 2D’s left against Murdoc’s right. The older man’s arm is pressed between them, the hair of his forearm just a bit ticklish against 2D’s side just beneath his ribs.

He loves it, the warmth where their skin connects, the peaceful silence between them—he’s never known Murdoc to be quiet, but sometimes when they’re lying together before they fall asleep, Murdoc just rests, not feeling any need to attack the quiet that expands between them: there’s a sort of companionship that exists around them that doesn’t need to be interpreted or interrupted.

And even if Murdoc is in one of his chattier moods, 2D will always listen. He loves Murdoc’s snoring, loves his silences, loves his expansive repertoire of speaking about absolutely nothing for hours on end,

loves him.

Obviously and intensely.

He mouths the word to the ceiling, confident that the Winnebago can keep a secret. Love. It’s just nice, he figures, to see the way it fits in his mouth, the way it might roll out if he ever works up the nerve to throw it into a song, which is the most indirect way he’ll ever be able to put the truth out there without flat-out telling the older man.

Just once, once is enough to get the gist, and then he decides to indulge and watch Murdoc sleep a little longer

2D inclines his head just slightly—and finds Murdoc’s dark eyes open, watching him.

His pupils are small in the bright sun, and the brown of his right iris pools with the light, illuminated in a way 2D has never seen it before. His left eye glistens less like blood or ruby, more like mulled wine. There is a long moment where 2D can only stare at the display before him in wonder. Then it all clicks.

“Um,” he says, his first word of the day. “Sorry. I’ll leave.”

If he doesn’t get out of the bed in a matter of seconds, he anticipates that he’ll be kicked out physically.

“I can see your pupils in this light,” Murdoc grumbles, voice dreamthick and dry.

“What?”

“In this bright light,” he repeats, shrugging his shoulder to accentuate what he’s saying. 2D, who has been blinking in the harsh light for a while already, knows exactly what he’s referring to. “I can see your red eyes and your black pupils. The blood, I guess. Looks cool.”

“Thanks,” he says, swinging one leg over the edge of the bed. “Anyway, I’ll see you later—”

“What’s the rush?” Murdoc asks around a yawn, stretching his legs and letting out a dinosaur-like screech of pleasure as his joints crack. “You have a press conference you failed to tell me about, Dents?”

“Um, no…”

“Right, so what’s the rush? It’s the ass-crack of dawn and I’m comfortable. I don’t exactly appreciate being jostled this soon after rising. Aren’t you? Comfortable?”

2D’s brain works through everything that’s just been said to him, including how impressive it is that Murdoc is capable of constructing full sentences this soon after waking up. There are some factual errors in Murdoc’s reasoning, sure. He’s certain dawn was hours ago, and it’ll be noon before long. However, he’s also fairly certain that Murdoc is implying that because he’s comfortable and wants to remain in bed, 2D is encouraged to do the same. In the years he’s known Murdoc, he has never, not once, mentioned ‘mornings after’ with lovers.  Because lovers do not stay in Murdoc’s bed till sunrise.

“I…I can stay, Muds?”

“Why not?” he asks, shifting so that one of his arms cushions his head, his free arm draping comfortably around 2D’s waist. “The art of lazing and lounging is a vital one, you know.”

2D nods, shifts a little closer to Murdoc. They’re not cuddling, not exactly. But they are laying together in a very companionable manner. Post-coital, except that they haven’t done anything since last night, and this makes 2D feel simultaneously thankful for this peaceful, affectionate restfulness and also very, very anxious.

He’s hyperaware of his heartbeat, wonders if Murdoc can feel it in the places where they touch, or where his arm now holds him. He also wonders whether or not it’s very obvious how much he feels he must be blushing right now. These things are hard to conceal with a complexion as fair as his own.

“This uh, it is kind of nice,” he admits at length, when he rediscovers the synapses that fire between his brain and his tongue.

“Hm,” Murdoc grumbles, the effect sort of like the purr of a contented old cat in a patch of sun. “We should go back to sleep,” he adds.

Only he doesn’t close his eyes, he keeps watching 2D. And 2D is staring right back, acquainting himself with each blood vessel in Murdoc’s eyes, with the stubble on his chin and the thick tufts of hair that curl just slightly at the ends of his mop top.

Ultimately, they wind up staring, almost hypnotized by one another’s eye contact, for a very long stretch.

2D knows only the blink of Murdoc’s eyes, the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat: both movements consistent and unconscious.

At some point, they move closer. It’s too early in the morning for either of them to parse through who moves first, all they know is that they drift into one another, and then there’s kissing.

They kiss languidly, as though they are moving underwater, and it is the most unhurried 2D has ever felt in a moment of intimacy. It’s as pleasurable and laconic as a morning stretch, and he savors the quickening of his own pulse, the slickness of Murdoc’s lips gliding against his own.

Okay, he’ll stay here all day if he can.

He’ll stay the night anytime he comes to Murdoc’s Winnie from now on. If he can help it, he thinks, as Murdoc shifts, bare legs rubbing against his, one hand cupping his face very gently, he’ll stay by his side for the rest of his life.