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hartigays · 5 years ago

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Could you also maybe do a sick fic where Steve gets sick? I love a good angsty sick fic but I feel like it's always Billy getting sick. Thank you so much! Love you and your superbly gorgeous writing!!! 💛💛💛

steve feels like shit.

it’s the first thing he recognizes upon waking up. his head feels like there’s a construction crew drilling away at it, and his throat is on fire. like it’s been rubbed raw with some steel wool. he can’t breathe through his nose, the pressure of his congestion making his face throb.

groaning, steve burrows deeper into his covers, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to ignore the persistent ringing in his ears.

his parents are out of the country for the next two weeks. in germany, maybe? steve can’t really remember what they told him. he can’t remember much of anything right now. other than that he’s basically on his fucking own with this shit.

except - oh, god. his history midterm. that’s fucking - fuck. that’s today. steve presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, hard enough that he sees stars. rolls out of bed, lands on the floor with a soft thump.

today is clearly just not going to be his day.

steve can’t muster the energy to get up. instead, he drags himself across the floor. little by little. reaches the bathroom, throws an assortment of bottles from under the cabinet at the light switch until the room floods with light.

it’s too bright. his head gives a hearty throb. steve grips the edge of the bathroom counter and heaves himself off the ground. or tries to, anyway. it takes him a few tries before he’s upright, both of his feet under him.

getting ready is hard. he can realistically only brush his teeth and scrub on some deodorant. his hair is just going to have to look like a rat’s nest today. he doesn’t even bother looking in the mirror before stumbling out of the house.

steve doesn’t remember getting to school. he knows he drove, given that he’s sitting in the parking lot. the beemer is practically diagonal in the parking space.

he’s still in his sweats and a t-shirt, the look complete with three layers of sweaters and the biggest coat he could find. somehow, steve is both boiling and freezing. he’s definitely running a fever.

mr. osborne doesn’t comment on steve’s appearance when he stumbles into the classroom. he does, however, set steve’s exam on the corner of his desk instead of handing it to him directly. steve clumsily grabs it off the desk, trudging slowly to his seat.

the font on the paper is too small. or maybe steve’s eyes are just super out of focus. either way, it makes his brain pulse. his head feels like it’s full of wet cement, and steve is pretty sure his skin is on fire.

the room feels like it’s spinning. maybe he’s dying? steve thinks he’d be okay with that. no, he’d definitely be okay with that. if it saves him from being conscious right now, he’ll take it.

it doesn’t take steve long to just start circling random answers. he’s finding it harder and harder to stay upright and he just needs to be done. no one says a word when he drops his exam on the teacher’s desk and practically flings himself out the door.

he’s cold now. too cold. steve is forgetting rather quickly what warmth feels like. he needs to get to his car but he’s starting to forget where that is, too. he just keeps walking. ends up in the boy’s locker room.

steve slumps against a row of lockers. slides down to the ground with a groan and puts his head between his knees. if he dies here, so be it. he only wishes he’d made it the few extra feet to the showers, so he could die happily under the warm spray of water.

he must fall asleep, or black out, or something. because the next thing steve knows, he’s coming to with the sound of his name ringing in his ears.

“harrington. harrington. jesus christ.”

steve makes a noise of protest at the feeling of someone’s hands on his face. it makes the pressure in his head double. there’s a warm hand covering his forehead, and another tucked under his chin, holding his head up.

“fuck off, dad.”

distantly, he hears someone snort.

“‘m not your fuckin’ dad, harrington,” the person says.

the voice is familiar? kind of. steve’s ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton - everything sounds distorted and distant. steve finally blinks at the person hovering in his line of sight. and - jesus. of course. of course it had to be him.

“billy? what’re you doing in my bathroom?”

the look billy gives him is both amused and exasperated. it’s an unfamiliar look for him.

“i hate to be the bearer of bad news, but…” billy starts, then pauses, brushing the sweat-matted hair from steve’s forehead. “last time i checked, this wasn’t your bathroom.”

steve blinks, glancing around. they’re surrounded by lockers and the stench of dirty gym socks. right. he’s still at school, dying a slow death on the grimy locker room floors.

“leave me here to die,” steve whines, his head falling back against the cool metal behind him. “my time has come.”

an honest-to-god laugh escapes billy’s lips. steve has to be dead. because he’s pretty sure billy hargrove is physically incapable of laughter.

“c’mon, pretty boy. can’t stay here forever,” billy coaxes once he sobers. “up and at ‘em.”

steve doesn’t move. billy doesn’t seem to care. he wedges both hands under steve’s armpits before hauling him off the ground, almost effortlessly.

and okay, steve knows billy is strong. he’s seen billy without a shirt on more times than he’s seen him dressed - he knows the guy is built like a truck. but steve hadn’t been expecting billy to be able to scoop him up with ease, like he’s nothing more than a rag doll.

it makes steve feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with his fever. it’s good that he’s sick - he likes having something to blame that feeling on. something other than the truth.

billy has one arm wrapped around steve’s waist. he slings one of steve’s arms around his neck, grabbing his hand to keep it in place. billy guides them out of the locker room with more patience than steve would’ve ever thought possible.

“where’s your car?” billy asks once they hit the parking lot, still supporting the majority of steve’s weight.

steve doesn’t think before burying his face into billy’s shoulder, shielding his eyes from the offending sunlight.

“what’s a car?”

“mother of god, harrington. fuckin’ useless,” billy groans. his voice is almost inaudible when he says, “you’re lucky you’re pretty.”

steve still hears it.

the camaro smells like cigarettes and billy’s cologne. steve lets billy tuck him into the passenger’s seat. doesn’t protest when billy leans in close to buckle him in.

the drive is a black spot in steve’s memory once again. one minute, billy is backing out of his parking space, and the next, they’re sitting in steve’s driveway.

billy pulls his keys from the ignition, then disappears out into the sunlight. a moment later, he’s guiding steve out of the car and into the house. steve is covered in a layer of sweat, so he must’ve been hot on the drive over. but he’s back to freezing again, his teeth chattering.

“you need to knock that fever down,” billy orders, kicking the door shut with his heel. “think you can handle that? i gotta get back for practice.”

steve nods slowly. billy releases him from his grip, and steve immediately folds in on himself, collapsing on the ground with a disgruntled moan.

“guess that answers that question,” billy mutters, squatting down next to steve. “you got anyone you can call, pretty boy? someone who can come stay with you?”

mentally thumbing through every person he knows, steve makes a face. shakes his head. because no, he doesn’t.

his parents probably wouldn’t fly home even if steve keeled over and died. his only friends at this point are middle schoolers. nancy is most certainly not an option. he could try jonathan, but he’s obviously still back at school and more than likely has work right after. god knows he can’t miss a fucking shift.

“‘m good. all good. super duper,” steve rambles, just on this side of delirious. “go to bed, jimmy.”

billy sighs, staring up at the ceiling with a look that screams this guy really is fucking hopeless.

“alright, alright. let’s get you in bed,” billy says, shaking his head in defeat.

he hauls steve up off the ground. somehow manages to drag steve’s nearly lifeless body up the stairs and into his room. billy tries to let steve down onto the bed gently, but steve slips from his grip and face-plants onto his mattress.

“mmm,” steve sighs appreciatively, swinging his legs onto the bed and curling up into a ball. “‘s like a cloud. soft cloud. fluffy…”

billy just gives him a look, one brow raised. “yeah? well, do me a favor and don’t leave the cloud, alright? i’ll be back soon.”

steve doesn’t remember where billy said he’s going. he doesn’t have the chance to ask, because billy disappears from his bedroom a moment later. he probably wouldn’t have had the strength to form a sentence anyway.

he lets his eyelids flutter shut. drifts for a while, in and out of consciousness. his body feels hot and cold all the while, and fever dreams do nothing to settle the tension building at the base of his neck.

the dreams are the same ones he always has, but also - not. they’re darker, more intense. more vivid. steve is pretty sure he can actually feel the bite of the demo-dog’s teeth shredding his calf. the impact of his nail bat colliding with the side of his head. the terrifying chill that settles in his bones when the mind flayer looms over him.

the life draining from the bodies of his friends.

steve comes to with a scream dying on his tongue. he sits up wildly, drenched in sweat. swings himself over the side of his bed and grabs his bat in one smooth motion. doesn’t think before swinging.

“jesus - fuck! the fuck, harrington? what the fuck - what are you doing? why do you even fuckin’ have that?”

the bat clatters to the floor, falling from steve’s hands. he looks at billy in horror, an apology stuck in his throat. “fuck, i’m - god, i’m so sorry. shit.”

“shit is right,” billy mutters. but he doesn’t leave.

he stays perched on the side of steve’s bed. leans in and rests his palm over steve’s forehead. swears under his breath when he does.

“if you’re done trying to kill me,” billy starts, still eyeing the discarded bat warily, “you need to take these. you gotta get that fever down.”

“sorry, i just. dreams. bad dreams,” steve says. a shudder runs through him, one that has nothing to do with his fever. his dreams still have his spine in their icy grip.

“that why you keep that under your bed? for some stupid fuckin’ dreams?”

steve makes a face, his cheeks burning. “they’re not - forget it. point is, i’m sorry.”

billy gives him a calculating look, his expression unreadable. then, he stretches out a hand. steve takes the concoction of pills gratefully, choking them down dry. billy rolls his eyes, grabbing the tea that steve had yet to spot from the side table and handing it to him.

“‘s good,” steve acknowledges, sipping the drink almost greedily. it warms his icicle fingers better than any blanket.

“mom’s recipe,” billy tells him, seemingly without thinking. he steels his expression immediately after, clearing his throat. “drink it all, it’ll help.”

“thanks.” steve continues to sip at his tea. “you don’t have to stay, you know. ‘m feeling better. i can take it from here.”

billy snorts. shakes his head. “yeah, good one. last thing i need is to see your dumbass on the news for trying to jump into the quarry after having one of your fuckin’ dreams again.”

that has nothing to do with steve being sick. he looks up sharply, giving billy a strange look. billy is staying with him because of his dreams now? if that’s the case, well. billy should be prepared for an extended fucking stay. steve says as much.

“beats going home,” is all billy says in response.

he gets up wordlessly, exiting steve’s room. steve hears his footsteps stomp down the stairs. continues to sip at his tea, rolling billy’s words around in his head.

it’s weird, knowing billy cares. it’s weird having billy be gentle with him, period. sick or not. but it seems like something practiced, something that billy has done a thousand times before.

he makes a mental note to ask him about that later.

for now, steve polishes off his tea. flops back onto his pillows, and falls into another restless slumber. this time, he dreams of blue eyes and heated, secret touches in dark corners.

he has to change his boxers when he wakes up.

his fever is down, though. at least a few degrees. steve gets changed, tossing his soiled boxers in his laundry basket, his cheeks flushed bright red. makes his way downstairs, noting that the sun has completely set.

steve hears the tv before he sees billy. pads into the living room, feeling his stomach flip flop at the sight of billy lounging on his couch. he just so happens to be in steve’s favorite spot, curled up under steve’s favorite throw blanket.

“fever’s down,” steve says, alerting billy of his presence. “not sure if that’s because of the meds, or the tea. either way, thanks for both.”

billy glances up at him, his brows coming together in mild concern. “you should be in bed.”

“and you should be home, not laying on my couch worrying about my sorry ass,” steve tells him with a shrug. moves to sit next to billy on the couch, eyes fixed on the tv without really taking in what’s playing.

“well. clearly, someone’s gotta.”

steve flinches, but doesn’t deny the truth to billy’s words. because honestly, he’s right. if billy doesn’t, no one will. and steve has clearly demonstrated that being on his own is not an option at the moment.

he’s about to speak, but billy beats him to it. “i, uh. made you some soup. chicken noodle, or what the fuck ever. ‘s in the fridge. just gotta warm it up.”

steve nods appreciatively. his stomach turns at the thought of food, but it also grumbles desperately. of all the things he has to eat in this house, soup seems to be his safest bet. he thanks billy before heading into the kitchen.

he’s just setting the time on the microwave when billy bursts in, waving steve away with an exaggerated sigh.

“who fuckin’ raised you, harrington? stovetop. always stovetop for soup,” billy lectures, shooing him away from the microwave.

steve watches him pull out a decent-sized pot, pouring the soup from his bowl into it before beginning to heat it on the stove.

“who raised you that made you so damn good at this shit?” steve asks incredulously, rolling his eyes.

billy clears his throat and turns fully towards the stove. doesn’t speak for a long moment, until, “mom did. ‘fore she died.”

steve swallows around the lump that has suddenly formed in his throat. “oh. i’m - shit. i’m sorry.”

all he gets in response is a half-hearted shrug, with billy’s back still to him. the silence stretches on, though it’s more melancholic than uncomfortable. soon, billy is dumping the soup back into the bowl, placing it and a spoon in front of steve.

“long time ago, harrington,” billy finally says. places the same mixture of meds on the counter beside him. “keep taking these. should knock that fever down completely by morning.”

“how’d she die?” steve blurts, then gives billy a horrified look. “jesus christ, i’m sorry. that wasn’t - i didn’t mean to pry. forget i asked.”

billy looks like he’s torn between wanting to turn and walk away, and wanting to genuinely answer the question.

steve is a little more than surprised when billy chooses the latter.

“brain cancer. she got sick a lot, during treatment. took care of her after her surgeries and shit, too. fuck knows dad never did.”

“do you miss her?” steve asks, quietly. doesn’t bother poking more at that bit of information about his father. knows that there’s a limit to this conversation.

“‘course,” billy says, his voice hot. irritated. then, that heat drains out of him, and he just looks tired. “wouldn’t you?”

steve looks down at his now half-empty bowl. feels that lonely echo bounce around in his chest. “uh, i don’t - i don’t really know. can’t say i know her very well.”

billy has this look of dawning realization on his face, before the shutters close over his expression once again. he gestures to the bowl in front of steve. says, “finish up. i’ll clean up when you’re done.”

steve does as he’s asked. if he’s good at one thing, it’s doing what’s expected of him. he’s got that going for him, at least.

true to his word, billy cleans up when steve is finished. then, heads back into the living room wordlessly. steve doesn’t ask if he’s allowed to follow - he just does it anyway. like, fuck it. it’s his house.

they take the same spots as before, but it feels different. it’s been like, twenty minutes max, but with the information that has just been shared between them, the silence between them is more amicable than anything.

“thanks,” steve says suddenly, peeling his eyes from the tv. “y’know, for helping me out today.”

billy shrugs. “‘s no big. you needed it.”

“yeah, well. you don’t see anyone else around offering a hand, do you?”

“point taken,” billy snorts. “you’ve got some shitty friends, you know that?”

“they have their reasons,” is all steve says. defensive.

because they do. steve knows that better than anyone. they all can hardly take care of themselves, much less each other. it comes with the monster-fighting territory. he’s long since gotten used to that - to them leaning on each other when the world is in danger of ending, and being lost in their own lives when things are calm.

what’s truly unfamiliar is having someone around that actually seems to want to take care of him. to offer help and support. steve knew people like that existed, objectively. he just never fucking expected billy hargrove to be one of them.

“sure they do,” billy tells him, his voice carefully neutral. “‘but ‘til they get their shit together, all you get is me.”

“‘s not so bad,” steve says, voice quiet.

steve doesn’t know if his subconscious intended it, but their knees knock together when steve says it. billy looks at him sharply, suddenly watching him like a hawk.

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

another long stretch of silence follows. it seems to be a common occurrence between them. steve doesn’t mind as much as he would’ve thought.

soon, though, that tension begins to build again at the base of his neck. it happens every time he gets a fever, feeling like someone poured a gallon of wet concrete right where his spine meets his neck. steve rubs at it with a grimace, and billy notices.

“you should go lay down, get some more rest,” billy advises, eyeing him warily.

“i don’t want to be - um,” steve starts, then breaks off in the middle of his sentence. flushes cherry red. “i mean - i want to see the end. of the movie.”

billy gives him a long look, his brows raised in disbelief. steve thinks he’s going to push that, ask more questions, but he doesn’t. he just sits up, starting to move out of his spot.

“then lay down here, if you’re gonna be such a baby about it.”

steve glares at him without any real heat. “‘m not taking your spot.”

billy huffs out a disbelieving sigh, his eyes cast up at the ceiling. “fuckin’ hell, harrington. you’ve got like, ten couches. i think i’ll be alright.”

“but you were comfortable.”

they stare at each other for what feels like an eternity, but in reality was probably only about fifteen seconds.

then, billy lays back down, slowly but surely. keeps his eyes on steve the entire time. gestures to steve, then his chest. “fuckin’ come on, then.”

steve’s mouth pops open in surprise. “wait, you want me to - you’re just gonna - me? on you?”

billy cracks a small half-smile, steve is sure of it. it’s fleeting, but it’s there. “would you quit being such a fuckin’ whiny baby about everything and lay the fuck down?”

steve moves quickly, before billy can change his mind. shifts to lay down on billy, squirming and adjusting until he gets comfortable. he’s laying pretty much face-down on billy, his face pressed into his chest. he turns his head so that his cheek is resting there instead, so he can breathe, and also so he can see the tv. billy slings an arm around him casually, eyes turned back to the movie.

seemingly completely relaxed and nonchalant.

steve, on the other hand, feels tense and stiff as a board. too scared to move, for fear that billy will shove him away and tell him to get lost.

that is, until billy’s hand comes to rest at the small of steve’s back, his thumb making these little soothing circles into one of the dimples at the base of his spine. it’s through the shirt, but steve goes pliant anyway, bonelessly relaxed. drifts off again, this time with the grounding weight of billy beneath him.

steve doesn’t dream this time. in fact, he thinks it’s the most restful sleep he’s gotten in a while. he pries his eyes open when his brain starts to come back online, an hour or so later, emitting a soft groan of appreciation at the feeling of billy’s fingers running through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

“you okay? ‘m not hurting you, am i?” billy asks, looking down at him with mild concern.

“feels good,” steve sighs into billy’s chest, curling deeper into his warmth. “keep doin’ it.”

billy answers with a soft snort, his fingers continuing their journey through his hair.

“you’re pretty cute when you’re not tryna punch me in the face,” steve mumbles, without thinking. his eyes pop open in horror, and he sits up a little, about to begin his ten part apology.

billy beats him to the punch. “yeah, well. you’re pretty cute when you’re fuckin’ helpless as shit. and when you sleep. you snore like a puppy, you know that?”

steve is pretty sure his cheeks flush tomato red. billy thinks he’s cute. since when the fuck did that happen?

he’s about to ask, but the hand billy isn’t using to comb through his hair comes up, cupping steve’s jaw. his thumb catches on steve’s bottom lip, and he gives him a soft smile. and like, since when the fuck did that happen?

billy hargrove and soft are not two things that naturally coexist. and yet, here they are, billy holding him like he’s a porcelain doll and telling him he’s cute.

steve really fucking wants to kiss him. even shifts forward to do so, but billy stops him.

“nuh-uh. no sir. not kissin’ you while you’ve got a fever,” billy tells him, shaking his head.

steve pouts a little, but can’t help the goofy grin that spreads across his face. “but you do want to kiss me?”

“would i be touchin’ you like this if i didn’t?”

“i dunno, would you?” steve asks, voice quiet. it’s meant to come out as teasing, but he can’t help the insecurity that bleeds into it.

billy gives him a soft look. tugs steve up close, before pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead. then, tucks steve into his neck, wrapping his arms around him and holding on tight. safe and sound.

“no, i wouldn’t.”

steve lets out an audible sigh of relief. it was obvious to begin with, sure. but he’s been burned before. just had to double check, for the sake of his own sanity.

“fine. but for the record, as soon as this fever breaks, you’re in for a hell of a makeout session,” steve vows, pressing a series of lingering kisses to billy’s neck.

billy just laughs, his arms winding around him just a bit tighter.

“yeah, yeah. i’m holding you to that, princess.”

and steve? well, he’s beyond okay with that. he’s never been one to break a promise, anyway.

#i know this is a lot later than promised but here u go honey 💕#hope this satisfies your craving for sick!steve #sure as hell satisfied mine!!#harringrove #my fics #ask #j2badwolfclevergirl

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notthecanadianaverage · 4 years ago

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All 65 ho! 😤

1. Do you ever doubt the existence of others than you?

I mean I guess kind of sometimes? As someone with ADHD, object permanence is a big thing so if I don't see you, you aren't real xD

2. On a scale of 1-5, how afraid of the dark are you?

Um, it varies, actually. Generally speaking, I'm not afraid. But sometimes I have lots of nightmares and the darkness is awful and I will deadass sleep with the light on. Also while I'm not afraid, if I hear sounds, I am terrified xD

3. The person you would never want to meet?

Jason Mamoa. He seems like a fine person but something about his appearance triggers my fight or flight.

4. What is your favorite word?

Hippopomonstrosesquipedaliophobia

5. If you were a type of tree, what would you be?

I think maybe either a birch or a weeping willow?

6. When you looked in the mirror this morning what was the first thing you thought?

That's not yellow

7. What shirt are you wearing?

I'm wearing a green Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time shirt that my sister got for me a few years ago at Fan Expo.

8. What do you label yourself as?

Panromantic asexual. Gender identity wise, demigirl. I recently learned what omnisexual is and I'm curious, but I don't want to come out again so panromantic it is xD

9. Bright room or dark room?

Bright! Lots of sunlight for plants and reading!

10. What were you doing at midnight last night?

I was being trained at work

11. Favorite age you’ve been so far?

I think 18, just because mentally I'm still there.

12. Who told you they loved you last?

My boyfriend :3 I miss him.

13. Your worst enemy?

Dickface. He called me his step daughter once and I almost fucking lost it in that Tim Hortons. I had to fight so hard not to say anything. I was also fighting some pretty rough food poisoning that week so I was not in the mood to argue xD

14. What is your current desktop picture?

On my computer? I think it's a rat xD it's either me with Cortana on my shoulder or Willow peeking through some bars, I can't remember.

15. Do you like someone?

I like my boyfriend. A lot. I mean I hope I do since we have been dating for 6 years xD but I also have a celebrity squish. Patrick Dempsey. Motherfucker. Yes. That smile. Those EYES.

16. The last song you listened to?

https://youtu.be/0Eh4b0Ge-sM

17. You can press a button that will make any one person explode. Who would you blow up?

That power hungry cheeto. But only if I wouldn't get caught.

18. Who would you really like to just punch in the face?

Dickface. He is a child abuser and just a shitty person all around. I called him a stupid idiot on my birthday and lost my fucking mind because I didn't actually mean to and he looked PISSED.

19. If anyone could be your slave for a day, who would it be and what would they have to do?

I don't know who, but I would make them cuddle because I am touched starved and need a fucking hug xD

20. What is your best physical attribute? (showing said attribute is optional)

I'm doing this all in my phones notes so I can't add a picture, but I love my tattoos and piercings! I have both nostrils pierced, my septum and snakebites. Tattoo wise, I have the Triforce of Courage on my left hand, a small blue hard on my right thumb, a beautiful memorial rat tattoo on my left leg, Midna's Fused Shadow on my left arm and Expecto Patronum on my right wrist. I. Need. More.

21. If you were the opposite sex for one day, what would you look like and what would you do?

Not gonna lie, I'd probably jerk off xD

22. Do you have a secret talent? If yes, what is it?

If I shared it, it wouldn't be a secret.

23. What is one unique thing you’re afraid of?

I... don't know

24. You can only have one kind of sandwich. Every sandwich ingredient known to humankind is at your disposal.

I would stick with my normal Subway order: lettuce, tomato, red onions, LOTS OF PICKLES, cheese, black forest ham, mayo and salt and pepper.

25. You just found $100! How are you going to spend it?

Not gonna lie, I would probably get some Subway and maybe some candle making supplies.

26. You just got a free plane ticket to anywhere in the world, but you have to leave immediately. Where are you going to go?

California. I miss my boyfriend. Let's go.

27. An angel appears out of Heaven and offers you a lifetime supply of the alcoholic beverage of your choice. “Be brand-specific” it says. Man! What are you gonna say about that? Even if you don’t drink booze there’s something you can figure out… so what’s it gonna be?

Joke's on you, I don't really drink alcohol! I would instead request all the apple juice :')

28. You discover a beautiful island upon which you may build your own society. You make the rules. What is the first rule you put into place?

Pet rats for everyone!!!!

29. What is your favorite expletive?

I enjoy cunt :3

30. Your house is on fire, holy shit! You have just enough time to run in there and grab ONE inanimate object. Don’t worry, your loved ones and pets have already made it out safely. So what’s the one thing you’re going to save from that blazing inferno?

My little stuffed lion. I would also grab my teddy bear seeing as they are always together.

31. You can erase any horrible experience from your past. What will it be? (Tw rape for this question)

I mean... all of these experiences have made me who I am. But if i can erase one experience without changing who I am, it would be nice to not have been raped.

32. You got kicked out of the country for being a time-traveling heathen who sleeps with celebrities and has super-powers. But check out this cool shit… you can move to anywhere else in the world!

I would say Indonesia because volcanoes! But I am also very gay and I don't believe that is a gay friendly country... so... maybe Japan? All of this assuming that the boyfriend is with me. If not, then California.

33. The Celestial Gates Of Beyond have opened, much to your surprise because you didn’t think such a thing existed. Death appears. As it turns out, Death is actually a pretty cool entity, and happens to be in a fantastic mood. Death offers to return the friend/family-member/person/etc. of your choice to the living world. Who will you bring back?

My grandpa. I really miss him... I want him to see how far I've come and I want to spend more time with him.

34. What was your last dream about?

I have been having a weird amount of sex dreams lately...

35. Are you a good….[insert anything you’d like here]?

Rat mom? I like to think so! Shameless plug, but I have a blog here called @ratpotatoez where you can see my beautiful chonks. I'm also on Facebook and YouTube.

36. Have you ever been admitted to the hospital?

I mean yes? But not for like an overnight stay.

37. Have you ever built a snowman?

Yes

38. What is the color of your socks?

Fuck socks

39. What type of music do you like?

Depends on my mood. I love heavier, alternative rock but my heart will forever belong to Simple Plan.

40. Do you prefer sunrises or sunsets?

I think they're both really lovely!

41. What is your favorite milkshake flavor?

Vanilla

42. What football team do you support? (I will answer in terms of American football as well as soccer)

I don't like football. The only sport I watch is hockey.

43. Do you have any scars?

I am covered in self harm scars (I'm working on covering them up with tattoos). I don't really have any scars with cool stories. I had one that went down my arm but somehow it healed??? Someone in gym class accidentally took a chunk out of my arm with their finger nail and I had a hole in my arm for the longest time!!! I also have a scar on my knee from when I was really young, maybe 3 or 4. I was balancing on some bricks in someone's garden and I lost my balance, fell, and hit my knee on the brick. I remember there being blood running all down my leg as I screamed and cried. So that was fun.

44. What do you want to be when you graduate?

I don't know. I do know, though, that I want to go to culinary school. I also want to go to school for creative writing.

45. If you could change one thing about yourself, what would it be?

My weight. I gained 100+lbs when I went off my anti-depressants and I swelled up like a balloon. I've felt like shit about myself ever since.

46. Are you reliable?

I sure as shit hope so!

47. If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be?

Was it worth it...?

48. Do you hold grudges?

I try not to, but I think I do ._.

49. If you could breed two animals together to defy the laws of nature, what new animal would you create?

PIGEON RAT

50. What is the most unusual conversation you’ve ever had?

"I just really want to punch this horse in the face, okay?"

51. Are you a good liar?

I think so, yes. Trauma does that to you.

52. How long could you go without talking?

When I get super super drained, I go mute. I can stop talking for days at a time.

53. What has been you worst haircut/style?

I once left the hair dressers with essentially what was a fucking bowl cut. Yea, I wasn't thrilled. I refused to remove my hat.

54. Have you ever baked your own cake?

Yes. At 3AM. Because fuck a healthy sleep schedule.

55. Can you do any accents other than your own?

I can do an okay British accent and an okay Indian accent.

56. What do you like on your toast?

Butter. Just butter.

57. What is the last thing you drew a picture of?

Um... I don't remember the last time I drew. Actually, that's a lie. I tried drawing a "small town doctor" while playing Drawful. I drew a very tiny doctor with a city skyline behind him.

58. What would be you dream car?

Literally anything with the popup headlights.

59. Do you sing in the shower? Or do anything unusual in the shower? Explain.

I talk to myself in the shower. Granted, I do that everywhere xD it's the only way I can work through my thoughts. I also cry in the shower a lot.

60. Do you believe in aliens?

Yes. We can't be the only ones here.

62. What is your favorite letter of the alphabet?

I don't really have a favourite. But I do like D. Mostly because it's the first letter of my boyfriends name, but also it reminds me of a woman I helped while working in tech support. She needed help figuring out her gif keyboard so I helped and she was so excited when I told her how to search for gifs. She then started giggling like a little girl saying she wondered what might happen if she searched for DICK. She made my day xD I think about her a lot. I hope she's doing well.

63. Which is cooler: dinosaurs or dragons?

Don't do this to me...

Dragons are obviously amazing but haVE YOU EVER SEEN A DINOSAUR?!?!? LIKE THOSE THINGS ARE REAL. THEY WERE ALIVE. THEY FUCKING RULED THE EARTH. HAVE YOU SEEN A STEGOSAURUS?!?!?!?!?

64. What do you think about babies?

I like babies a lot. Like so much. I have super colourful hair, too, so they seem fascinated with me :') but their little chubby cheeks omg

65. Freebie! Ask anything interesting you can think of.

Fun fact: I actually really like the smell of wet dog. It's kind of a really comforting smell.

#yaaaaaay #ho #thank you #tumblr sucks

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ellebeebee · 8 years ago

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No Pain

Jaal visits with Forta while he recovers from the coma. Character study sort of, since I’m trying out Forta’s POV.

1929 words, Male Ryder|Scott Ryder/Jaal, teen rating

AO3

No pain, no gain.

That’s the motto of every gym rat ever, the phrase so worn and abused and sucked of all its bite that it rolls off the tongue with a stink of sarcasm, an air of snide irony. It’s the truth, everyone knows it, but it has so much of the truth it seems like ‘the sky is blue’ or ‘water is wet.’ Shocker, stop the presses.

You wanna drop the irony? Get into the science of it. ATP, glycolysis, hypertrophy, anabolism. All of the stuff that Forta only passingly gets; he had left that to all his trainers. He didn’t need all the latin pre- and suffixes in the world to understand the feeling of that burning deep beneath his skin, pervading the inner depths of his flesh the day after a really good workout. You destroy the older, weaker muscle to build it anew. Burn away the hesitations, the inadequacies, and the laziness to forge yourself bigger and better.

Every session you push yourself further than the last, you hurt more than you’ve ever hurt before, and your body accepts it all, takes in the fire to build itself anew.

And you’ve gotta push yourself, like really push yourself. Up the weights or the reps a little each time. Failure. That’s what you want. You want to go so far that your body fails and your form gets ugly. You can’t know you’re burning away the old self until you work to failure.

That is, of course, if you’re healthy. If you’re fit for real training, not this physical therapy crap.

Forta wheezed, sweat dripping into his eyelashes and black eyes glaring at the physical therapist telling him to stop.

“I can keep going,” he said.

His treadmill was set to a snail crawl. This was an exaggeration, but he’s annoyed. He’s annoyed that they’re weighting his workouts with cardio, like he’s some damn treadmill bunny. He’s annoyed that even this pace was wearing him down like this.

The therapist, used to him by now, just tapped on the machine’s panel himself. The broad black ribbon silently slowed down. He’d been signed on to the Initiative to help with cryo rehabilitation, never thinking his old experience with biotiball teams would become useful like this.

“I’ve told you before, Ryder. This isn’t the weight room and I’m not your spotter. You’re not working to failure, you’re working to health.”

Forta took the offered towel with a little unnecessary snap. He furiously rubbed at his face.

“Yeah, I know,” he said.

The therapist folded his arms across his chest, datapad tucked underneath an armpit. He cocked a brow at him.

“Didn’t you do all this before? With the shoulder injury?”

Forta shrugged. “Yeah, but that was just the shoulder. I mean, I get it, you know? I have to heal. But I’ve never felt this weak before. Shit, have you seen my numbers pre-ice nap? I’ve lost like a quarter of my mass–”

“Now you’re just being a prima donna. Fishing for compliments.”

Forta turned to him then, still giving the short and damp stubble on his head a towel-down. He gave his therapist The Smirk and The Wink.

“Then compliment me. It’s good for my mental health.”

The therapist’s face just became even more dry. “Knock it off. You’ve atrophied an exact nine point three percent. Which is incredible considering the length of your coma. Your previous level of fitness and SAM’s assistance has been a big factor in getting you up again, but even so you’ve made a mountain of progress at a very fast rate. Put some trust in this process, okay?”

Forta looked away, frowning.

The therapist watched him for a long moment. He sighed.

“Look, Ryder,” he said and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I get it. You’re used to a high level of physical ability. But your life’s changed now. You know how to fight for the gain, right? You know the sort of mental strength it takes to push to failure, day after day. Well now your failure is lower. It’s the same thing on a different scale. You know how to do this. So do it.”

Forta snorted, shook his head. He stepped off the treadmill and waved.

“Thanks, coach,” he smiled.

The therapist rolled his eyes and watched him walk away.

“Don’t forget your appointment with Carlyle later! I know the Tempest is docking soon, but I’m sure the Pathfinder can wait.”

Forta just gave a backward wave in response.

He did understand. And he would do the work, but this just all fucking sucked. It wasn’t like the shoulder injury when he was sixteen; at least then the rest of his body had been just as responsive and looked the same. Now he felt like some lost ghost trapped in alien hardware.

He left the main physical therapy room in the Hyperion’s med bay, and had to sit down in the showers because he was too winded to wash off just yet.

Pathetic.

He sat for a long time there, making himself breath and recover. His elbows rested on his knees. He looked down at himself, the Initiative branded shorts limp on his wasted thighs. Chicken legs. Worse, vat-cloned synth meat, all flabby and strung out thin. The long period of inertness had wrecked the color of his skin, dark gold and freckled and coppery with tan gone to pastiness, his dark leg hair sticking out like dead grass in dead soil. Blegh.

The shower drained him enough to retreat to his hospital bed for a nap, waking up only when Dr. Carlyle came by and prodded and poked him with questions and scans and whatever. The exam finished, Forta watched Carlyle’s retreat from med bay with warnings about resting, his sister was coming here to visit, staying in bed, blah blah blah.

Forta tossed off his covers, shoved his feet into flip-flops and bolted (correction: geriatric shuffled) out of the Hyperion med bay.

He had to rest when he reached the gardened section of the Nexus docks, with all the benches. He sat down and tried not to be too obvious about the wheezing and the sweating and the shaking. He slung his legs out to try and relieve some of the muscle spasms.

“Pardon– oh. Forta Ryder.”

He looked up. It was that angara attached to the Tempest. He’d flung his legs out right when he’d been trying to pass by.

He grinned to cover the discomfort in his legs. “Hey, Jaal– you can just call me Forta, by the way. You guys enjoying shore leave?”

“I would not exactly call it ‘leave’,” he said.

He stood there, the dappled and pleasantly warm artificial light of the area flickering over the curious plums and roses of the his skin, all smooth over curving ridges and… neck flaps. Jowls? Flesh mane! Something. Forta’s vantage on the bench gave him a good view of Jaal’s form: the bulky and powerful chest, the supportive waist as a turian would say, and the elegant turn to those generous, thick legs. They were turian and quarian-shaped, those legs, but turians were all about Spartan asceticism and quarians were sort of compact and slender. Not generous and well-fed and full like this, with a butt almost as nice Forta’s own.

Or well. As it used to be. His butt dimples weren’t as cute as before, and yes, he had checked.

“Take a seat, you’re making my neck hurt,” Forta said, smiling.

Jaal obeyed. He sat at the bench across from him.

“We’re here for only a refuel and resupply,” Jaal said.

“I know,” Forta said. “One night only.”

“Your sister went to go visit you.”

“Yeah, I was hoping to catch her here. Change of scenery. Hospital visits kinda suck in a way, you know? Oh well.”

Not really ‘oh well,’ because he would rather go back and meet her, but he didn’t quite have the strength again to shuffle back onto the tram. So here he was, killing time and grinning so no one noticed how tired he felt.

“So, sailor,” Forta grinned, settling back with his arms draped over the bench’s back. “I take it you’re not breaking hearts tonight down at the Vortex?”

Jaal shifted. “No. I was actually at the Cultural Center– If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a question.”

“Oh, me?” he said. “Uh. Sure.”

“Your names,” Jaal said. “You and your sister. She says they are from plays. What was it– Hamlet and The Tempest. Our ship is also the Tempest. Is it common for humans to name ships and children alike?”

He laughed a little. “Oh. No. Although, a lot of people name boats and stuff after people. The Jaundiced Janice or whatever. Mom named me and Mira. Forta’s from Fortinbras, Mira’s from Miranda.”

“I’ve seen the elcor Hamlet. It was excellent, but I don’t recall a… ‘Fortinbras.’”

“Yeah, he’s cut out a lot,” Forta said. “Umm. How do I put it? It wasn’t about the big characters or anything. Mom explained it best, but basically Fortinbras and Miranda were both characters that sort of fell into good luck. They didn’t suffer a ton or whatever for their good endings. I guess that’s kind of what she hoped for us in life.”

“Hmm,” Jaal hummed.

His voice thrummed, even across the distance they sat at. It was a bit mesmerizing, really. Not exactly like the layered vibrations of a turian, but deep and rumbly. Nice.

He cleared his throat, mindful of the blue eyes studying him. “Which is funny, really, because Mom was always pretty masochistic when it came to her work. Always working late, always pushing herself. I don’t know. I mean, that’s life, right? You don’t just get all the nice parts. You have to hurt, too.”

Jaal hummed again, apparently considering his words. “I think it is a loving sentiment. To want your children to live easily. I think she gave you those names as a gift of love.”

Forta licked his lips, a little tripped up. He didn’t know what to say to that. The guy was right, and it was what he himself had always felt deep down, but… Damn. Gut punch, jeeze.

And delivered at a real convenient time too, when he was aching to suffer, to get back to form. To get back to the field, to explore, to just freaking help. Here he was, sitting on his ass when things needed to get done and his sister and everyone from the Milky Way were out there doing it for him. Not that he’d expect to do it all, but something, shit.

He cleared his throat. “Okay, my turn.”

Jaal cocked his head. “A question? Go ahead.”

“Your body,” Forta said, grinning just enough not to be rude but definitely enough to give doubt. “Are all angara shaped like you? Or do you have to work for it? What’s your workout schedule like? You seem pretty ripped.”

Jaal’s eyes shot down to himself, roving over his own torso and limbs. “A rip? Where?”

“Oh, sorry. Idiom. You look really fit.”

“Oh. I don’t think I’m abnormal. Especially in the Resistance. You have to be able to fight well, and a well-cared for body is absolutely essential.”

“So the Resistance is full of people that look like you?” Forta said.

Jaal met his gaze. Forta willed the splay of freckles across his nose to full-powered prettiness. No wink, though. Let’s not be too hasty here.

“Not exactly,” Jaal rumbled.

Forta laughed. “Good to know.”

#mass effect andromeda #me:a #fanfiction #scott ryder #jaal ama darav #my writing #eee tinkering with a pairing with these two #ive been waiting for an announcement about dlc because i have an idea about a quarian #but im getting impatient and the bi jaal fix inspired me so here this is

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fan-art-ic · 8 years ago

Text

@interstellarvagabond had this hella great fic idea for our Sophomore Jack au (@sophomore-jack) and so we stayed up till 2am creating this beautiful mess of stress.

Hope you like.

TW: Hallucinations, Cursing, Disassociation

“So, I saw ya skipped class again today,” Scottie said in a suspiciously casual voice.

Jack narrowed his eyes and looked up from his bed. “…yes?”

He hoped Scottie would drop the subject soon, so he could stay safe in his fortress of blankets. Unfortunately, this did not happen.

“And breakfast, and lunch, and the class after that,” Scottie continued, pausing to make an intrigued humming noise. “I see a pattern here, laddie.”

Really, no shit Scottie.

“Well that is what tends to happen when one doesn’t feel well,” Jack turned away toward the wall. Maybe if he tried actively ignoring Scottie the questioning would stop.

“You’ve been feeling unwell a lot lately,” Scottie said. His pointed tone was not lost on Jack. He considered telling Scottie to simply fuck off, but he was trying to be better than that. Trying not to be…he wanted to be a good person. He really did.

Inhale, exhale, breathe.

“Well,” Jack began and sat up, “it is unfortunate that my studies are suffering, but this bout of sickness will pass in time. Plus,” he raised an eyebrow and spread his hands out, “what would you have me do? Go to the nurse’s office?”

Checkmate.

“Well, not exactly,” Scottie said. “The nurse’s office is for people who are actually physically sick, laddie, and I got a feelin’ yer illness ain’t so physical.”

Okay, note: don’t play chess.

Jack grinded his teeth, feeling them scraping against each other almost painfully. The muscle in his jaw jumped.

“Scottie, I truly appreciate your concern, but my well-being is not something that you should trouble yourself with.”

“Well maybe if ya stopped being so troubling!” Scottie was pacing now, not anxiously but more like a cat ready to pounce. Or at least, so it seemed to Jack. He found he could not often trust his perception of things these days.

Scott halted and whipped around, pointing a finger at Jack. “Jack, you’ve been a mess ever since the beginning of the year. Last year ended with ya relatively mentally okay, but it seems ya not only backtracked, but ya slid miles backwards-” Scottie’s voice got louder with each word. “-and if ya don’t get help soon, I’m not sure what’s going to happen!”

“You are not my therapist,” Jack reminded his friend in a sharp tone.

“Aye, and a good thing I’m not,” Scottie came over to the bed, staring Jack down. “I don’t have the training or the knowledge. But ya know what I do have?” Scott sat down about a foot away from Jack on his bed, “I do have a set of ears.”

Oh my god that is Too close.

“You seem to use your mouth quite a bit more.” Jack edged away from his friend ever so slightly, hoping it would not look as if he was retreating.

It did.

“Jack, ya can’t run from me, laddie,” Scottie said. “Ya can’t push me away, though I know yer sure as hell trying.”

Jack’s brow furrowed. Why would someone continue to associate themselves with someone that caused them so much pain and aggravation? Why was Scottie still here? Still trying to drag his sorry ass out of bed? Still trying to give the murderer redemption?? Still trying to be his friend?

What a fool.

How could Jack even have friends now?

Sticking his nose where it does not belong. This is my business.

He didn’t deserve a friend who would care so much for him even after all he’s done.

“I’m still here, laddie,” Scottie said, noticing that Jack’s mind had gone miles away. Jack felt his blood grow hot.

Unfortunately.

“Are you just gonna sit in bed all day, runnin’ away from yer problems like some ninny?” Scottie asked, his voice harsher than he meant.

“Stop…” Jack muttered.

“This isn’t Ryou Sakai, the honor student, ass-kicking, friend-helping, health-advocating, gym rat, respect-giving friend I used to know!”

“I told you to stop!” Jack growled, his head was spinning. It felt as though a million wasps were stinging at his skin and buzzing in his ears, there was too much at once.

S T oP sT oP STOP S T O P.

“The Jack I knew would be ashamed to see you here,” Scottie didn’t want to be cruel, but he knew Jack would just shut down if he kept pulling punches. He had to get a reaction, had to make him see.

Excuse me?

Jack screamed, a wordless primal yell, and lunged for his friend. Jack in his sophomore year, eating regularly and training everyday, had been near-lethal when he wanted to be. Jack in his junior year, starving, sleep-deprived, weak, plagued by hangovers…

His punch almost comically bounced off Scottie’s barrel chest. Scottie raised a ginger eyebrow, not sure if he was unimpressed or severely concerned, as Jack just proved his point.

“Ya see?” he said, gesturing to where the punch had landed. “That’s not a Jack punch. Remember when ya taught Malik how to throw a proper punch? Yer worse than he was back then.”

Scottie took a deep breath. If Jack was too emotional for words right now, then they’d settle this with a brawl. “Now this, this is how ya throw a punch!”

Wha- Scottie’s punch smashed into Jack, sending him sprawling across the bed. To Jack, it felt like he’d just been hit by a train. In reality, Scottie hit him softer than he did when they would play-fight last year.

fUCK.

Jack surged back to his feet, not a graceful fluid motion like he’d been taught by his father, but a jerky grappling with his own body and the bed in a desperate attempt to right himself. He tackled Scottie, somehow managing to push the larger boy back a few inches.

Jack started a barrage of punches, each one growing faster, angrier, weaker. He gave a near-incoherent scream. “Why won’t you leave me!”

“I’ll leave ya be when ya don’t need me,” Scottie said, putting Jack in a headlock.

“No!” Jack said. “Not leave me be…leave me!”

A scream tore itself from Jack’s throat and in a surge of desperation he broke free and scrambled off the bed and onto the floor. He stood, his head dropping, hands weakly in fists. Each limb looked as if it was suspended from a marionette string.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw again the vision of himself. The him he used to be. The blue phantom that stood taller than him, stronger than him, better than him. Judging him.

“Why…. won’t….. you just…. leave….” Jack gasped as he swayed. “Why do you stay…when I am this?”

What does you w a n t from me?

Jack gave a small, broken laugh as he gestured at himself and then at the phantom. He stared imploringly into Scottie’s eyes, not even registering the fearful concern growing on the other’s face.

“Perhaps he stays because he lives here? You’re just a burden to him. You’re the one who should leave.” his other self hissed, taunting him. “Oh, wait, I forgot, you live in your bed now don’t you? Pathetic.”

Jack weakly waved a dismissive hand at the hallucination, as if he could make it disappear.

“Who’s there now, laddie?” Scottie asked, looking at the empty patch of air that Jack kept glancing towards.

“The Ryou Sakai you miss so much,” Jack said, his voice both angry and heavy with the tears beginning to drip down his face.

Jack felt a wet drop on his hand and looked at it, startled, and raised the hand to his face.

Huh, he was crying.

“You can’t even have a conversation without bawling about it like a dumb baby?” The blue image flickered and got in his face giving a snort of disgust.

“How disgraceful.”

Like a flame, it contorted until the facial features no longer resembled Jack. At first, it was just a warped image of himself, but a new face began to form.

It was the man he killed, it was the woman he let die, it was his father staring down at him with eyes that burned like embers.

The blood from that childhood memory so long ago dripped down his face.

“Our actions are what define us, my son,” Jack’s father rasped. “And your actions define you as a murderer.”

A m u r d e r e r.

Jack sank to his knees, his throat too raw to scream again. He didn’t know when he became aware of it, but suddenly he was leaning against Scottie. His friend was trying to right him from his rag-doll limpness, but Jack did not want to stand and face himself. He wanted to lay down and sink through the floor through the building through the dirt and sink forever never stopping and I can’t breaTHE-

“Jack, yer hyperventilatin’.”

Jack gasped wildly for breath, eyes flying open and tears springing forth. He clawed at Scottie’s arm and the ground, grasping for a tether. Scottie grabbed Jack’s clawing hand, as if he knew what it was Jack was looking for.

Jack still scratched the carpet weakly and Scottie grabbed the other hand and gathered Jack in his arms, holding him tightly. The pressure calmed Jack, instantly flinging him back into reality. He could feel his breath evening out, albeit slowly.

Jack inhaled deeply and held it for almost a minute. He exhaled heavily and his shoulders shook as Jack burrowed his head into Scottie’s chest.

…fuck….

His whole body felt limp and light, it was as if he could float away. His cheeks were still tear-stained and he could taste salt on his lips.

“How do ya feel, laddie?” Scottie asked.

“…you never said, why you stay,” was all Jack found he could say.

Please tell me.

Scottie sighed and shifted his hold on Jack, holding tighter. “You’re my friend, Jack. Friends help friends. Isn’t that enough?”

“How can you still call one such as I your friend?” Jack asked. “How can you still look me in the eyes and feel anything but disgust, anger…or fear?”

Or hatred?

Scottie looked down, incredulous. “Sure I get angry when ya don’t eat or disgusted when ya don’t have a shower in a week, but fear? Not with those kitten punches.”

When Jack didn’t laugh Scottie sighed. “But seriously, laddie. I’m not afraid of you because I know I can trust you. You can trust me too, ya know.”

Trust……

Jack stiffened and nearly pulled away, but was too weak to break from the hug.

“No ya don’t laddie, I want some god-fucking answers we didn’t do this so you could fuck off,” Scottie pulled him back in, ensnaring Jack.

Jack groaned and gave up any attempt of escape.

“This isn’t a short or pleasant tale,” he warned. The cautionary had little effect as it was muffled by Scottie’s shirt.

“It’s not a story I’m lookin’ for, laddie” Scottie said.

Jack glanced up with dread pooling in his gut. “What would you like to know?”

“Well we can start with ‘are you going to leave the room today?’ or ‘when did you last eat?’ but mostly what I wanna know is are you going to be okay?” Scottie asked.

Jack gave a small huff. “I do not know, I do not remember, and that is a very complicated question, my friend.”

“Don’t re- don’t know??” Scottie rolled his eyes, but his exasperation seemed to be a mask for concern. “Okay, how about this, can I remind you to eat and sleep and bathe every now and then? Without ya feelin’ like yer privacy is being invaded?”

Jack gave a breathy laugh. “I would not object to that.”

“Sure ya say that now, but ya were objecting quite a bit earlier!” Scottie teased.

Jack gave an indignant nudge with his head.

The pair sat in silence. Unlike earlier, it was not a tense or oppressive silence, but a comforting one where both individuals are momentarily content.

Of course, Scottie was the one to break the silence.

“Did ya at least enjoy hitting me?” Scottie asked. “I know you’ve been wanting to do that a lot lately.”

Jack chuckled. It was small, quiet, and half-hearted, but it was enough of a laugh to make Scottie smile hopefully.

“I think I hurt my hand more than I hurt you,” Jack said. “I really have…” he trailed off, thinking about what he had become.

“Been slacking on the protein? Aye, but we can fix that.” Scottie winked. “There’s this amazing thing called ‘eating’ I’ll show you sometime.”

“Perhaps after I discover this amazing thing called ‘showering’?” Jack suggested with a half-smile.

“Or the miracles of shaving!” Scottie laughed.

“You do not like the beard?” Jack asked, feigning a wounded tone.

“Ya look like ya have a drowned wild rat on yer face,” Scottie said. “I was more afraid of it than you when we were fighting!”

Okay, fuck you.

Jack glared at his friend, but he could feel his spirits lifting as their banter took on its usual light-heartedness.

He looked back to his bed, the dual fortress and prison he had been hiding in for so long now. Jack could feel a weight in his stomach that told him this was not the end of things. No, he could not punch or hug away all of his problems. However, he felt more secure in his friendships. He could at least stay close to the people he cared about without feeling guilty or afraid he was losing them. Maybe that was a start.

Jack stood, ignoring the blue flickers in the corner of his vision.

“Ya feel better, laddie?”

Jack looked down at his companion, at Scottie. A man two years his senior who had only been kind to him throughout this whole ordeal and hadn’t complained once. Jack’s friend.

Jack gave a tired, but full smile. “I do. Thank you.”

Scottie stood and clapped a hand on Jack’s shoulder. “That’s good to hear, Jack.” He pulled them in for another, shorter hug.

A start to what, Jack wasn’t sure.

But it was certainly good.

#samurai jack #fanfiction #sophomorejack #sophomore jack au #the scotsman #my writing #friend writing

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