#this is so nondescript but big finish is so hard to explain

[hyaesia]

hey cat! whats the best way to get into the big finish dw stuff?

omg hey lavii!!! as u've probably seen big finish is Incredibly vast 😥 so honestly i'd say the best place to start is your favorite doctor/other character!! they have sooo many spinoffs chances are there's at least something featuring whoever you want, and it's a great way to see if the audio format works for u! most big finish stuff is standalone at any rate

in terms of the stuff most ppl talk about, i'd reccomend this guide !! eight's audios are a really good starting point for anyone i'd say, and then you can branch out from there if there's any characters or sideplots that intrigue u !!

[fanfic-scribbles]

Crash Pad

Fandom: MCU Captain America/Avengers

Summary: You’re just minding your own business when the Winter Soldier crashes into your life. Literally.

Quick facts: Romance – established past Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes leading into Steve Rogers/Bucky Barnes/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Fluff, slight mention of blood

Words: 7801

A/N: I started writing this a few months ago and almost finished when my life got fairly shook up. Still, I’m quite proud of being able to eke out an ending. For anybody who only cares about this story, feel free to skip this note, but for anybody following my other stuff: writing is going to be slow for the time being. My mom died and things are pretty topsy-turvy right now. Writing is still a comfort, but head to hands isn’t working the same right now. Thanks for your patience; I hope this is a pleasant read for you in the mean time <3

  ~

 You’re getting ready for bed and have just turned off the living room light when you hear a clatter on the fire escape. You haven’t gotten over to shut the window yet and you wince at the thought of maybe coming face to face with a giant rat, or a raccoon, although you haven’t yet seen a raccoon and you’re pretty sure they don’t live in the city but it would probably be better than a rat the size of a raccoon–

What you get is much, much worse as a fully grown man falls through the curtains, knocks over a side table and potted plant, and crashes onto your living room floor with a wheezed (but emphatic), “God damn it!”

You freeze, unsure of whether to run or yell or maybe both. However the man flounders on the floor, unable to otherwise move much as he holds his side and– is that blood on your floor?

“Are you okay?” you ask despite everything.

He yanks his head back to look at you and grimaces. “Fuck, I–” He tries to get up, slips in what you are almost positive is blood, and slumps over with a little sigh and a handful of muttered curses that might be in another language. “I am really sorry about this,” he says lowly, like he's embarrassed to be bleeding out in a stranger’s living room. Then he shifts a little more and moonlight gleams on his arm. His very…shiny…completely metal arm, and you find a whole new way to be concerned.

You should have known the reasonable rent was a goddamn trap.

You take a few steps back, barely avoid hitting the counter, and flick the light back on without taking your eyes away from the man on your floor. He squints at the brightness and shows you a face that is, both fortunately and unfortunately, familiar. Fortunately because Captain America and the Avengers somehow got him pardoned for potential war crimes and treason even without him being present for any of that circus of a trial. Unfortunately because…war crimes. And treason. And that is definitely blood.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out and looks a little woozy. “There were sheets– I thought the building was empty.”

“The sheeting is for the building right next to us,” you say and sigh. “I’m going to guess you are not in favor of me calling an ambulance?”

He just blinks at you a few times. Maybe he is secretly a raccoon.

“Please don’t,” he says, some life returning to his eyes, and he looks you up and down. The rubber duck pajamas must put him at ease because, while he is still tensely holding his midsection, his shoulders relax a little. “I’m so–”

“Sorry, yes, I know.” You point at the bathroom. “I’m going to get the first aid kit and hopefully I won’t have to explain to the coroner’s office why Captain America’s boo bled out on my floor.”

You’re just opening up the cupboard that hopefully contains at least some band-aids when he calls out, “What the hell is a ‘boo?’”

~

Two old t-shirts, one and a half rolls of dusty gauze, and his own homemade stitch kit later, the man is finally all patched up. “How are you not passing out from blood loss?” you ask, eyeing the mess on the nice hardwood that has definitely just lost you your deposit. But there’s no corpse to deal with, so at least things aren’t as bad as they could be.

“I’m built pretty hardy.” He sits up a little more and groans. Before you can beg him not to split his side again, he extends his hand. “James Barnes. But you can call me Bucky.”

You shake his hand (gently) and tell him your name. “Do you let everybody call you Bucky, or just the people whose floor you bleed all over?” Something moving catches your eye and you sigh at the sight of your inexpensive (but still nice) curtains blowing slightly, showing off their new stains. “Floor and drapes…”

“I’ll clean it,” he says. “I can get blood out of anything.” He winces. “I…that sounds worse than it is.”

“I imagine getting blood out of anything is a good skill for an international spy-assassin to have,” you say.

Bucky scowls. And, you think, blushes a little, though how he has enough blood to do that you don’t know. You look at the spot again. It looks big to you but maybe you’re making a fuss over nothing. No, wait, there’s still dried blood on your floor. You’re allowed a fuss. “So you know who I am.”

“Your boy made it hard to miss,” you say.

He grumbles to himself, then says, “He’s always such a drama queen. I didn’t need to be pardoned.”

“Really,” you say and look at the bloodied handkerchief wrapped around a bullet he dug out of himself. “Looks like at least one other person disagrees with you.”

“This was Steve’s fight, not mine.” He huffs. “Story of my goddamn lif–”

He suddenly falls back and you reach out instinctively to catch him. He recovers quickly, wild-eyed and stiff and you scoot back just in case. He takes a few deep breaths and seems to force himself calm. It doesn’t look very effective and you’re honestly starting to worry. “You really–”

“I did not faint,” he snaps and maybe he has more blood than you thought, or maybe absolutely all of it has come to collect in his face.

“I was going to say you really need a hospital,” you say. “But yeah, you did.”

He grumbles under his breath and then, as if predicting your protests, stands up quickly enough to waver. Serves him right, you think, but when he scowls at you, you wonder if maybe he’s psychic too. “Try not to pass out on your way home,” you say, because if he wants to leave there’s really nothing you can do to stop him.

“Funny,” he says. He clears his throat and adds, much more sincerely, “Thanks.”

For the t-shirts, for the first aid kit, for not calling the cops, for not calling the Avengers so Captain America can hone in on him like a cartoon hound, for not bitching about the floor too much– the list is many and varied and so you give him a simple nod and hope you can get even a little bit of sleep tonight because work tomorrow is going to be hell without it.

He goes back to the window and before you can point out you have a perfectly good door, Bucky slips out onto the fire escape again. You shrug to yourself and go over to firmly flip the lock. You’ve done your part– in the event he slips and hits his head, someone else can be the good Samaritan. You’re going to bed and tomorrow this is going to feel like a weird dream, if there is even a single good deity in existence.

~

You’re not sure if it’s proof of or a mark against the existence of said single good deity when Bucky shows back up in your fire escape the next evening and taps politely against your open window before he lets himself back in, scooting your new plant just an inch out of the way.

“I have a door,” is the first thing that comes out of your mouth.

“Your hallway’s too well lit,” he says, much more hale and hearty and obviously not suffering major blood loss. His hair even looks like he just got out of the shower, all soft and shiny and bouncing a bit as he twists his upper body to start pulling stuff out of a backpack hanging off one shoulder. “I got stuff to clean the floor, and a replacement first aid kit. You outta keep it better stocked, so I got you one of the good ones.”

“O…kay,” you say, for lack of anything better. There’s a hysterical laugh building up in the back of your throat as the Winter Soldier brings out some rags and a cleaning solution for your bloodstained hardwood floor, but you cough it out and say, “Thanks,” when the formerly-feared international assassin looks at you like you’re crazy before he gets on his hands and knees and starts scrubbing.

It’s not fair no one would believe you. You’re not quite sure this isn’t an elaborate daydream, but then, you like to think you’d imagine something more fun than this. You clear your throat. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thanks,” he grunts, glaring at the floor and rubbing at the stain like it has offended him personally. It’s a little worrisome when he goes at it hard enough to maybe rub a hole right through the floor– you’d rather deal with the stain– but there’s a hard edge to his eyes that make you think maybe it’s a good idea for him to work it out in a productive, non-violent way. And if it turns violent, hopefully he has some home repair skills to make up for it.

You busy yourself with making tea, using the nice pot and the nice cups you never get to break out, and by the time it’s almost done steeping Bucky isn’t rubbing quite so hard and, in fact, seems to have made the stain do a disappearing act.

“Nice,” you say. “You want some tea? I made plenty.”

He lifts his head and tilts it as he squints at you, like he’s still not sure of you. But he shrugs, says, “Sure,” and stands up, rolling his shoulders. He looks down at the floor and nods appreciatively before coming to sit on the other side of the counter. “It’s almost gone; just a little bit more and it’ll be like I was never here.”

That last part could have been a decent joke, but he said it so seriously you just clear your throat. “Thanks,” you say and start pouring. “My landlord is going to have to find some other excuse to try and keep my security deposit.”

Bucky snorts but otherwise makes no noise. At first it’s nice, if a bit awkward, as you don’t really feel the need to fill the silence, but it becomes clear by the way Bucky glares at the plant sitting in front of him on the counter that something is eating at him. You’re not sure whether or not to pry, but it seems polite to at least ask, “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he grunts and leans even lower to the surface of the counter.

You stare at him. “I appreciate what you did, but you didn’t have to come back,” you say gently, because a pissed-off former-assassin isn’t really a problem you want to have on your hands. “I’m not awful enough to actually expect you to clean up your own blood the day after you nearly bled to death.”

“What?” He blinks and then scowls and shakes his head. “No, it’s not that; it’s…” He picks up his cup and downs all of it, despite the fact that it was still steaming. Tentatively you pour him another cup, to which he says, “thanks,” before loading it with sugar again. “It’s good,” he says and this time he sips it.

“It’s one of my favorites. Very soothing,” you say. “Normally.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I wish anything was soothing. You know Steve almost ran into a goddamn minefield today?”

You didn’t know that, you don’t think anything the Avengers do is any of your business, really, and where does one even find a minefield in New York City– you don’t say any of that, but you apparently don’t need to, because Bucky is off like a shot saying more words than you’d have thought possible for him. All of it is ranting about what a reckless dumbass Captain America is, and a Brooklyn accent increasingly comes through, egged into existence by sheer aggravation. You sit and listen, transfixed not so much by the details (they’re too fleeting and sparse) but by how annoyed Bucky is with Captain Amer- with “Steve goddamn pain in the ass Rogers” and you’re never going to be able to see him again without snickering.

Bucky sighs heavily and rests his chin on the table. He looks very tired, all of a sudden. Maybe a relaxing tea and enthusiastic rant wasn’t the best combination. Then again, he also looks less tense, so perhaps it’s fine. “Why don’t you stop for the night and go get some sleep,” you say and take away his cup. “You can finish up tomorrow.”

He squints at you, squints back at the floor (that you honestly can’t tell is any different from the rest), and looks back at you. “You don’t mind?”

“Not at all,” you say and stack the cups. “When you come back refreshed you can tell me why Steve Rogers can never walk past that animal shelter without ducking his head in shame.”

Bucky’s smile is lopsided and he shakes his head. “Maybe,” he admits and hops off the chair. “I’ll just…leave the stuff here then, if that’s okay?”

You nod and he quickly picks up and puts the supplies in the empty bottom space of your side table. He goes for the window.

“I have a-!”

And he’s gone. You roll your eyes. If Steve Rogers really is as much of an asshole as Bucky says he is, then those two deserve each other.

~

For all that the Captain America mythos has been debunked for you, you’re still brought up short when you suddenly encounter Steve Rogers the next night.

On your fire escape.

He knocks his head against the railing in his scramble to simultaneously get up and face you, curses, and lifts his hands defensively. “I can explain.”

You rub your face with both hands. They definitely deserve each other. “I doubt that,” you mutter and sigh heavily. Thank goodness there haven’t been any actual fires; you don’t know how you’d get out with all these buff superheroes hanging around outside your window. “Have you lost something?”

Captain America looks at the ground for a moment, and then flashes you a smile. “…Yes?”

God, he is a smartass. “Do you want to come inside or do you want to risk some Nosy Nancy from the building across the street seeing a big shadow and calling the cops?”

That would never happen, but he slips inside almost immediately and then there he is, in all his uniformed, shield-holding glory. It’s too weird to think about, and you step back to give him (and you) space while you close the curtains. “Thank you,” he says politely and looks around. “Your apartment is lovely; it’s very…green.”

You’re not sure why he hesitates, until you see him looking at your yellowing majesty palm. “He’s coming back,” you say and go to adjust the plant for lack of anything else your nervous hands can do. “Would you like something to drink?”

“No thank you,” he says and stands with his feet shoulder wide and his hands clasped down in front of him. It is perhaps the least comforting thing he can do and for one ridiculous moment you wish Bucky was here to be in between you. You wish the Winter Soldier was here. To protect you. From Captain America.

You clear your throat. “So,” you say and grab yourself something. “Do you lurk outside everyone’s apartment at some point, or am I just special?”

For all his military posturing, Captain America squirms like a schoolboy. “I swear I wasn’t– okay, I guess I was but not intentionally? I was…looking. For something.”

“Something you dropped?” you ask him.

“A person,” he says, staring elsewhere. For a moment you have a paranoid thought he’s staring at the space where Bucky had fallen in that night, but no, he’s just looking at the window. At least you remembered to change the curtains.

“Pretty sure you can see one of those without squinting into the grates,” you say.

“He might have passed through on his way somewhere else,” Captain America says. “Have you seen a man outside?”

“Other than you?” you ask. He blushes even harder than Bucky does– and think of the devil, you have a moment where you’re not sure what you should say, but quickly come to realize that whatever is going on between the two of them, you do not want to get stuck in the middle.

You’re prepared to lie your ass off, but he apparently takes your response as a rebuke. “I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to make you feel unsafe.”

“It’s fine,” you say. Despite his previous answer, you lean into the fridge to get him a bottle of water. “I’m pretty sure Captain America isn’t going to murder me. And if you decided you wanted to, well, there’s nothing I could really do about it.”

He chokes on the drink he’s just taken. You instinctively lean in so you can slam his back but after a couple of hits he covers his mouth and waves you off. “Sorry, sorry,” he says and grabs a nearby dishcloth to wipe up what he just spit on the counter. “That was just…really dark.”

“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not the one lurking on fire escapes,” you say.

He rolls his eyes. The nerve. You laugh and he actually grins. Asshole. His smile softens though and he says, “I’m really–”

“Sorry,” you finish for him.

“Am I that predictable already?”

You shrug. You want to tell him it’s because he and Bucky seem very much alike in that respect. You want to but…you don’t. Whatever Bucky’s problem is, he seems to want to deal with it himself, and it’s not your place to get in between them and start snitching. “You seem the type. Don’t worry about it so much. You…look pretty worried. I’m not going to hold it against you.”

“Thank you.” His lips turn into a sad sort-of smile and he takes a slower drink. “I guess I am pretty worried. This man I’m looking for, he’s…important to me, and he’s been through a lot, and I just want to know he’s okay.”

You stare at him. He looks down. And looks down. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to babble like that,” he says and glances at you with a strained smile. “I don’t normally do that.”

“Hm.” You stare at him for several seconds and notice he is blinking an awful lot. “You look exhausted.”

“I’m a little tired,” he says, quietly, and some of the posturing seeps out of him and he lets himself slump a little more. He suddenly shakes his head and sits up straight again. “Thanks again for…” He looks around and settles for shaking his water bottle.

You hold back a laugh. “Sure. I uh…do you need me to call you a cab?”

He shakes his head firmly and, to his credit, he’s pretty excellent at pretending to be okay. You almost believe him. “I can get home all right.”

“Well, please make sure you do. I can think of a lot of people who’d be sad to think of you collapsing on the way home because you wore yourself down to the bone,” you say. “And from how you seem to worry about your friend, I bet you can think of at least one.”

He blinks, like he’s surprised, but a smile curls onto his face, warm and true. “Good night,” he says, and because you’re so nice, you don’t stop him when he goes back out the window. At this point, it’s beginning to feel like a lost cause.

~

“What did you say to him?”

“I know you don’t like the door,” you say, not even turning away from the plant you’re watering. Any time you put down the canister you forget where you left off and you are not going to kill these plants by overwatering. Not again. “But maybe you could at least tap on the window when you decide you’re going to enter my apartment.”

“Why do you leave your window open?” Bucky huffs. You can hear him sit at the counter behind you. “You know what kind of creeps can take advantage of that?”

You finish watering the last plant and turn to stare at him. “I’m starting to get an idea.”

Bucky scowls. “I’m not a creep,” he mutters.

“Polite society encourages doorways instead of windows,” you say. “It’s okay. Captain America, apparently, is also a creep.”

Bucky sits up straighter. “What did he say?”

“Not much,” you say. “He was squatting on the fire escape like he could make you spontaneously materialize. I invited him in for an explanation and after a little while he went on his way.”

“After a little while,” Bucky repeats and squints at you suspiciously.

You shrug. “He likes to vent to complete strangers, apparently. But I didn’t tell him anything about you, it doesn’t seem fair to tell you anything about him. If you want to know, I get the feeling you can go ask him.”

Bucky rolls his eyes but he stands up and stretches. “You said I bled on the drapes?”

“I already scrubbed that out, if you can finish the floor,” you say and go for the tea pot. “Do you like green tea?”

“As long as you do it right,” he says and starts scrubbing again. “I hate it all bitter.”

You go for the good matcha and start preparing it while he works out his frustrations on your floor. You glance at him a couple of times but he seems fully focused on his task, until you finish the tea and call him back to the bar.

“Steve Rogers is a pain in the ass and don’t let anyone tell you different,” he grumbles, but it’s soft and there’s a troubled look on his face as he takes his cup.

“Do you miss him?” you ask and blow gently across your drink.

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Just as you're about to apologize for overstepping, though, he speaks. “It’s hard to go back when you’ve done the shit I have, you know?”

No. You have absolutely no idea what it’s like to live as a free man after decades of literal objectification and being used as a murder weapon for fascists. But it doesn’t seem very helpful to say that, so instead you say, gently, “I can’t even imagine.”

Bucky bobs his head and takes another sip of his drink. You’re delighted he seems to be drinking it fairly quickly, but also a little dismayed because a good matcha latte takes a decent amount of work and it’ll take a little time if he wants another cup. “I want to go back but I can’t yet. I wish he wouldn’t be so goddamn stubborn about it is all. Just because he thinks I didn’t do anything wrong doesn’t make it true.”

You nod, like any of this makes any goddamn sense to you. But maybe– maybe it doesn’t have to. Maybe Bucky’s saying all this because you’re an outside entity with no personal stake in, or knowledge of, what counts as treason, or what’s needed to lack culpability, or what it means to be an absent friend.

He rambles, a little bit, and though about half the words are proper nouns you don’t recognize, you nod along, and when he finishes his latte you make him another one, and when he leaves, you don’t mention the door. Even though you want to.

~

You’ve actually forgotten how nice it is to have someone come through the door. Case in point–

“Um, I hope this is all right,” Steve Rogers, dressed in casual civilian fare and holding a small pot of flowers, says as you can do nothing but stare at him. “I just wanted to stop by and thank you again for being so understanding. May I…come in?”

That snaps you out of your funk and you quickly stand aside. “Of course; sorry, I just…wasn’t expecting you.”

“I was just going to leave the plant with a note if you weren't here, but I’m glad you were,” Captain Rogers says and walks in, and sets the pot down on the counter.

You walk over to the fridge. “Would you like something to–” As you turn to finish the question you see him glance furtively at the window. Ah, of course. He looks down guiltily and you can’t help but roll your eyes and laugh. Well, he did come through the correct entrance and brought some pretty flowers. “All right, you did knock on the door this time; go sniff around the fire escape all you want.”

“I’m just checking something I forgot,” he says quickly and goes to the window. He’s only outside long enough for you to brew some tea and he comes back in just as you’re pouring his cup. It isn’t until he’s about to take a sip, however, that he says, “Oh– I know it looks bad, but Bucky– sorry, James Barnes– I swear he isn’t dangerous.”

“I know. I saw some of the trial stuff,” you lie. Well, you did see some of it, but it wasn’t until you heard Bucky mutter “Martha Stewart was right,” while fussing at some of the blood on his shirt that you felt safer. Strange as it is to think.

Steve relaxes his shoulders like some of the weight is off of them. “You have no idea how good that is to hear. You wouldn’t believe some of the things people say to me. I can’t really punch people anymore because I’m so much stronger now but it’s so tempting sometimes. At least when it’s online I can mime punching them.”

His annoyed tone allows you to laugh a little. “Maybe imagine the block button is a punch in the face?” you suggest.

He grins. “My friend Clint suggested printing out the most irritating comments and taping them to a punching bag. It didn’t really work but the thought was nice. The block button as a punch to the face though…”

The guy doesn’t really need more violence in his life, but he genuinely seems pleased with the idea, so you let it be. And when he starts ranting in detail about some of the comments he gets about Bucky, you make a new pot of tea– chamomile. For the both of you.

~

You don’t know how the flowers are dead already– it seems like Steve just brought them and they were so pretty you immediately looked up care instructions and followed them to the letter. Or so you thought. But now, only days later, you have a pot of dirt and withered petals.

And Bucky sulking at your counter.

“I told him I was fine,” he says petulantly.

You sigh and bring the pot over to the sink and think about what to do. “Did you tell him in person?”

“In a letter. He knew it was from me.”

The soil looks nice, so you’ll dig out the remains and try to plant some replacement seeds. Maybe that was the problem– maybe the flowers were sick or something. “Well reading and seeing are two different things.”

“He knows I cover him in fights.”

You slowly look at Bucky. His oh-so intelligent response is to bristle like a cat and go, “What?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s desperate to see you, knows you’re near when he’s fighting, and you wonder why he’s “so goddamn reckless?’”

Bucky just glares. Yeah, these two morons absolutely deserve each other.

You hope Bucky figures it out sooner rather than later.

~

He doesn’t, but he keeps coming by, as does Steve, and you resign yourself to hosting two pining idiots who keep dancing around each other.

Bucky drinks anything you give him without complaint. However he drinks the lattes and almost anything green tea a little quicker, though he tries to hide his cup from you when he does. Whether he’s ashamed of going through them so fast or embarrassed you don’t know, but you start to give him bigger cups, and that seems to help.

The first time you give Steve a cup of apple pie spice, he gives you a severe glare– which he then completely undermines by liking the blend immensely.

“I swore the next person who offered me apple pie would get popped,” Steve says, an amusing mixture of half-bluster and half-shame as he sips from the classic teacup you hope not to regret handing him.

“Lucky for me it’s not actually apple pie,” you say. “Do people really make that joke?”

The eyeroll Steve gives that is 200% sass. “You have no idea,” he says, deadly serious, “–how funny people think they are.”

~

This becomes…oddly normal. Listening to Steve talk about anything that’s on his mind, giving Bucky new tea blends just to see how he reacts to them; your apartment is no longer just you and a bunch of greenery that seems to wilt more often than not. Everything seems warmer, and better– even your plants seem healthier. (For that, though, you suspect Bucky is giving them a special mixture of something after you catch a glance of him messing with one of the pots. You want to ask him what he’s doing, but you don’t want to admit that he’s better at taking care of them than you are.)

It’s so normal, that you feel the silence only after the first few nights without a visit. They don’t visit every night, but they visit often enough that you know they’re off somewhere even without them telling you. For a couple of weeks you try to pretend the quiet doesn’t bother you, but you check the fire escape twice every night, and then once more before you go to bed.

~

The next time you see Bucky is during one of these checks. There was no tapping, no noise to otherwise alert you, he’s just suddenly back, sitting next to the window, hunched over in black clothes nearly blending into the darkness and staring out at nothing in the night.

“What’s wrong?” you ask and crawl out to kneel next to him. “Are you hurt again?”

“No,” he mutters and continues to glare at some imaginary point in the distance. “Steve was, though.”

It’s a little harder to swallow. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbles and buries his mouth further against his arms. “He’s fine, strutting around the hospital like a- like a- …” He huffs and sits back to wave his arms before he curls back in on himself. “But it was close, and he’s an asshole.”

“Mm,” you say. “Chamomile mint?”

He sighs heavily but he gets to his feet and starts to enter, only to stop and hold open the curtains for you.

“Thank you sir,” you say with only a hint of sarcasm and go on ahead to get the tea started. Bucky snorts but doesn’t say anything and you use the time the water needs to heat up to take care of some of your plants.

“Stop it.”

The snap comes so fast from Bucky you immediately stop what you’re doing. He doesn’t look as angry as he sounded, but he’s frowning pretty hard. “You're overwatering that one; jade plants are succulents. You don’t need to drown it.”

You look at the plant and set the watering can down. “Oh.” You knew that. You think. You’re just nervous. “Did you see him? In the hospital?”

“Briefly. I didn’t talk to him; just made sure he was all right,” Bucky says. “And he is. I wouldn’t leave him if he wasn’t.”

That does assuage some of your concerns. Steve is nice. You want him to be okay. And Bucky is– also nice, but god, they’re both so fucking frustrating. “You couldn’t have just–”

“Don’t start with–”

“I’m just saying–”

“And I’m telling you not to say–”

“I pay the rent for all that you sublet my fire escape; I’ll say what I want,” you manage to finish to Bucky’s consternation. You lift your head proudly and he frowns to one side. And then he…smirks. You’re not sure you like that.

“Crappiest space in the city,” he says and sits up. “You could at least get a chair.”

You roll your eyes and dole out the tea, fixing it the way Bucky likes. No sugar for this one, but plenty of honey. “If I ever have to leave for an actual fire, I’ll be in enough trouble trying to get around you.”

“Nah. I’d carry you out,” Bucky says and lifts his cup in a silent ‘cheers.’ He takes a sip and the sigh sounds content, so you assume you did it right. For a few moments a comfortable silence settles between the two of you as you sip warm drinks surrounded by greenery (that is mostly green) and life goes on in faint sounds outside the confines of your home.

Bucky sets his empty cup down with a sigh. “Do you think, if I show up to throttle him, that he’ll actually start watching his own fucking back?”

You give that some serious thought. “Will you give him time to moon at you first?”

Bucky sighs with disgust and flumps back onto the counter. “This is stupid. This all feels so stupid.”

You open your mouth because you do have a lot of opinions about honest communication and using innocent civilian apartments to dance around each other, but Bucky shoots you a glare to let you know that a, he knows, and b, he doesn’t appreciate it. You roll your eyes and go back to drinking your tea. It is a very good blend, and you’re not going to let it go unappreciated because two early 20th century boys can’t get their shit together.

Not that you’re complaining, really– you’re starting to feel like less of a disaster by comparison. Or maybe letting two strange men into your apartment makes you just as bad by default. You rub the bridge of your nose. Yeah, no one is getting out of this looking sane. You feel like that should bother you more than it does, but it’s just a fleeting thought before you go back to worrying about Steve and pouring Bucky’s cup back to full.

~

The next night when someone knocks on your door, you’re only mildly surprised to see Steve on the other side. And most of that surprise is because you can see fading bruises on his face, and also because he is holding a fairly big potted plant with tall green and yellow-edged leaves.

“Hi,” he says and lifts the pot slightly. “I got you a present.”

“Uh, wow; thanks?” you say and quickly step back to let him in, momentarily forgetting he can probably carry it around with ease. Steve places the plant on the floor near the end of your couch, where it actually looks fairly nice. He gestures at it proudly. “It’s a snake plant. The man at the nursery said it’s very hard to kill.”

“You’re not funny,” you say but you look at it appreciatively. It is nice, and you could do with ‘hard to kill’. Speaking of– “Should you be up? You look like you should be in a hospital.”

He shrugs and his face goes neutral. “I’m healing well enough that there’s nothing a hospital could do for me. And I felt so…restless.”

You nod. “Want some tea?”

“Please. I really like what you make,” he says and immediately takes a seat at the counter. Oddly enough, it’s not the one Bucky always takes. You don’t realize you squint at the space for too long until Steve looks curious and asks, “Is everything okay?”

You squint at the countertop. “Yeah, just…trying to figure out if that’s a stain or a spot.”

Thankfully there is a spot of spilled something and you quickly grab a towel and wipe it away. You think it’s a pretty good save, but Steve looks at you with a raised brow, like he’s figured something out. You freeze. “What?” What are you going to say? How is he going to react? What will you–

“Was that a coffee ring?”

You blink a few times, and then roll your eyes as your chest practically deflates. He smiles and winks. “I can’t believe you.”

“I am a layered human being who can drink many things,” you say defensively. “And if you want coffee you’ll have to ask another time. I’m not giving you anything with caffeine in it when you look like you got hit by a truck.”

“Train,” he corrects absently. “It barely clipped me.”

You sigh and go for the sleepy blend. One of you is going to have to bow out of this conversation due to exhaustion and at this point you don’t care if it’s you. However it might truly come in handy as Steve keeps looking out the window and shaking his foot. You set the cup in front of him and before you can ask what’s wrong, he takes the cup in both hands and blurts out, “I think I saw him.”

You look at the window and squint. “Seriously?”

“Not here.” Steve rolls his eyes. Like you’re the crazy one. He blows gently across the surface of the liquid and says, “Though it’s strange you’d think I saw Bucky out of your window.”

“Isn't that why you started showing up here in the first place? I distinctly remember someone with a big red, white, and blue shield lurking on my fire escape.”

“Oh, right,” he admits sheepishly, hunched over his cup. His eyes glimmer with mischief as he looks up at you through long lashes and asks, “Did I ever apologize to you for that?”

You’re brought up short by the amount of boyish charm this giant walking wall of muscle manages to pack into that look and you have to find your tongue to say, “I– y-yeah…”

Steve chuckles to himself and you give yourself a mental slap on the face. “Troll,” you mutter and sip from your mug. The liquid is piping hot and burns your tongue, giving you an excuse to grimace when Steve flashes you a beautiful smile.

~

You’re in trouble.

Not physically, not immediately, and perhaps someone on the outside might say you’re being dramatic about it, but they wouldn’t know shit about the situation. They wouldn’t know about how your hands felt as they slid over Steve’s when he handed you a new small pot of flowers; they wouldn’t know about the feeling of serenity that settled over you when Bucky abandoned some of his oh so careful control and rested his head on your shoulder for four long seconds; they wouldn’t know how it feels like you’re missing something until someone shows up at your door or taps at your window.

You’re falling in love with two people who have always been, and still are, desperately in love with each other.

Isn’t that just your luck.

~

In the end, Bucky takes your advice more to heart than you ever expected he would– you and Steve are quietly enjoying each others’ company, with you standing in the kitchen and Steve sitting at the counter as per usual, when the curtains move dramatically for Bucky to slip in, which makes Steve whirl around, and your hands jerk so hard from all the sudden surprise that your cup slips out and crashes to the floor.

“Shi-” You forget to watch your step and immediately catch a jagged shard that embeds itself right under the ball of your foot. “Ow, fuck!”

Your name is said in different voices but very similar tones of alarm and you suddenly find yourself gathered into Bucky’s arms, bridal style, and he carries you over to the couch. “Wh-” You swallow at the close proximity to Bucky’s chest and the way he holds you so effortlessly but so securely. “I’m fine; it’s just a little–”

Bucky sits down on the couch and doesn’t move you, which means you are basically sitting cross-wise in his lap. This is not something you need after your recent revelation, and it doesn’t get any easier when Steve comes back with the heavy duty first aid kit Bucky got you and gingerly takes your foot to examine the injury. His sympathetic look towards you gives you the warning you need to brace yourself before he pulls the shard out. It doesn’t hurt too terribly and he’s almost tender as he cleans your foot.

“Look at us, matching blood and all,” Bucky says lightly.

“It’s my floor I’ll bleed on it if I want,” you grumble, but you’re too distracted by how focused Steve is on fixing you up. “You…seem to be taking this well.”

“I knew he had been here since the first time I came,” Steve admits as he rolls the gauze around your foot. “There was a bloodstain on your floor still.”

“Seriously?” You had thought Bucky was being overdramatic about the supposed stain and humored him, but it…makes sense. Why else would he come back the next night. Why else would Steve continue to come by. And because Steve had kept coming, Bucky had kept coming, and…they won’t need to come back anymore, will they? They now have what they’ve wanted. Each other.

Someone says your name and you force yourself back to neutral as much as you possibly can. Steve looks curious though and Bucky says, “What’s with that look?”

“There’s no look,” you say. “And if there is, it’s only because you two have devised the weirdest meet-cute ever– decades after you actually met.”

“Hm.” Bucky continues to stare at you, but doesn’t say anything else.

~

They come back. And they both use the door.

You don’t know what you’re more shocked by– that Bucky and Steve, having come back to each other, are still coming around to you, or that Bucky is actually walking through the designated threshold. You don’t have a lot of time to think about it though because the place is…a mess.

“What happened here?” Steve asks as Bucky’s shoulders go up to his ears and he looks around the place like he’s going to find something unpleasant.

“It’s not that bad,” you say and glance around. You’ve cleaned out a few of the pots already and stacked them away in the closet, but some of the plants are still…slightly alive, for a little while. A couple are even doing fairly well– one of which being the snake plant Steve got you.

“What happened to the jungle?” Bucky asks, looking around shrewdly. You don’t like the sound of that. It feels so…probing, and raises your hackles. Why should he care?

“I wasn’t keeping them alive for very long.” You flick a yellowing leaf and keep your tone light. “I just got tired of it. What are…what are you doing here?”

You don’t look at Steve, but he clears his throat and his tone is similar to Bucky’s when he asks, “Is now a bad time?”

“For what?” You square your shoulders and face them. Like an adult. Like an adult who had two other adults just sort of crash into their life one day and start sharing space until such time as the two window-crashers decided they…didn’t need to come around anymore. “I’m happy you both found each other. You didn’t have to come back.”

Steve looks…well, he looks hurt. You don’t know any other way to describe it; it doesn’t show in his face so much as in his eyes, in the feeling you get watching the line of his shoulders lower. But before he can say anything, before you can explain yourself, Bucky speaks up.

“It isn’t like that,” he says.

You look down. It’s easier than looking at a man who feels rejected, and a man who has you completely pegged.

“What?” Steve asks.

“It’s okay,” you say, in perhaps the biggest bald-faced lie you’ve ever told.

“That’s not– no,” Bucky insists and lifts your chin. His fingers are warm and gentle and linger too long.

You pull back from his touch before you can embarrass yourself further. “You guys were literally circling each other.”

“Please.” Bucky rolls his eyes. “I don’t need to keep coming back here to be near Steve. I know where he lives.”

“And I leave my window unlocked,” Steve says. He aims a cheeky grin at Bucky and adds, “Guess I should have left it open though.”

“Shut up,” Bucky tells him but looks at you and says, “Point is: we weren't using you.”

Steve blinks. “Oh– no, of course not!”

“It’s all right,” you say, trying as hard as you can to assuage their discomfort even though you can’t put much into it. Even though you did very much want this meeting to happen, somehow you don’t feel very ‘all right.’

“No,” Bucky says and takes your hand in his. The flesh hand, which he runs up to the middle of your forearm. His touch is gentle and light, even when he grips. You can break away, but you don’t– you let him pull you in, close and closer, until there’s barely any room between you.

Steve crowds from the side and puts one arm behind Bucky, and one arm behind you. “If you only think we’re here because of each other, then it’s not all right,” he says softly.

“I know it isn’t– I know you weren't ‘using’ m–” You swallow hard. “And I know it’s not–”

They both swoop in for a kiss– for a kiss with you. Somehow they avoid bumping heads and the lip-lip-lip contact is barely there, with Steve at the corner and Bucky barely catching one side of your upper lip, but they're both there for a glorious moment that leaves you stunned.

“Oh…” you say, dumbly. You try to fight it, but a smile pulls at your lips. “Oh.”

“That good already, huh?” Steve asks quietly, slowly forming a small smile of his own.

You let out a little sigh that is immediately undermined by an uncontrollable laugh that swells from a bubble of relief at the base of your throat. “Bucky’s right, you are insufferable,” you say but you reach out to sweep your fingers in a gentle touch down Steve’s cheek and under his chin.

“You get used to it,” Bucky says.

You think about that. Even with how you’ve been, entertaining these two rotating planets over the last however many weeks or months, this would be an entirely new normal.

You think you can’t wait to get used to it.

[krisdreaming]

8 | PRESENT

｢ Masterlist ｣

Pairing: Miya Atsumu x reader

Prompt: I did that annoying thing where I put a bunch of smaller boxes inside one big box and you’re getting really mad, but you don’t know that a ring is in the smallest box and I can’t wait to see your face.

WC: 1.3k

A/N: I looooved writing this one!!! I wrote it just a few days ago and when I say I was s w o o n i n g. Mayhaps I’ve fallen for Atsumu just a little too hard, I’ll see myself out. (And if you’re wondering if I had to google what the holes in waffles are called, mind ya business)

You’ve been here for a little over a week now, and every morning when you wake up it still takes you a few moments to remember: It’s winter break. You’re spending it with Atsumu in his apartment. He’s asleep next to you. This isn’t a dream.

This morning when you wake up, though, Atsumu isn’t asleep. When you roll over, he’s watching you, chin resting on his crossed arms. A slow smile spreads across his face when he sees you’re awake.

“Mornin’,” His drawl is still heavy with sleep. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” You echo, letting out a soft giggle when he reaches out to brush a wayward strand of hair away from your face. For a few moments, he lets his palm rest on your cheek, something soft settling on his features. You reach up and link your fingers with his, and he leans forward to press a kiss to your lips.

“You ready to start breakfast?” He asks as he pulls away. You shake your head and smile.

“Hungry, are we?” You hum with a chuckle.

“Always,” He nods, throwing the blanket aside. “And besides, we’d better get started if we want t’ get to yer parents’ on time.”

You agree, rolling out of bed with a groan. You have to admit, being here with Atsumu is miles better than the tiny apartment you’re staying in while you finish university. It’s cramped and outdated in comparison, but until you graduate at the end of the year, it will have to do.

Atsumu’s kitchen is well-equipped with appliances and gadgets, half of which you’re convinced he’s never used, but you’ve certainly been making good use of them in the time you’ve been here. Now, he pulls out the waffle maker while you start mixing the batter. The scent of the coffee brewing in the pot is filling the kitchen, and it’s comfortable to work alongside of Atsumu like this. You can’t help but think that it’s certainly something you could get used to.

“This looks amazing,” He says, reaching for his fork and stabbing a waffle the moment the food is on the table. You take a sip of your orange juice and watch with a small smile as he pours syrup on his waffles, carefully filling each pocket.

“Mmm,” He hums to himself in pure delight as he takes the first huge bite. You spread butter  and syrup on your own waffle, and soon you’re digging in as well. “Thanks fer makin’ breakfast,” He says as he helps himself to another serving. He’s said the same thing at nearly every meal, and you always brush it off.

“I like cooking, you know that.” You shrug. “And besides, doing it in your kitchen is a treat.”

He grins. “Yeah? I’m glad.” He pushes his plate away with a satisfied groan. “I’m so full. How about we open our presents now?” He looks at you hopefully.

“Someone’s eager,” You laugh, “I don’t know what you think I got you, but I promise it’s not really that exciting.”

“I’m excited for you to open your present!” He insists, standing to put his plate and cup in the sink. You follow suit, and then the two of you make your way to the living room and the tiny tree set up there. The box with your name on it doesn’t even fit underneath it, so it’s setting right beside it.

You can’t lie – you’ve been side-eyeing this box ever since it appeared by the tree. You have a few guesses as to what it could be. Maybe it’s that Nespresso machine you’ve been hinting after, or that box set bundle of your favorite series that you’ve had in your Amazon cart for four months now. Maybe, you let yourself hope, it’s that special edition console that was just released a week ago. Of course, if it is, your present for Atsumu will pale in comparison.

You pick up the small box. “Here, open yours first,” You hand it to him and take the seat next to him on the couch. 

“Okay,” He agrees quickly, carefully pulling on the ribbon until it comes undone. He unwraps the box and lifts the lid, revealing the watch you’d picked out for him. You lean in hopefully, watching his face for his reaction.

“I thought you needed a nice watch. For when you go to dinners and stuff,” You explain as he lifts it out of the box.

“It’s perfect,” He grins, immediately putting it on and adjusting it on his wrist. It looks almost comical with his mismatched pajamas. “Thank you, baby. I love it.” He leans in and presses a kiss to your lips, but pulls back quickly and grabs the box from the floor. “Now your turn!” He hands you the box and perches on the edge of the couch cushion, eyes glued to you. 

You pull back the wrapping paper, revealing a nondescript box. When you pry it open and peer inside, you see… another wrapped box. “Ah,” You pull it out slowly. “Very funny.” You glance at him, and he’s still just watching you, lower lip pulled slightly between his teeth. You peel the wrapping paper off of the next box and open it, only to find yet another wrapped box inside. “Tsumu,” You can’t help but sigh.

“Just open it!” He presses, leaning a little further forward. You do as he says, and you aren’t quite as surprised to find yet another smaller wrapped box inside. You’re starting to wonder how long he’s been collecting these boxes. Resignedly, you mentally cross off your hopes for the gift as the size of the boxes decreases.

“What is this?” You finally frown when you pull out what you hope is the last box. He’s sitting with his chin in his hand and his fingers covering his grin, and he gestures with a jerk of his head for you to open it. “Seems like an awful lot of work for a pair of air pods or something,” You mutter, picking at the tape he’s generously wrapped the box in. It takes you some time to peel the layers away. Atsumu is surprisingly silent during this ordeal. For such an elaborate prank, you’d expect him to be goading you a little more.

Finally, you get the tape peeled away. This box is about the same size as the one his watch had come in. You lift the lid, and it isn’t the fancy wireless ear buds you’d started to expect. Instead, it’s a felt-covered box. Slowly, you lift it out, realization starting to dawn on you. When you look up, Atsumu has slid down to the floor in front of you, propped up on one knee. He plucks the box from your surprised fingers and cracks it open to reveal a beautiful, intricately designed ring. 

He clears his throat. “Y/N, I love you so much. I know bein’ with me isn’t always easy, but for some reason you’ve stuck around. And I’m glad ya did.” He pauses to huff out a nervous chuckle. “So if you’ll have me, it’d seriously make me the happiest man in the world if ya’d agree to marry me.”

Your fingers have flown to your lips. “Tsumu!” You squeak out between them. “Yes. Yes! Of course I will!” You slide off the couch too and throw your arms around his neck. Immediately, he pulls you close, pressing his face into the crook of your neck for a few moments and letting out a muffled sound that’s something akin to a squeal.

“I love ya so much!” He repeats, pulling away just enough to kiss you, lips sliding insistently against yours and deepening the kiss.

“I love you too,” You say against his lips as you finally pull away, a brilliant smile stretching across your face as you close your eyes to lean your forehead against his. “Wow,” You breathe finally, pulling back enough to look into his face. “I can’t believe I’m marrying such a jerk!” You swat his shoulder, and he throws his head back and lets out a loud, giddy burst of laughter.

“Ya sure are,” He smirks, leaning in for just one more kiss.

[refinedbuffoonery]

Looking Through A Window (3)

macriley married undercover au

masterlist.

Fun fact: the final scene of this chapter is part of my original brainstorm for this fic. The rest of the scenes I initially dreamt up won’t come until much later, so I’m thrilled to have at least one of them come early on in the story. 

To Carrie and Anna, the lights of my life: I named the neighbor after you two. She’s annoying as shit and nothing like either of you, but I needed a name and decided if anyone deserves to have their name as an Easter egg, it’s the two of you. 

*****

Despite the storm, Matty has the shipment of borrowed guns delivered to the Port of Houston in the middle of the night. While they eat breakfast, Mac and Riley study Matty’s excruciatingly detailed directions for navigating the port and finding their shipping crate. She certainly didn’t make it easy on them. 

Riley leans back in her chair, looking around until her eyes land on Harley. “Time for you to earn your keep,” she says between mouthfuls of toast. 

Supposedly, this is what Harley specializes in—sniffing out weapons. The dog should be able to confirm which shipping container the guns are stashed in without Mac or Riley having to check themselves. Theoretically. 

Mac finishes his own plate of eggs and toast in a few ravenous bites. “Thanks for making breakfast.” He gets up to clear the plates and start rinsing dishes. After living with her for more than a year, Riley making breakfast is routine, but Mac still thanks her for it every day. 

Living in the apartment together, they fall right back into their old habits. Mac wakes up early and goes for a run. By the time he returns, Riley is awake and making breakfast. After they eat, Mac showers while Riley goes on her own run. And so on and so forth. 

While Mac was out this morning, he wove through the whole neighborhood, making sure it’s safe for Riley to go out alone. She can handle herself, but Mac has no delusions about the overall quality of men on the streets, and even though he can’t fix that, at least he can help minimize her chances of encountering creepy dudes. 

Before they leave for the Port, Mac and Riley scour their car for a bug or any other surveillance equipment the organization might’ve hidden while they were inside the warehouse talking to Conrad yesterday. They find none. Thankfully. 

Once again, they’re going in armed, and the weight of Mac’s gun feels just as foreign and unwelcome as it did yesterday. He tries not to fidget with it while Riley drives, but she notices his discomfort anyway. “You’ve got to relax,” she says. “All your squirming is stressing me out.” 

“Sorry.” Mac stills, even though his whole body screams to put the gun somewhere else. 

Anywhere else. 

Once they arrive at the Port, Mac guides Riley through the maze of cranes and crates and warehouses until they find the one Matty had the guns stashed in—dark green and otherwise nondescript. 

Unfortunately, there are multiple shipping containers that fit that description at the location Matty provided. As they get out of the SUV, Riley glances between the boxes nervously. “Uhh, which one is it?” 

Mac doesn’t have a clue. “I guess that’s for Harley to tell us.” He looks down at the dog standing obediently beside him. “Find it.” 

He releases the leash as Harley takes off like a rocket, sniffing each container and the surrounding area. She inspects more than half of them before sitting and looking back at Mac. He waits for her to bark, but she doesn’t. Whoever trained her clearly did so with stealth in mind. 

“Do we open it to double check?” Riley asks. 

Mac opens his mouth to say yes, but he doesn’t get a chance to answer before a muddy, dark-blue diesel truck parks beside their SUV. Conrad jumps out of the driver’s seat, accompanied by two younger men, wearing matching scowls and Carhartt jackets. He walks with that same entitled swagger, and a cheap smile spreads across his face. 

“Mr. Turner!” Conrad exclaims, shaking Mac’s hand. His grip is too firm to be friendly. Stepping back, he sneers at Riley, acknowledging her just long enough to impatiently say, “Genevieve.” Mac doesn’t miss the way Conrad’s eyes drop to Riley’s chest, nor the way Riley bristles beside him, wrapping her jacket more tightly around her and crossing her arms to hold it in place. Mac clears his throat. “Sorry,” Conrad says, not sounding sorry at all, “but your wife is very attractive.” 

Riley rolls her eyes so hard they nearly fall out of her head. 

“Your order is this way,” Mac says, cutting off Conrad before he could make another gross statement, “Follow me.” Mac puts a hand on Conrad’s shoulder, squeezing hard as he steers the man toward the shipping container. Harley is still sitting beside it, waiting patiently, and Mac scratches her head with his free hand. 

Riley whistles, a single sharp note that sends Harley running back to her side. Mac buries his relief that she’s not alone, although he’d still much rather the hulking bodyguards were closer to him than Riley. 

Focus, Mac reminds himself. Riley can hold her own. Just get this over with. 

Mac opens the container, revealing two nondescript wooden crates. Still sneering—at this point, Mac’s starting to think that’s the only expression Conrad is capable of—Conrad waves over his bodyguards, gesturing for them to open the crates. 

For just a second, Conrad’s sneer edges toward a smile. Inside the crates lie exactly what he ordered: military-grade, semi-automatic rifles and enough ammo to kickstart the apocalypse. Mac’s gut churns. He hates this. He hates everything about this. He hates that he’s arming terrorists. He hates how these men look at Riley like dogs drooling over a steak. He hates that he can’t do anything about any of it, that he has no choice but to play along. 

Mac wishes he could bury his feelings the way Riley does, locking them behind a carefully controlled mask. Instead, his linger just beneath the surface, waiting to make themselves known at the first available opportunity. 

Counting backward from five, he steels himself to finish the game. Just as Conrad brushes a reverent finger down the barrel of a rifle, Mac chides, “We followed through on our end of the bargain. Did you?” 

“Of course.” 

One of the bodyguards pulls out his phone. In a deeper voice than Mac expects, he says, “We can wire the payment to your bank account right now.” 

“Good. My wife will help you set that up.” Mac gestures to Riley, and the bodyguard walks over to her. 

Conrad extends his hand, and Mac takes it, trying not to wince when his arm brushes his concealed gun. “Pleasure doing business with you, James,” Conrad says. 

“I hope this is the beginning of a long and prosperous partnership.” Long and prosper? Who was he, Spock? 

“Indeed. Welcome to the Patriots.” Conrad gestures for his men to start loading the guns into their truck. “Expect another order within the week.” 

Mac doesn’t know how to respond to that. Thankfully he doesn’t have to, because Riley waves him over, apparently having finished her conversation with Conrad’s lackey. “I’ll leave you to it,” Mac says, then turns his back on the terrorists and rejoins Riley. On instinct, he reaches for her arm as he murmurs, “Are you okay?” 

Riley tenses under his touch, but doesn’t pull away. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“Good.” He said the same thing to Conrad just a minute ago. Good. But the word is light years different from before—soft and caring, not curt and vaguely challenging. Bozer pointed it out to him once, how he talks to Riley differently than he does anyone else. 

Mac shakes off the thought. He can’t get distracted, no matter how much his mind only wants to think about Riley. Releasing her arm, he says, “Let’s get out of here.”

*****

Back at the apartment, Riley settles in on the couch to dig into the Patriots' bank records. By wire-transferring the money instead of paying them in cash, Conrad practically offered up the organization's entire digital footprint on a silver platter, at least to someone like Riley. She doesn't speak as she works, so Mac listens to the melody of keyboard clicks while he makes them each a grilled cheese. 

Contrary to popular belief, he's not completely incompetent, although Bozer has nearly everyone convinced otherwise. Mac will never be able to cook something fancy, but he does make a mean sandwich. 

He even spreads mayo on the bread, the way Bozer does, because Riley prefers it that way. 

The sizzle of the sandwiches hitting the hot pan joins the keyboard clicks right as Riley announces, "I hacked into their bank records." 

"What've you got?" 

"From the look of it, the shell corp they used to pay us has only been around for four months. Before that, they must've either paid in cash or used personal accounts." 

"That makes sense though, since the Patriots haven't been around all that long." 

"That's what I thought at first, but come look." Mac does, leaning over the back of the couch so his head is right beside hers. Riley points at the screen. "The first three transactions were all big deposits, each one two weeks apart." 

Frowning, Mac squints at the tiny numbers on the screen. "One hundred thousand dollars?" 

"Times three deposits," Riley adds. 

"Where the hell did they get that kind of money?"

"I don't know. The deposits were cash." 

“Damn. Did you at least figure out who their previous arms dealer was?” 

“Yeah.” Riley shifts, causing her hair to tickle Mac’s nose, and he brushes her hair to the opposite side of her neck without another thought. “Turns out their previous dealer has Mexican cartel connections, which explains why the Patriots only paid them twice. I’m guessing they found out about the cartel part and broke it off before they made a long-term deal.” 

“At least they’re not complete idiots,” Mac mumbles. Tired of squinting, he leans closer to better see the screen. 

Except now they’re cheek to cheek, and Mac suddenly can’t focus on the screen at all. 

Riley twists to look at him, and it takes every ounce of Mac’s willpower not to glance at her lips. "Are you burning my grilled cheese?" 

"No." He straightens, simultaneously disappointed and relieved by the space now between them. Mac shakes off the thought. He can’t keep getting distracted like this. 

"Uh huh. Sure." 

Retreating to the kitchen, Mac calls, "That was one time!"

*****

As expected, they don’t hear anything from Conrad or the Patriots the following day. Mac doesn’t know what to do with all the downtime on this op. There are plenty of books in the apartment, but he’s too restless to sit and read. He opens the fridge, more out of boredom than actual hunger. 

They’re on day five of the undercover op, and it’s starting to feel an awful lot like quarantine. With nothing to do but hurry up and wait, hanging out in the apartment and doing nothing is starting to make Mac go a little stir crazy. 

When Riley emerges from the bedroom wearing workout clothes, it’s clear she feels the same way. “I’m going for a run,” she announces. 

“Want company?” He hopes she says yes. Anything to get out of the apartment for a while. 

Riley unplugs her phone from the charger and slides it into her pocket. “No offense, but no.” 

Dammit. Mac shoves down his disappointment. “None taken.” He closes the fridge. Nothing in there looks good. 

“Tell you what,” she says. “After I get back we can go to the space museum, okay?” 

His heart skips a beat at her offer. “Is it that obvious I’m bored?” 

“Yes.” Riley gives him a pitying smile. “So do you want to go?” 

Mac smiles. It feels like she just asked him out on a date. It’s not, but it feels like one anyway. Be cool. “What kind of question is that? Of course I do.” 

“Okay then.” Popping in her earbuds, she walks out the door. 

“Enjoy your run, muffin!” Mac calls, stealing Bozer’s go-to pet name for when he’s undercover with Riley. She reaches back inside to flip him off before slamming the door shut, and Mac chuckles. Riley really hates that nickname.

Now it’s just him, Harley, and this tiny apartment. 

Resuming his search for food he’s not even hungry for, Mac opens the pantry, and Harley comes running into the kitchen. She must’ve learned the sound of the door opening since they keep the dog food in there. Harley looks up at Mac expectantly. 

“Don’t look at me like that.” She whines, and her pleading expression reminds Mac of the wide-eyed look Bozer mastered as a kid while begging his parents for something. Neither are very effective. “You just had breakfast an hour ago,” he insists.  

Harley glances at the open pantry, then back at him. 

Mac doesn’t give in, but he does kneel to pet her instead, scratching Harley’s neck and ending up with a handful of hair. Frowning, Mac digs through every drawer in the kitchen in search of a dog brush. No luck. He checks the bedroom and bathroom, coming up empty once again. Who even organized this house? It makes no sense. His gaze lands on the laundry room door. 

Ah. 

Sure enough, there’s a dog brush on the shelf above the washing machine. 

Leash and brush in-hand, Mac calls out, “Alright, girl. Let’s go de-floof you.” 

Harley takes one look at the brush and sprints in the other direction. 

Well this is going to be harder than Mac anticipated. 

He ends up chasing Harley throughout the apartment, zig-zagging from one room to the next. Every time Mac gets close, Harley slips by, just out of reach. After the fourth time she sends Mac stumbling into the furniture after lunging for her and missing, he realizes what she’s doing. 

Harley is playing him. This is a game to her. And, so far, she’s winning. 

Mac stares the dog down, and she seems to narrow her eyes in response. “Challenge accepted,” he tells her. 

This time, he knows exactly where to find what he’s looking for—peanut butter. He smears an unnecessarily large glob into Harley’s dog bowl, making sure she sees exactly what he’s doing. Harley’s stubborn, and does a good job of appearing not to care, but Mac has a hard time believing any dog would turn down peanut butter. 

Harley, it turns out, is no exception. 

She follows him to the door, and Mac rewards her with a few licks of peanut butter while he clips on the leash, careful not to let her eat so much that there’s not enough to last while brushing her. Despite Harley’s obvious enjoyment of the peanut butter, Mac is no fool. She let him win this round, no doubt about it. 

He leads Harley down the stairs to the small lawn in front of the apartment building, where it wouldn’t matter if he left dog hair everywhere. The brush pulls away thick chunks of her undercoat with each pass, and it doesn’t take long for the lawn to look like something died there. 

The peanut butter, unfortunately, doesn’t last nearly as long as Mac hopes. 

Mac figures out pretty quickly that Harley does not like her tail being brushed; she turns away and tucks her tail and generally makes it impossible for Mac to reach it. He sits back on his heels, formulating a new strategy. “If I don’t brush your tail,” he says, “you’re going to look like a squirrel, and neither of us wants that.” 

Harley’s ears prick at the word squirrel. 

Mac tries again, and this time Harley lets him…sort of. It’s not perfect, but at least she won’t be leaving hair all over the apartment anymore—hair that he needs to vacuum, because Riley asked him to last night and he’d completely forgotten until now. Tucking the brush into his back pocket, Mac scratches Harley’s ears the way he learned she likes, and when she leans into his touch, Mac’s heart swells. 

“Good girl.” He kisses her head, and Harley licks his chin in return. “See? We’re not so bad.” Mac sighs. “I know we’re not who you wanted, but we’re going to take good care of you.” 

Riley made the same promise in the war room. Even if she doesn’t stay with them after the op, Mac will make sure Harley ends up with people who will love her for the rest of her life. 

“I promise,” he murmurs into her fur, kissing her head again.

Mac startles when a feminine voice calls, “You could make a whole other dog from all that hair.” A middle-aged woman stands in the walkway, oversized blue purse on her shoulder and car keys in hand. She smiles at Mac. “I haven’t seen you before. Did you just move in?” 

“Yeah,” Mac says, standing up. “My wife and I moved in this week.” 

“Well, welcome. My name is Carrie Ann, and my husband and I live in apartment 317. Feel free to stop by anytime. I think you’ll like living here, though I must warn you that it gets pretty loud during football season.” 

Mac nods. “Nice to meet you. I’m James.” He expects Carrie Ann to keep walking—presumably to her car—but she doesn’t, and Mac suddenly gets the feeling this conversation is about to be much longer than he wants. 

“And who is this cutie?” she asks, directing her attention to the dog. 

“This is Harley.” 

Carrie Ann sounds like a squeaker toy, greeting Harley in a voice so high-pitched it’s almost inhuman and petting her without bothering to ask for permission. Harley eyes the woman warily but surprisingly sits still. “I love dogs,” she says at a mercifully normal decibel. “Sadly my husband is allergic.” 

“That is unfortunate.” Mac shifts from foot to foot, eager to escape the small talk. He’s never really had the patience for it. 

Carrie Ann, it seems, is completely oblivious to his discomfort. She prattles on, asking asinine questions about what he does for work, if he’s been to the coffee place down the street, and when she can meet his wife. 

Mac doesn’t know if it’s a blessing or a curse when Riley appears in his peripheral vision, as if on cue. “Actually,” he says to Carrie Ann, “you can meet her right now.” Mac flashes Riley a wide, bright smile that she returns half-heartedly, chest still heaving after her run. Sweat glistens on her body, and a few wispy curls that escaped her ponytail are now plastered to her face. “This is my wife, Genevieve.” 

Giving Harley a quick scratch, Riley stands beside him, close enough that Mac can feel the heat radiating off her body. Instinctively, he starts to put a hand on her back, but he quickly pulls away. She’s not wearing a shirt—only a sports bra and those stupidly tight leggings—and the intimacy of putting his hand on her bare skin is too much to handle. “Hi,” she says, completely oblivious to Mac’s internal panic. 

Carrie Ann introduces herself again, and Mac is only half-listening while she and Riley chat. Riley’s so much better at small talk anyway. 

He’s much too focused on how Riley grabs his shoulder to use him for balance while she stretches. She’s so casual about it, like she’s done it a million times before. His skin burns under her touch. 

Mac wants to feel more of her, wants his whole body to feel like that. 

Stop it, he chastises himself. Stop thinking about her like that. 

He can’t. 

Even after Riley lets go, the feeling lingers, and Mac can’t stop thinking about that too. She’s standing slightly in front of him now, almost as if she’s protecting him from their nosey neighbor.

“When are you having kids?” Carrie Ann coos. “An attractive couple such as yourselves would make such beautiful children.” 

Shit. He and Riley never talked about that. 

Before Mac can come up with an answer, Riley pulls his arms around her, a smile blooming on her face. She guides his hands to rest low on her abdomen. “We’re actually trying right now.” 

Mac’s brain short-circuits. 

He blushes, both at the casual intimacy of Riley wrapping herself in him and at the implications of what she just said. Pressing her body fully into Mac’s, Riley looks up at him, smiling like he’s her whole world, and Mac’s heart stops. He’s not breathing. 

His whole body burns, and the feeling is so much more intense than he imagined just seconds ago. 

Alight with mischief, Riley’s dark brown eyes draw him in, and suddenly Mac is picturing Riley with that exact same expression while wearing far less clothing. 

Mac thinks he might die from spontaneous combustion. 

You are so beautiful, he barely stops himself from saying. His blush deepens as he’s snared in the mental image of him and Riley doing said “trying.” 

Their neighbor has the audacity to laugh. “Well, I’ll let you get back to it, Genevieve. Your husband looks like he’s ready for another round.” 

That makes it worse. So much worse. If he doesn’t spontaneously combust, then he’ll definitely die of embarrassment. It’s not how he wants to die, but it’s better than explaining his reaction to Riley. Because she’s going to ask him about it. Mac knows this—knows this like he knows grass is green and gravity is what keeps his feet on the ground.

As soon as Carrie Ann leaves, Riley does exactly that. She extricates herself from his grasp, putting her hands on her hips and furrowing her brow the way she always does when she knows something’s up. “Are you okay?” she asks. 

Mac’s voice is strained as he replies, “Yeah. I’m good.” 

He is not good. He is definitely not good. 

And Riley knows it. 

This op feels like all Mac’s worst nightmares coming to fruition. Simultaneously. 

Riley can’t know. Her knowing would ruin everything—their friendship, their work, their trust. Mac can hardly look her in the eye. How is Riley supposed to trust him when he’s secretly thinking about her like that? He’s her friend; he’s supposed to protect her from guys who want her like that, not become one of them. 

But god does Mac want to be one of them. Not one of them, he corrects himself. The only one. 

He’s screwed.

.

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[callboxkat]

Statement of Patton Sanders

Author’s note: Anon, this is probably not what you meant, but, hey! Here you go!

Summary: Statement of Patton Sanders regarding a series of accidents. Statement recorded live from subject, February 7th, 2021, by Logan Sanders—no relation—Head Archivist of The Magnus Institute, London.

(Necessary bg info: The Magnus Institute is an organization that takes and investigates statements about paranormal experiences. Jurgen Leitner is a character who collected books with supernatural powers.)

Warnings: This is a The Magnus Archives AU, so if you’ve listened to that you should know what to expect. Body horror (cut off fingers, broken neck), nondescriptive vomiting, blood mention, food mention. Child abuse, sort of. It's in a story in this story. No character death or villain characters.

Word Count: 3289

Original prompt:

Writing Masterpost!

Ao3 Link

@badthingshappenbingo​

...

“Hey, we have the same glasses.”

“Yes, I suppose we do—Do you need help with the chair? Oh, you’ve got it.”

Patton and the other man sat down on opposite sides of a desk. He was a weary-looking, bespectacled man who couldn’t have been much different in age from himself, although slivers of premature gray were visible in his hair.

The man—an archivist, he’d introduced himself as—leaned forward to turn on a tape recorder. It seemed a little old-fashioned, but it certainly did fit in with the overall vibe of the place (recording on a laptop would have probably felt out of place), and Patton didn’t mind. This would be much easier than hand-writing his entire statement.

The archivist cleared his throat. “Statement of Patton Sanders regarding a series of accidents. Statement recorded live from subject, February 6th, 2021, by Logan Sanders—no relation—Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.”

Patton shifted in his seat. The archivist sat across him, looking at him expectantly. The tape recorder lay innocently on the desk between them, the tape inside slowly turning with a quiet tick. They sat in the basement of the oft-mocked Magnus Institute. They were in an office, but even here the walls were lined with bookcases, stacked with boxes upon boxes, each of them, it appeared, filled to the brim with folders, or with cassette tapes. Other peoples’ statements, presumably. Patton wasn’t sure how he felt about that. His story just being one of hundreds more, maybe thousands, in those boxes.

“Do I just… start?” he asked.

The archivist adjusted his glasses. “Yes, please.”

He nodded, swallowed, and even before he’d fully decided where to begin, he spoke. The words came surprisingly easily.

“I used to work at a library in my home town, back in the US. It’s a little town in Florida, almost at the border with Georgia, pretty near the coast. I don’t… I don’t work there anymore, of course. But at the time—this was about three years ago, back in 2017—I was there most days.

“One day we got this book in the return bin. It was weird. Not one of ours. It didn’t have a title that I could see, but there was a label on the inside cover. It was a bit smudged, but the last name was Leitner. I don’t know if it belonged to them, or if that was the author… I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, I guess.”

He noticed that the archivist suddenly seemed very interested in what he was saying, even leaning forward to hear.

“I was about to move the book over to the donations bin—I figured that’s what it was, you know, just a book somebody didn’t want, and decided to give to us rather than throw away, and got the wrong bin by mistake. But… I don’t know. Something about it just drew me in. I have no idea what; usually I go more for cookbooks, or crafts stuff, or um, lighter fiction. Not… that.”

He tried for a weak smile, but the archivist didn’t seem open to humor. Which Patton have once found awkward, but now it was almost a relief. He wasn’t sure how to make his story funny.

“So I took it out of the return bin, and I put it on my desk, instead. I was busy right then, but when I had a free moment, I sat down to take a look at it. It was old and worn, and like I said, there was no title. But it had this… weird feeling to it. Something off about it. I didn’t like it at all. But it was like I had to open it.

Patton sighed, glancing away. Suddenly, he felt on the edge of tears.

“And I made the biggest mistake of my life, and I opened that book.

“It was a story about a child who keeps refusing to do his chores. His mom would give him things to do, and the kid would say, ‘Yes, I’ll do them!’ but then as soon as the mom leaves, he’d drop the broom or whatever and run off to play with his toys instead. And as time goes on the mom gets more and more tired of this, because she has to do all the chores he doesn’t want to do.

“So, she takes him aside, and tells him sternly that he has to do his chores, or there would be consequences. And of course, he doesn’t listen, because he’s a kid.

“So the next day, takes him aside again, and tells him again to do his chores, and he continues not to. And it continues like that for ten days. But on the tenth day, the mom trips on the broom that the kid left in the middle of the floor, and she hurts herself. Very, um… very badly. She… breaks her neck. But she gets up off the floor, and her neck is all… it’s bent at a 90 degree angle. And there’s blood on the floor. I remember that page very vividly. Most of the book was in black ink, with some—” He made a face, “—illustrations. In the picture on that page, the blood was red.

“So, the mom… she goes to the kid, her neck all wrong, and she tells him, ‘You’re going to clean until your fingers fall off! Which… he does. She makes him clean, and clean, and clean. He has to scrub the floor, and when he finishes, she makes him start all over again, and again, and again. And, one by one, his fingers just… fall off.”

Patton was silent for a moment.

“On the last page of the book, there was a handprint. It wasn’t printed, you know, with ink. It was stuck in with a dark substance. I like to think maybe it was chocolate or something… but I doubt it. The weirdest thing about it, though, was that it had no fingers.

“When I closed that awful thing, I looked up, and it was dark outside. I’d apparently been reading for hours. I want you to understand—this wasn’t a big book. Maybe twenty pages, tops. And I’d found it near the start of my shift. I have no idea where all that time went, or how I didn’t notice it passing. Or why no one came in to disturb me. It’s like no one came to the library that entire day. I lived in a small town, like I said, but it wasn’t that small. We usually had people trickling in and out, even on slow days. Retired people who needed something to do, school kids doing homework, you know. You have a library here, you should understand, even if yours is more, uh… specific. So, it was really strange that no one had come in at all.

“Anyway, it was a horrible, horrible book. It was like someone set out to write a kids’ book about why they should do their chores, but instead of that, it was this nightmare version. I really didn’t want to add it to our library. Where would you even put a book like that? So I didn’t put it in the donation pile like I’d planned. But I also didn’t seem… able to just, like, get rid of it. I couldn’t just throw it away. Not because it was old and weird and maybe worth some money, no, more like… I don’t know. I just couldn’t do it. It’s hard to explain. So I put it in my desk, went home, and tried to forget about it.

“I’ll admit that, at the time, my apartment—my flat, you call ‘em here—wasn’t the cleanest back then. And thinking of that book, I kind of wanted to clean it. But also… I really didn’t. Thinking of that book made me very aware of the mess, but I kept thinking of that kid and the way his fingers just fell off, one by one, with that horrifying mom with her broken neck just watching, and then that handprint in the back of the book.

“I thought maybe whoever owned the book last, that Leitner person or whoever, put the handprint in there as some kind of joke. Just tilted up their fingers so they didn’t touch the page, to make it look like they didn’t have any. But I guess I kinda doubted that, even then.

“I made dinner that night, fed Jim and Pam—they’re my cats—and I left the plates in the sink to clean the next day.

“In the morning, they were stacked on the counter, perfectly clean. I tried to tell myself maybe I’d cleaned them and forgot, or maybe the cats had…. Somehow bumped them, and licked them clean, and it had just coincidentally looked purposeful. I don’t know. Pam liked to jump up on tables.

“I’d almost put it out of my head when the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting any visitors, but sometimes a couple of my friends would drop by at random, so I might not have thought much of it, except that my cats suddenly started acting different. Scared. They were hissing, and they ran off to hide. That wasn’t like them at all. …I didn’t answer the door.

“A half hour or so passed, and I figured whoever it was was probably gone, so I went to peek out the front window. Sure enough, whoever it was… if there ever even was anyone out there… was gone. But there was a box sitting on the welcome mat. Plain cardboard, no shipping label or address or anything.

“I should have left it alone. It probably wouldn’t have changed anything, but… who knows.” He let out a heavy sigh. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t leave it alone. I looked around, I wanted to make sure no one was there. No one was, as far as I could tell, so I opened the door.

“The box was small, maybe 6 inches long, a little less tall and wide than that—err, I’m not sure what that is in metric. Maybe like… 15 centimeters?”

The archivist waved him off. “It’s fine.”

“Sorry. So the box was small, and it was very light when I picked it up, which was honestly a bit of a relief at the time. I could practically hear one of my friends, Virgil, screaming at me about mail bombs. He’s a pretty cautious guy. Now I think maybe he had the right idea.

“I thought maybe the box was empty, even, until I stepped over the threshold and… and I uh, felt something rolling around in there.”

He shuddered at the memory.

“I brought it into the kitchen and opened up the box. Inside was… inside was a single, human finger, cut off just below where the joint would have been on the person’s hand.

“I felt sick. I was sick. I barely made it to the trash can. I remember my cats still didn’t come back to see what was going on, which was unusual for them. Normally they were very nosy little guys. It was like they knew something was very, very wrong. I don’t blame them for staying away.

“I called the cops right away, of course. Or, as soon as I’d calmed down enough to dial the number. I mean, course I did. Someone had dropped off a finger at my door.

“The lady on the phone was very nice, but I don’t think she believed me at first. Or maybe she just couldn’t understand what I was saying. I was a little upset, obviously. Eventually, though, the police did show up. They took the box, asked me some questions, and they left.

“That night, I was in the kitchen, cleaning the dishes, trying to forget the whole thing. I was almost done, but then, somehow… the garbage disposal turned itself on. Something wrong with the wiring, they told maybe. I was so surprised that I dropped the plate I was holding, and the stack of dishes shifted, and somehow, my hand ended up… my finger went down the drain. Into the garbage disposal. It all happened so fast. One second I was just washing a plate, humming the intro to Steven Universe, and the next….

“I scrambled to turn it off, but it was too late. I grabbed a dish towel and drove myself to the hospital in a panic. Only remembered later to send someone to look after the cats.

“They couldn’t save my finger, even if they had tried. There wasn’t anything left to save.

“A week later, I got another package. Left at my door, just like the last one. Identical to the first, but this time it was a different finger. Maybe from the same hand, but it wasn’t like I looked at it long enough to know for sure. And I’m not a doctor. I called the cops again, and they came. They weren’t much help. They poked around a bit, talked to the neighbors, and told me to get a security camera. I did do that.

“I was very careful that day, remembering what had happened last time, even though I knew it was ridiculous. What, some crazy person leaves a severed finger on my doorstep, and that somehow makes me lose my own in a freak accident? …But I was careful, anyway. And nothing happened that day. But the next morning, when I went to go to work… I slammed the car door shut on my finger.

“It kept happening. The same plain cardboard boxes left at my door. The camera always seemed to cut out when they were delivered, although once I swear I caught a glimpse of a silhouette. It looked… wrong, though. Maybe it was a tree casting a shadow or something. No one’s head looks like that.

“I stopped calling the police, eventually. They didn’t help. Just asked the same questions, swore they were doing all they could, and left. I stopped opening the boxes, too. I tried throwing them out, burning them, kicking them into the gutter. I went to stay with my friend Virgil, but the box found me there, too. I moved twice. It didn’t seem to matter. Every week, a box would show up, and within a day or two, even if I never even opened my front door or looked at the box, I’d lose another finger. Until….”

Patton looked down at his lap, where his hands sat. Where each finger should be, they instead ended in neat little stubs just after the knuckle. They were remarkably even, considering that he’d lost each one in different ways, in different weeks. One after the other.

“After that, it finally stopped. My hands healed as much as they ever would, and I went back to work—I still don’t know how I kept that job—and I found that book in my desk. I tried to throw it out, but I couldn’t make myself let go of it. I tried to feed it to the paper shredder, but I couldn’t make myself rip out the pages. Eventually I just threw it across the room, and it landed neatly in the pile of donated books. Apparently, it would have let me just… add it to the collection. But I couldn’t let other people read it—What if the same thing happened to them? So I took it home with me.

“I did try to get rid of it on the way there. I stopped by the river, a dumpster… I tried to set it on fire. Imagine trying to get a lighter to work like this. I couldn’t follow through with any of them, though, and not just because of my hands. The book wouldn’t let me. Or I wouldn’t let myself. I don’t know which it was, really. Maybe I was afraid something worse would happen if I managed to destroy it. I don’t know.

“I locked it away. Buried it where I couldn’t see it. Still, it was like it was calling to me, telling it to hold it, to read it, to place my own hand over that awful handprint. It was driving me crazy. The cats wouldn’t go near the room it was in.

“I tried to ignore it. To forget about it. For a while, I thought it was working. I was still constantly aware of where it was, but it got easier to ignore.

“Then, one day, the doorbell rang. It was another box. Inside was a single, severed toe.”

A silence stretched between them, yawning between Patton and the archivist. The tape recorder ticked on. A tear rolled down Patton’s cheek. When he continued, his voice was choked.

“I will never forgive myself for what I did next, but I couldn’t go through that again. Please don’t judge me. I know it’s unforgiveable. But you can’t understand what it was like, not if you’ve never been through something like that.  I knew it was the book by now, that was doing this to me, and I had to be rid of it. I still couldn’t destroy it, but I could… give it away. So I went and I got the book, and I wrapped it up as best I could, and I wrote ‘DO NOT READ’ on the package in capital letters. And I gave it away. I don’t know who I gave it to, and I don’t want to know. I drove across town, stopped at a random house, and stuffed the book in their mailbox. I can only hope they never read it.”

Patton let out a shaky breath. “It worked.”

The archivist’s face was impassive.

“After that was all finally over, I decided I needed to get out of there. Not just out of the town, but as far as I could get. I had family in the UK, and one of my friends studied abroad here and loved it, plus you guys speak English, so it seemed like as good a place to go as any. So I moved. Nothing else has happened since. I don’t have any fingers, but at least I have all my toes, and I’m rid of that awful book. I’ve tried to forget the whole thing, which as you might imagine, is a little difficult, but I try. Still, when one of my coworkers mentioned this place—I work at a shop now, restocking at night, so I don’t have to see the customers—I decided to come. I just want to be rid of this story. So… if you guys can track down that book, stop it from hurting anyone else, please do.” He clenched his hands, as well as he could. “I don’t want its weight on my mind anymore. It’s done enough to me.”

He fell silent.

“Statement ends,” said Logan. The archivist leaned forward and turned off the tape recorder. “Thank you for coming in. You can leave the way you came. Roman, my assistant, will take down your details. We might contact you if we need further information. Do you, by chance, remember the address of the house where you left the book?”

Patton shook his head. “No, I… I didn’t want to know.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Alright. Well… we appreciate your time.”

“I hope my statement… ah, comes in handy,” Patton joked weakly. He almost smiled at the gobsmacked look on the archivist’s face, the most emotion he’d shown the entire time Patton had been there. And then, he got up, and he left his story behind. He’d given it away to someone else, and he was done with it.

[yikesharringrove]

oh god okay feel free to ignore this if you want, idk? but um ive been really struggling with eating lately (like i just kinda panicked about the thought of eating?) and you're really good at writing all this kind of stuff so maybe billy struggling with eating after starcourt (for medical and mental reasons) and steve helping but still bring gentle and encouraging (totally okay if this is a sensitive for you or if you don't want to write it 💕)

This is pretty heavy.

Under the cut for medical stuff, disordered eating, talks of throw up (nothing graphic), me projecting.

The first bit under the cut is my medical story, so skip that if you would like.

Read on Ao3

-

So, oof. A little background. I spent three years misdiagnosed when I was young. I was so sick and in so much pain (one of my organs had literally died) that I couldn’t eat. If I did, I was in such severe pain I would throw up. I was 5 feet tall and weighed 62 pounds. If I had lost 2 pounds, I would’ve had an intestinal feeding tube. The doctors thought I just had an eating disorder from doing ballet. They would look at my chart, see another chronic illness I have, and blame my pain on that. They found what was wrong BY ACCIDENT and fixed it within a few hours in one (1) surgery.

So this is based largely on that.

-

He pushed the mashed potatoes around the plate.

“I thought hospital food was supposed to be like, bad. This is pretty alright.” Steve had wolfed down the plate he had gotten himself, not paying much attention to how the plate he had brought Billy was still full.

“Yeah. It’s okay.” He had taken one bite.

He felt fucking sick.

The thought of food, of something in his sore stomach, made him want to hurl.

“You’re not eating?” Steve’s eyebrows were scrunched up, concerned.

“Don’t feel too good.”

“Would something sound better? I could get you whatever you wanted.”

“Um, just like a ginger ale or something. Then I’ll try eating again.” That was his go-to. Ginger ale or Sprite, the carbonation helped his stomach enough that he could force some food down for a while.

Steve got him a few cans from the vending machine.

He ended up taking three bites of potato.

-

Steve made dinner when he finally got to come home.

They had decided he would move in with Steve, “live” in the bedroom across the hall, but they both knew he would be spending the most time in Steve’s room.

He had just made buttered noddles, nothing that would be hard on Billy’s weak stomach, but he had made the noodles from scratch.

And Billy was just staring at them.

“You feeling okay?”

“Just, uh, you know. Stomach’s kinda off.” Steve got him a can of ginger ale from the fridge, slid it to him with a bright smile.

The gesture was sweet, but Billy just didn’t want to risk it.

Every night he spent heaving into the toilet, it made his muscles seize and hurt. It made his throat burn for hours, made him feel like he was wasting away to nothing.

-

He always used the same hole on his belts.

He knew it was the right one from the way the leather was stretched a bit, the buckle leaving indents on it.

But that was too big now.

Did nothing to hold up his pants.

His pants that used to fit.

He tightened his belt.

Two notches. He was two notches thinner.

-

Billy could hear the blender when he woke up.

He was curious as to what Steve was doing, what the fuck he was blending up.

He came downstairs, found Steve with grocery bags all around the kitchen.

“Hey! I’ve been doing some research.” He poured the thick smoothie into a blender. “I think this might be easier for you to eat and keep down. There’s protein powder and some ginger, that should help keep your stomach calm, and spinach and some fruit and stuff.” Steve was fidgeting with his hands.

“Thank you.” Billy sat down with it.

Steve let him take his time, let him drink it in tiny sips.

He was about halfway through when he threw it all up.

-

Billy hadn’t eaten in two days.

But he also hadn’t thrown up in just as long.

Steve poked a plate of plain toast towards him.

Billy stared at it.

Steve sighed.

“Will you just, take one bite? For me?”

He took the smallest bite he possibly could.

Steve let him wait ten minutes before he pushed the toast back towards him.

They continued that until Billy finished the toast, waiting a while between each bite in order to make sure it wasn’t on it’s way back up.

He kept it down almost the whole night, until the pain in his stomach flared again and he was heaving into the large mixing bowl Steve kept next to the bed.

-

Billy was laying on the bed, curled into himself, clutching his stomach.

Steve had been behind him almost all day, rubbing his back, talking in a low soothing voice.

He left when there was a pounding on the door. He left the door open, Billy could hear Max’s voice.

“Jesus, Max. You’re a mess.”

“It’s, it’s raining. And I fell.”

“Why were you skateboarding in the rain?”

“I um, I remembered, whenever Billy felt sick, he liked eating lime popcicles, and I went to Melvald’s, and I got some.”

She sounded hysterical.

“Alright, thank you, Max. Thank you. Let’s get you cleaned up.” He heard them coming up the stairs, going into the bathroom on the landing he kept the first aid kit in.

They were in there for a while before Steve came in, talking in that soft voice he always uses.

“Billy, Max is here.”

It felt like a feat for him to roll over.

Her knees were bandaged up, and her face was splotchy.

“Hey, Shitbird.”

“You look like shit.” He huffed a laugh.”

“Feel like it, too.” Her lip trembled. He didn’t want that. “Hey, thanks for the popcicles. Can I get one? Lime, right?”

“Yeah. Lime.” Steve helped him sit up, gave him one of the popcicles.

It tasted good, and the cold was nice on his throat.

And he even kept the whole thing down.

-

Steve was standing next to Billy as they waited for the doctor.

He had lost nearly thirty pounds since he’d been home. His muscle was nearly entirely gone.

“Steve, just, play it cool.”

“I will not.” He had his pissed off mom face on, and Billy knew he had no qualms about yelling at a doctor.

“Steve, this is just, my life now.”

“No. I refuse to accept that.”

“You yell at Owens every time we’ve come in for the past four months, Steve.”

“And I’m gonna keep yelling until shit gets fixed.”

There was a rap on the door before Dr. Owens let himself in.

“You need to help him.” Billy huffed as Steve started in immediately.

“Um, good morning to you both.” Dr. Owens looked between the two of them.

“Billy can’t eat without throwing up. Look at him. He’s fucking wasting away.”

“Steve-”

“No. I can’t take it anymore. There is something fucking wrong. It is your job to fix it.”

Owens’ eyes were wide, Steve was on a roll.

“Every day, every day he can’t eat anything. He won’t because he’s in pain, and he’d rather not eat than throw everything up. And you need to help him.”

Owens was quiet.

“Let’s run some tests.”

-

Billy was in imaging within a few minutes. He had an x-ray done of his abdomen, and Owens ordered several blood tests.

They were in another room, Billy was having an ultrasound done of his entire stomach.

The tech was looking at his intestines, finding everything normal.

“Look, you’re already doing all this, can’t you just kinda, poke around?”

“I’m not sure-”

“Just kinda,” Steve made a vague wiggling gesture around Billy’s stomach.

She gave him a look.

But she sighed, moving the wand up his body.

“Huh?”

“Wait, what’s huh?”

“Um, excuse me.” She left in a hurry.

“Wait, you think they found something?” Billy’s eyes were side.

“If they did, and I was right, you’re never gonna hear the end of it.” Billy rolled his eyes.

The tech returned with an older woman, pointing at the screen and discussing in low voices.

And then the doctor was leaving again, and the tech was wiping his stomach.

“So, we’re going to prep an operation room. We’re going to have you in there as soon as we can.”

“Wait, what?”

“His gallbladder is infected.” Steve was fucking grinning when he turned back to Billy.

“So, I was right?”

“Steve, read the room. Surgery.”

“Oh, fuck.”

-

Steve was biting his nails.

The chairs in the waiting room were stiff and uncomfortable.

They were given the run down. Billy’s gallbladder had become infected. Probably due to the traumatic situation of his injuries and the many surgeries it took to put him back together.

It was almost completely dead inside his body, causing severe pain and all the vomiting. The doctor had explained that his rapid weight loss had probably only hurt it more.

They said it would take about two hours to remove.

Steve had been staring at the large clock as the two hours clicked by.

It was creeping up on two and a half, and he was getting fucking antsy.

He scrambled to his feet when a nurse called him back.

“You family?”

“Yeah, I’m his brother.” It was easier to lie. He needed to see him.

“He should be waking up very soon. It’s easier if there’s family. His surgery went well, the surgeons were able to remove his gallbladder with no other complications. He may be in pain and delirious when he wakes up, put that will pass, and we can give him more medicine if he needs.” They had stopped in front of a nondescript door.

Steve let himself in, taking the seat closest to Billy’s bed, taking his hand. His eyes were already blinking slowly. He smiled softly when he saw Steve.

“Pretty,” his voice was soft.

“Hey, Baby. I’m right here for you.”

“Thanks for, thanks for fightin’.” Steve smiled back at him, running a hand through his hair.

“Of course, Bill. I’ll always fight for you.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too.” Billy smiled again. “You feelin’ okay? Need more meds?”

“Nah. Feelin’ good. Feelin’ high.”

“Yeah, they gave you the good drugs.”

“Good drugs.” He laid back in the pillow, his eyelids looking heavy.

“Go to sleep if you’re tired, Bill.”

“Don’t wanna. Wanna see you.”

“I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” Steve kissed his hand.

[bestillmyslashyheart]

own personal hell

Isobel breezed into Maria’s tiny apartment, her mind only half on what was going on in the room, the rest running through everything she needed to get done today. “Alright. What’s the big emergency?”

Liz and Rosa exchanged glances (and that really should have clued her in, Isobel thought later. Liz was never unsure about anything) and waved her into the living room. Michael was lying prone on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Maria was crouched next to him, shaking his shoulders. “Come on, Michael, wake up,” she was crooning sweetly.

“What the hell?” Isobel hurried over to Michael’s side. ‘What happened?”

“He wanted to try using his telepathic powers,” Maria explained, wiping at the stray tears on her face. “We agreed he’d go into my mind and make me go pick something up from around the room.”

“Okay? And?” Isobel snapped.

Maria shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know. He sort of zoned out for a minute, sort of like you do when you do your thing, and then he just fell over. It’s been almost an hour and we can’t wake him up.”

“He’s responsive,” Liz added. “Physically he seems to be fine, but-”

“He’s in pain!” Isobel yelled when Michael’s face screwed up again.

Liz took a deep breath. “It looks like it yes but physically he seems to be fine. We think maybe something went wrong with the telepathy and whatever this is, it’s in his head.”

“Which we can’t do anything about,” Rosa added unhelpfully. “We called Kyle to come check his vitals or whatever to make sure but he’s stuck at work.”

Isobel dropped her bag on the floor and shifted to get more comfortable. “What are you doing?” Maria asked. 

“Figuring out what the hell happened with my brother,” Isobel answered absently as she placed a hand on Michael’s forehead and reached for his mind with hers. It took a few minutes just like it always did when Isobel reached for Michael. The two of them had never had the connection she and Max had had and Michael was generally closed off anyway so it was always difficult when she tried. 

Michael tended to refer to his thoughts as ‘the chaos’. Isobel had always privately mocked him for it until the first time she entered his mind only to find a maelstrom where most people had peace.

This time it was…worse.

It was more organized and yet more chaotic. Where before she could find his consciousness at the center of a million thoughts, all of them too fleeting and nondescript for her to catch, now she caught concrete thoughts and images and memories. They flitted around her too fast for her to really see but they were there nonetheless.

“Michael?!” She called, her voice somehow echoing inside the nothingness. “Michael!”

“Izzy?” Came a whisper. Isobel followed it until she found Michael’s hunched form trying eagerly to become one with the space around them.

“Michael!” He flinched away from her when she reached for his shoulder. “What is going on? Why are you in here?”

“Izzy?” He whispered again.

Isobel furrowed her brow. “Michael?” 

Michael flinched hard, his whole body jolting away from her as a pained scream erupted from his throat. Instinctively Isobel stepped back, just in case she had done something. But just as his scream cut off, another came. Only this time it came with a flash of image, a hammer slamming down onto his left hand. Once, twice, three times. On the third hit, Isobel caught a glimpse of Sgt Jesse Manes’ face, twisted in anger and hatred. 

And then it was gone. Michael wasn’t screaming anymore, the image was no more.

“What the he-”

Another flash, this time of someone spitting on him and yelling in his face about his utter worthlessness.

Silence.

Another flash, a bright red cross being pressed into his arm. This came with another scream from Michael.

Silence.

Her own face, her own voice. “Why can’t we just go back to the way things were? Everything was fine!” This time it came with the crushing feeling of disappointment, that everything was fine when Michael was a murderer, but not okay when it was Isobel. The feeling wasn’t her own.

Silence.

“You’re not my friend! And you’re not my family!” Max. Her heart broke open. Only, again, it wasn’t hers.

Silence.

Before the next flash came, Isobel crossed the distance and grabbed at Michael, trying to get him to stop. It didn’t work.

A guitar sat at his feet, a kiss lingering on his lips, as a truck drove away. The dust cloud kicked up behind it last longer than the image of the truck. Isobel somehow knew Alex Manes was the driver.

Silence.

Ann Evans looked down at her sadly. “I’m sorry, honey, but you can’t spend the night. You need to go home.” A sleeping bag in the back of his truck, the empty desert stretched out around him.

“Michael?!” Isobel distantly heard Maria’s voice. “Please, baby, please wake up.” Michael showed no signs of having heard her as the silence came again.

Desperately, Isobel shoved every loving thought she’d ever had about Michael into the space around them.

It was their 16th birthday. It was a small affair, a few friends from school. Well, a few of Max’s friends. No one Isobel had invited had come. As Max had fun with his guests, Isobel snuck out the back door to hide. Michael followed her a moment later and they spent the rest of the night making up stories about the stars they could see. 

Silence.

Max again, his face lit by a bright smile this time. She felt his arms wrap tightly around her and a warmth bloom in her chest.

Silence.

Liz dragging him onto the dance floor, her eager hands nudging him into a semblance of a dance.

Silence.

Maria’s smile, brilliant and kind, her arms warm around his waist. 

Silence.

Silence. Only it was different. It was stillness. It was peace. The thoughts that ever raged inside him all calmed down. Isobel felt like she could finally take a breath only for it to catch in her throat at the sight of Alex’s eyes, droopy with sleep but oh so fond. 

Silence.

Lights and sirens blaring. A woman Isobel doesn’t recognize trapped behind glass. (It’s Michael’s mother but she doesn’t know how she knows) A glance between the woman on one side of him and Alex on the other and in an instant a choice is made. A piece of Michael breaks at the idea of leaving his mother to die but he doesn’t hesitate to follow Alex away.

Silence. And this time Isobel doesn’t wait for the next hit. She takes half a breath to center herself before pulling away from Michael and back into her own mind.

“Woah!” Someone yelled as she toppled sideways. Her chest was heaving and there was a wetness on her cheeks but Isobel barely registered it.

“He’s trapped,” she gasped. “He’s trapped in there and I can’t get him out.”

Two sets of hands push her into a seated position and she finally opens her eyes to see the Ortecho sisters on either side of her, Maria still by Michael’s side but staring at her in fear. “What does that mean?” 

Isobel paused to catch her breath, feeling like she’d just finished a marathon. The room was noticeably darker than it had been when she arrived but she had no idea what time it was. “It means we need Alex Manes.”

[bloodandpaintchips]

A Second Draft

Tagging→ Andrea Sheldon, Gunnar Leidolf  Time Frame→ November 4, 2020 Location→ Sangren, Colorado General Notes→ The blue tape had to come down eventually.

The bed in Andrea’s new room at Johnny’s was like a giant pillow. She’d only left once, to look at the moon and to find someone to feed on (a nondescript patron at Ted’s who she merely compelled to forget that 10 minutes so he could keep drinking). Now she was back in this really soft bed and alone with her thoughts. And now that she was back in town, those thoughts were drifting to Gunnar a lot. It was a sore spot, as she couldn’t think of him without thinking about August and the things August took from her. She got to feel the things she felt with Gunnar after the fact, and she’d so often find herself closing her eyes and trying to place herself in the murky memories. She had to get out of this bed. That buzz from having just fed was right under her skin and she knew just laying around missing him, miles away from where she remembered he stayed, was a little ridiculous. She was in her van in moments, driving to her father’s house and hoping he’d been long asleep. Her features changed momentarily and she could feel it. She had a lot of emotions to regulate, especially looking at her old house, but she was here with a purpose -- in and out. 

Climbing the side of the house near her bedroom was incredibly easy and she briefly thought about how she’d probably be getting used to random discoveries of what she was capable of for a long time. The window was open, considering Frank probably just avoided the room, even when he was waiting for her to come back. Slipping inside, Andrea scanned the area and quickly gathered her work boxes, one full of graphite and brushes and markers, the other full of bulky acrylic paint tubes. All right where she left them. She was back outside in moments, tossing the boxes in the passenger seat before getting in, starting the engine and taking off to Gunnar’s. Not wanting to waste time when his place came into view, she got out, grabbed the boxes and locked the van before making her way up to his door. A few seconds were spent wondering how he’d even react or how she’d explain showing up years later to make good on an art promise, but she shook her head finally and knocked.

Gunnar had spent the better part of the hour hauling in a brand new television. And he wasn't sure if that was responsible or a little bit sad. A rare day off and when he'd left the auto shop he'd decided shopping was a good idea. Granted, he needed the new TV but the normalcy of it all was odd. And oddly comforting. The large flat screen was set up, cable installed, and he was settled on the couch with some mindless comedy when he heard the knock. 

Strange, that. He sniffed the air, finding no trace of something unfamiliar or unwanted (no cloying honeyed smoke), and shuffled to the door. Whoever, whatever it was, it wasn't like he couldn't handle it. More than likely some poor sod selling something that knocking on any other door would've gotten him a bite for his troubles. He wasn't, however, expecting to see her. The arched brow was the only indicator of surprise, eyes unreadable as they studied the pretty features of the girl who had disappeared in a cloud of mystery and remained as such for so long, Gunnar wasn't sure what to believe about the why and when, if ever she was going to return. But there she stood. Different, but not. Changed, yes. And so he stepped aside and gave her a short nod. "Come in."

When he opened the door, even though she had no clue what to expect, she smiled a little. True, she missed him and seeing his face again just reminded her how much. He looked exactly the same, only his hair was short. Still thick, though. Eyes still very blue. At his invitation, she walked in and set the boxes down in the nearest convenient spot before facing him completely. “So um,” she started, kicking her foot toward where she set the boxes. “I came to work on that.” She turned her head to look around the space, eyebrows raising when her gaze landed on the gridded blue tape -- still there. Fixing her eyes back on him, her smile returned despite her efforts to keep it subdued. “Fuck.” With that, she bounded toward him, practically jumping up to wrap her arms around him in a hug that she hoped would transfer all her feelings. “I’m sorry. I missed you,” she said into his shirt. 

He watched her enter his space, eyes shifting briefly to the box and then to the wall. It would be a lie to say he hadn't thought about the blue tape still outlining the long-abandoned art project. Hard to, considering it took up the entire length of it. He'd long stopped tossing the odd and errant glance at the thing and eventually it faded into the background, usually only coming up whenever a visitor, rare that that was, had inquired. And he'd never actually give a response, simply shrugged. But there she was, the prodigal artist returned. No worse for wear, barring the change in diet. 

And the strength. Jesus. That was wholly unfamiliar. Odd to place to the very human, very delicate Andy of old. This one, still pretty, but with a considerably stronger grip. He returned the hug, instinct not to put his full strength behind it. Difficult to break, the old habit. Andy, less so. He didn't understand the apology at all, and his lips lifted into a brief smile that he pressed into her hair. "Only a little late," came his reply, the dry humor of it all hidden in his hug. "Missed you too."

Laughing at his words, she held onto him a little longer before pulling away and running a hand through her hair. “I would’ve been on time, but some stuff happened,” she replied, smirking and giving a small shrug. “I probably should have called. Or something. I don’t really know what’s polite. But I brought all my crap with me to paint. I also figured I should tell you what happened. Well not should, but I want to tell you. If you’re still willing to have me talk your ear off and put creepy stuff on your wall.” She found herself taking him in, possibly trying to fill in those memories again. “I like your hair.”

"Figured as much," he replied, letting his smile linger as she pulled away. "Don't worry about it. What's done is done. Still glad to see you." Calling probably would've been the right thing to do. But Gunnar could understand the urgency that came with getting the hell away. Andy had ties, though. And she hadn't struck him as the type to disappear into the night. But all things considered, he got it. "Don't mind either. The talking or the art." Her compliment made him laugh, a short gruff sound and he raked a hand through the shorn blond locks. "Thanks. Got tired of combing it. Needed a change. See you did too." He nodded towards her own hair. "Suits, though. You want something to drink? Beer? Tea? Do tea now. Big changes."

She picked up her boxes and walked over to the wall, setting them down and looking it over to get a feel of just how big the space was. “Good.” She thought about all of the things she wanted to tell him, where she would start, and how to say it all. The idea to paint the wall was honestly a way for her to figure all that out without just taking up space in his loft. Working with her hands also just opened her up in a way she’d never been able to explain. “Beer is cool. Thanks,” she replied, getting her graphite sticks out and a small piece of tarp to set them on the floor. “So I’m just gonna go with my gut on this and hope you don’t regret still letting me do this. I used to have a plan but those are kind of leading me to shitty places lately, so I’m gonna go with the flow.” She smiled, turning to look at him. “I think I’m in the right place for it.”

Gunnar left her to sort out her supplies and headed to the kitchen to retrieve their beers. "Don't think I would've kept the tape up if I changed my mind," he told her once he returned, handing off one of the chilled bottles. "Been some time, but I still remember you're a dab hand with paint and art. Sure that hasn't changed." The 'right place' part was interesting, and Gunnar was sure she wasn't just talking about the wall. He wondered what other places she encountered and what had finally brought her back to this one. "Not much you could do that I wouldn't like."

Taking the bottle, she brought it to her lips and downed most of it before setting it on the floor near her supplies. “Guess I was thirsty,” she said, smiling briefly before grabbing a piece of graphite and picking a corner of the grid to start mindlessly outlining a figure. Her hands worked quickly, weirdly keeping time with her brain in a way that she wasn’t used to. She filled in shadows until finally, she spoke again, not tearing her gaze away from what she was doing. “Do you remember the last time we saw each other?” She had things she wanted to say but she wasn’t sure if she could look him in the eyes about it yet. So she kept sketching.

"Looks like." His own bottle rested comfortably on his denim covered knee once he settled back on the couch. Gunnar sipped his beer and chuckled. Knocking back beers; another newly acquired quirk. The television was on, saving them from a long gap of silence while she worked and posed a question that Gunnar had wondered himself, plenty of times. Still, he didn't answer right away. Curious about the way her fingers moved easily, as if no time had passed. Or the way she asked without actually looking at him. "Been some time, pet" he answered honestly. "You wanting to know something specific?" He paused, taking another sip from his bottle. "Think it was when we were out on my bike. Took us for a ride."

She was already finishing up on a figure outline, moving on to another as she gave him time to answer. When he did, she stopped, setting the graphite down and turning to him. “Yeah, it was when you took us for a ride,” she replied. The memory was a happy one, but it didn’t make her smile. “I remember too. And after you brought me home, I got roughed up real nice, fed on, and then compelled by August to believe it was him. Again.” She tucked some hair behind her ear and sat against the wall, facing where he was across the area on the couch. “Actually, every time I was with you, barring the first time, was...in my mind, with August. I guess he was grooming me or something. He’d been changing my thoughts repetitively for months and I had no clue, until he took the trust I had in you and tried to use it to take my virginity. Well he didn’t try. He did. And this happened,” she said, quickly gesturing at her face as it turned, only for a moment. “The wedding’s off though,” she joked, the smile not reaching her eyes. She didn’t look at Gunnar yet, unsure of how her word vomit would land and trying to subdue the flecks of anger she already felt describing it all.

Gunnar let her talk, expression unchanging as the words hung in the air. The truth of the matter that had left them both confused (and much anger on his part) finally revealed. The haze of those happenings had bothered the hell out of him. Knowing something was amiss with the dandy that seemed intensely occupied with Andy. And now he knew why. Her bouts of forgetfulness. The bruises. Christ, her face. He knew that, of course. Sussed it out from Johnny, what August had done to the girl. And part of that rage lingered in him. Angry with himself, for not noticing who and what the asshole was, put the pieces together in time. It'd been too late for Andy then. She was different now. He tried to suss out where her emotions lie, difficult in the almost clinical way she spoke of August twisting her mind and taking and tainting the memories. Nothing to that smile, or the gallows humor. But then he sensed it, fleeting spark of anger. Familiar in feeling, but foreign coming from Andy. But understandable. A justified rage, metered but not mindless. Nothing less than what she owed to herself, and the unfortunate situation she was put into, against her will. He pushed the beer bottle to the coffee table, and regarded her, unsure of what to say.

When she finally looked up, grabbing a piece of graphite to twirl in her hand, she kept going. “I know this is a lot. There’s like, no way to make it not a lot, if that made sense. But yeah.” Sometimes she liked being able to cry, but as liquid began to burn at her lids, this wasn’t one of those times. She didn’t even know what kind of tears they were — angry, remorseful, etc, she just wiped them away quickly. “He’s dead now, I killed him pretty much immediately. Before I even registered that I could kill anything. But all I felt was red, for months. Like I couldn’t even control it or my actions, and when I was finally able to, I was still fucking lost. I was afraid of what I would do but most of all I just felt shame?” She met his eyes, hers a bit bloodshot. “And once my mind was clear enough to really assess what happened...why every time I was with him it felt like a copy of something, why I was telling myself I was in love with him but I kept trying to leave with you somehow, I felt...stupid kinda. Like it was my fault. I know logically it wasn’t but I couldn’t even be here. I made up some great journey in my head to find my mom but it was all me trying to run from the reality of what happened. I think I still am a little, but I needed to come home. I left a lot here.”

No one could fault her for taking off. Gunnar surely didn't. Mostly. He knew what it was like, having that kind of rage inside, first glimpse of it, and the impulsive need to get the hell away from everything. Gunnar watched her, the tears she brushed away, and he felt nothing but grim satisfaction at August's end by her hand. Learning the full truth, the dandy deserved far worse. His fingers twitched against his denim-covered knees but he didn't furl them into fists. It wasn't needed. Andy didn't need his anger. Words, words were better. Even though they were never really easy for him, he liked trying for her. "Know you wouldn't leave if you didn't have a reason. Same for coming back. S'not your fault. Even if you know it, doesn't hurt to hear it. Did what you had to do. What you thought you had to do. Just glad you remembered you had things worth coming back to."

She let a tear fall and smiled, genuinely this time as she listened to him grumble out those things she really needed to hear from him. Andy knew he wasn’t much for words; he expressed himself in other ways, but he tried for her and it was evident. It made her feel happy to be back and regretful at the same time. “I did think I had to do it. I thought I had to do a lot. I’m always thinking. Vampirism didn’t get rid of that, unfortunately.” She put the piece of graphite in her hand back on the tarp and pushed herself off of the floor to go sit next to him on the couch. “I’ll probably finish the wall in a week. It’s gonna be all the faceless things I always saw in my head. Easy to duplicate, the eyes and hands and just, curtains of darkness. I’ve committed it to memory. But right now I wanna sit here,” she told him, tugging at a band on her wrist. She was quiet for a few moments, gathering her thoughts again. “I’m sorry. I know that might sound silly to you but I don’t know how else to express the things I feel, one foot away from you. I just have these memories of you that feel like they’re fifteen years away because they were so fucked with and maybe I’m just sorry in general. I feel like it’s all a bunch of sorry. But I won’t bore you with all of my regrets and sorries. I just wanted to say it one more time I guess. Now I have to move forward and I’m...not great at that,” she said, turning to look at him and smiling again.

"Might be a good thing, that Andy overthinking. Balance out the impulse control." His lips lifted in a light grin. "No rush on the wall. I'm around mostly, and I'll give you the spare key. Pop in whenever." Gunnar shifted slightly when she sat beside him, glad the distance was reduced. She'd been far away long enough. Carrying, from what he gathered, a pretty heavy weight. August. Her road trip. Something about her mother. What happened with them didn't need to be another one of her burdens. "S'not silly. Can't say I think you need to atone for anything, least with me. Sometimes moving forward, might be better." He exhaled and reached out, stilling the fingers that were still tugging at the band on her wrist. "Can't undo what he did, taking those memories. It's proper fucked up. Still us, though. Some changes. Give it some time. You work on your wall. We'll be alright."

Her fingers stopped moving under his and she blew out a breath, sinking into the couch a little more and feeling a relief she didn’t even know she was searching for. “I feel like I forgot what it feels like to relax,” she said quietly, letting herself slump over and rest her head on his shoulder. “Everything happened so fast, and then I was just feeding and running and searching in an endless loop. Always so much energy directed in different places...now I’m talking about making art again, something I haven’t even thought about since I left. And I’m here, and your place smells the same and you smell the same. I was almost getting used to the upheaval, but I’m remembering what content feels like again,” she explained, laughing a little. “It’s nice to not be freaking out about something for a bit.”

"Not much to freak out about here," he told her, surprised that it was true, for the most part. Things in Sangren were always strange, but familiar in its weirdness. Human Andy was always so cautious. This new Andy lacked the body heat but was no less warm in actions. Head on his shoulder. Rambling. Not the same, but similar in the ways that mattered. In the Andy ways he'd missed. "Pretty new for you, pet. Feeding, and the like." His smile was brief at the sound of her laughter. "'Spect you'll fall into the rhythm again. Different now, you being all super strength. Can't make you tremble anymore if we ever spar again."

She nodded against his shoulder, silently agreeing. She had become her own greatest fear, so while Sangren felt so familiar, it also felt like a completely new place for her to get to know. But having a place to stay in Johnny’s home where she felt so safe, and sitting here with Gunnar and feeling the warmth and activity under his skin -- it wasn’t overwhelming. “Feeding...yeah. I’m still not totally used to it but it’s interesting being able to just…” she started to focus on his arm, running her fingers down his veins and turning into his neck a little more. “Smell and feel everything? And hear everything.” She paused, taking in what he said and laughing a little. “Super strength or not, that’s still very much a possibility. The trembling was attributed to a few things there.”

He hadn't meant it the way it sounded, but hearing Andy admit to the trembling being more than just their afternoon spar made him laugh. "Guess that's true enough. Gave you plenty to tremble about." It was strange to think about her feeding. Not in a bad way, just a wholly different picture of the girl he'd last seen. The timid one who wouldn't have been as bold, tucking her face into his neck or initiating touches. "Do I have to worry about you sizing me up for a meal or for a fight?" he asked, the question dripping with amusement as he dipped his head, letting his faint grin brush the top of her head in a brief touch. "Takes getting used to, I'll bet. Senses in HD. Blood is a rush. That I know. Guess you're less about the spilling than the savoring, though."

Andrea thought about how much that would have made her blush before, but it just made her smile. “As for nervous trembles, you’d probably still get those. A little. Despite this practically new body, I haven’t…” She stopped, biting her lip and trying to find the right words. “Sparred like I probably could. I haven’t even felt the hunt since those first couple months when I couldn’t control it, and that was like just seeing a dissociative red for an extended period of time. I don’t know my strength yet, which anyone could tell from my now-crinkled steering wheel.” Honestly, she was afraid to know it -- the scope of what she could do. It was like she didn’t know her own hands anymore, the only thing making her think that wasn’t true being the way she just eased into working on the wall again. It told her maybe she was different but not entirely, and maybe she could know herself fully again. Maybe more than she did before all this. “You don’t have to worry about me trying to eat you. I may like your scent more than usual and maybe I can hear the blood flow in and out of your heart, but I don’t wanna eat you. Maybe taste but only with consent,” she joked, shaking her head. “But you’re right. Feels like an understatement actually. Trying to balance living life still, but through this whole new lens.” She didn’t comment on the last part, knowing her feeding method was so inefficient and probably wouldn’t last her. But she didn’t want to talk about that.

"Yeah? What makes you nervous lately?" He listened as she recalled her experience, seeing red and feeling that out of control strength and something like understanding tugged at Gunnar, because he got it. Knew the thrill, the taste and feel of it, and the slippery sensation of fear that went with it. "Like to tell that you get used to it, but you don't. Adapt, though. That happens. Evolve with the change. Takes some time. Test your limits. I could help with that. If you're ever feeling like you need a show of strength. Work out that energy." That...well perhaps that was meant a few ways. Gunnar smiled at her little joke, letting his fingers slide through her slender ones. "You smell different. Not bad. New, is all. Few days of playing in paint, remind me of that Andy scent." His fingers brushed her knuckles, eyes holding a thinking look as he considered his words. "Dunno if tasting's a good idea, pet," he rumbled. "Never had a vamp at my neck. No telling what my blood'll do. Wouldn't want this mess in here to harm you."

“I’m not sure how to explain it, but mostly I make me nervous. It’s weird knowing you’re capable of a lot, but not what exactly.” She appreciated his honesty, and the fact that it was from a reliable source -- they weren’t the same, but there was a bit of overlap and it made her happy to at least be talking to someone who knew what it was like to have to subdue something all consuming; to know that not being able to regulate emotions could lead to carnage. He’d felt that for so long, and she felt like she was joining a fucked up club. For a moment she remembered the fear in her father’s eyes when he saw her change and sighed. “It’s time for me to adapt to a few new things.” 

She leaned up a little to meet his eyes, searching them for a moment before smiling a little. “That could be fun, having my limits tested. I constantly have more energy than I know what to do with. You should definitely help me out.” She cleared her throat, getting distracted at the feel of his hand, rubbing the back of it with her thumb. “Just wait till I’m covered in paint. It’ll happen very soon considering how many layers of it I’m gonna need for what I have in mind.” She glanced over at the wall, smiling and feeling a little spark at the thought of creating something big again, still bigger than anything she’d done. His little warning made her swipe the skin of his neck with her nose again, lingering there for a few seconds before pulling away slightly, smirk in place. “Just say no to Gunnar blood. Got it. Wouldn’t wanna lose myself.”

"S'good, you having that bit of nerves," Gunnar said with a short nod. "Means you're not far gone. Can always come back to yourself. Seen plenty of types lost to the wildness. Nearly been there myself." He shrugged. The sigh that followed was curious, but Gunnar wasn't one to pry. Andy would talk on her own time. He liked the easy flow of their talks. Missed it over the years. And he wasn't surprised that she'd readily agreed to his offer. He could sense her strength, the raw power rolling off her in waves. That kind of energy always called to his own, even if it wasn't exactly the same. "Whenever you want us, then. I'm around." Andy's excitement about the wall and diving back into her art was infectious. It'd been so long since nothing but that blue grid, a strange reminder to that time that seemed forever ago. It felt full circle to have her back like this. Sitting with him and talking art...the blood chatter, that was new. 

There was more boldness, the brush of her nose against the line of his neck, keen sense of smell making his skin twitch. She was definitely full of power, and that was a curious, new thing. "Aye. Wouldn't say no to a nibble or two. But drawing blood, no telling what's to be made of that. Always been curious about it. Not curious enough to risk you, though."

“Can always come back to myself,” she mumbled, repeating him. “I think I’ve wanted to hear that for a while, Gunnar.” She sat with that for a moment, thinking about how for someone who usually didn’t chat too much, sometimes he said exactly what she needed to hear in the most succinct way. She pursed her lips at his words, listening and nodding in agreement. “Nibbles good. Bites bad. Best to leave the unknown where it is.” Some of his words stuck out to her and she inhaled a little, circling back to something he said. “Anytime I want? You promise?” She finally let her free hand wander, running her fingers through his hair, liking the smell of that too. “Cause sometimes people regret stuff like that.”

"Glad I could help." It was sincere and he backed it with a brief smile. It was good she'd agreed about the blood. There was enough already to sort with her memories of their previous encounters. Not to mention the bloodlust. He wasn't entirely sure where she was with control, and the last thing anyone needed was a test. The raseri didn't burn as hotly now and he hadn't dulled it with drugs in some time. But he was always aware. Always cautious. He did lean into the caress of her fingers. That was nice and familiar. He was amused by her playfulness, the suggestive of it all. "Promise. Haven't regretted anything we've done so far. No need to start. Especially since you remember now."

Andrea had been testing her limits, afraid to cross boundaries although she knew by merely coming to see him, the heightened aspect of it all mixed with her attraction would be intense. And he looked at her like he wanted her, and she could smell his breath, and his hair was soft on her fingers. She felt it all so acutely. His response only established some things, especially his mention of her memories. She wanted one that was clear, hers and never muddled with. Yes, she got them back but it was through a fog. She couldn’t remember how he felt. So she leaned up, tilting his head gently by his hair before brushing her lips against his. The contact made her want more immediately so she kissed him, releasing his hand so she could lean against his form and touch his face. “I’m sorry, I just,” she whispered once she was able to pull herself away, lips a little puffy from her excitement. “You just...I should probably be good and work on the wall.”

Gunnar accepted the kiss with a small grunt, more surprise than instinct. It was brief, and then Andy was pulling away, with apologies and an energy that was very much like her former self, so much that Gunnar could've smiled. Instead he reached for her, long fingers skimming her jaw, lifting her face to his so he could give her another kiss. Lips slanting over her own, soft and cool and he savored the feel of her mouth, dropping feather light presses before shifting back. "No thinking Andy," he told her, paralleling the impulsive words he'd given her on one of those muddled nights long ago. Daring her delicate human self to give in to those base instincts. He dropped his hands, letting his arm flop across the back of the couch as he regarded her. "Go be good now. Work on your wall. Don't wanna stand in the way of art. I'll be over here."

[bazypitchandsimonsnow]

Back to Haunt Me

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Light Angst

Word count: 12301

Summary: Simon Snow hasn't heard from his former roommate in years. So when he gets a call from him, he's equal parts confused and intrigued. Based on "I called you at 2am because I need you" request from @god-themself

Read on AO3

AN: I'm really sorry for how long these requests are taking, oy. Every time I start writing, the fic ends up getting longer and my stupid body decides to crap out and not work. Anyway, here's the latest fic. Hope you enjoy it :)

———————————————

Simon

I’m sitting upside down on my couch when I get the call.

It’s not something I do too often, just when I’m really, really stuck on something. I say that ideas pool in my feet and this lets them trickle down to my head. Penny thinks it’s absolutely ridiculous. She says it will give me headaches, and it does, but it also helps. I’ve been stuck for an hour on coming up with new lessons. This is my last resort.

So I’m laying upside down on my small couch, legs up in the air, face turning a very bright shade of red. My glasses slipped off a while ago, making me essentially blind to anything more than five feet away. My mind is swimming with new ideas for maths games and art projects, the mental images almost swirling past my blurry vision.

And when I’m deep in contemplation a new history Kahoot, my phone blares out my “Toxic” ringtone. (Britney is amazing and haters can fuck off.) I flip up way too fast, making my vision spin like water in a toilet bowl. I paw at my phone while I wobble back and forth. With the combination of my glasses on the floor and blood rushing from my head, I don’t bother to read the caller ID. Or lack thereof.

“Hello?” I say shakily, still clutching my head.

“Siiiiimon,” a low, slurring, strangely familiar voice says. Is a student prank calling me again? Dammit, I thought I scolded them enough.

“Jeremy, if that’s you, this isn’t funny. This is my personal mobile and you-”

“Aw, did you already forget me, Snow?” the person continues, and my heart suddenly freezes. “It hasn’t been that long has it? Only seven years.”

My jaw drops and I sit ramrod straight. Every vein in my body turns ice cold. Holy. Fucking, Shit. “Baz?!”

“Yes, it is I. Good evening, Snow,” he snorts, but there’s still that weird waver to his voice.

“A-Are you drunk?”

“Ding ding, we have a winner in every category,” he giggles. Fucking giggles. I don’t think I ever heard him let out so much as a chuckle in all the years I lived with him. He must be very drunk.

“Um, how did you get my number?”

“Remember when you got mysterious calls supposedly from the Babadook when we were fifteen? Surprise! That was me! Got your mobile off the school registry.”

My mouth falls open even more. “I knew that was you!”

“Duh!” There’s some shuffling on the other end. “Shush! Yes, I actually have him on the line. I’ll get him to come.” He’s definitely not talking to me. He lets out a long sigh. “I’m sorry about that, Snow. Super sorry, for everything I did back in school. So please don’t hang up.”

Admittedly, I was going to. But he sounds so pathetic and drunk, so I stay on. “Alright,” I sigh. “I’m still here.”

“Hooray!” There’s a short stretch of silence. He doesn’t continue, so I have to pipe up again.

“Baz,” I say, “not to be rude, but, uh, why are you drunk calling me? We haven’t seen each other in awhile and it’s...” I scramble to grab my glasses, then look at my wall clock. “After two in the morning. Plus, you like, hate me.”

“No,” he slurs out. He sounds well pissed. “I don’t hate you, Snow. You’re too much of a kind brave hero to hate.”

“Um, thank you?”

He laughs loudly. I’ve heard him laugh more in the last five minutes than I did our entire childhoods. “You’re very, very welcome.”

Again with the silence. I can’t believe I’m the one talking more between us. “So... why are you calling? You wanna catch up or something?”

Baz lets out a long, low groan. For some reason, I imagine him slumping against a wall or something. “I bloody wish. Stupid barkeep won’t let me leave until I call someone to get me and my stupid friends and stupid aunt won’t pick up.”

“So you decided to call me?!”

“You’re the only other person I know who lives in London.”

“Who told you I lived in London?”

“Aggie. Said you had a cute little flat and a cute little cat.” He giggles, and I can almost picture a dopey smile on his usually frowning face. It looks so weird and wrong. “Hey, that rhymes.”

I sit even more upright. “Wait, Aggie? As in Agatha?! Are you two dating now?!”

He scoffs. Now that really reminds me of our school days. “No, Snow, I’m not dating your ex. She’s not my type.”

“That’s rude. Agatha is very pretty.”

“I mean that she’s not a man, Snow.”

My face immediately turns scarlet, and this time not from being upside down. “O-Oh. You’re gay?”

“Once again, duh!”

“Fuck off, you flirted with her all the time!”

“Nuh-uh.” He sounds like a bloody obnoxious American. “Not really. Just did that to piss you off.”

“I’m hanging up,” I growl.

“Wait!” Baz shouts as I move the phone off my ear. “Please don’t hang up, Simon. Fucking hell, I need you.”

I seriously debate actually hanging up. But there’s something in his voice that tugs at my chest. It’s weird and explainable, but it’s there. I slowly bring the phone back to my ear. “You need me?”

“Yeah,” he groans. “I’m drunk as fuck and uh...yeah, I’m still bleeding.”

My pulse goes wild instantly. “Bleeding?! Are you hurt?!”

“Yeah, but you should see the other bloke,” he laughs proudly. “Bartender says if someone doesn’t pick me up and take me home, she’s calling the police to come get me. Doesn’t trust me with an Uber or something.” Baz makes a weird yet familiar sound. Is...is Baz Pitch sticking his tongue out at someone? What the fuck has happened in the last seven years?

“Alright,” I sigh. “Where are you?”

“Yay! I am...” He takes a long pause, which gives me time to rub my aching temple. “Hey, where am I?”

There’s more rustling and some muffled yelling. “He’s at XOYO,” a stern woman’s voice says. “32-37 Cowper St, second floor. We’re closing in an hour so get here soon.”

Before I can say anything else, the phone clicks off. I stay frozen for a moment. My brain is still playing a bit of catch up. So, Baz bloody Pitch has called me out of the blue after seven years, drunk off his arrogant arse, apparently gay, and needs me to pick him up. And now he’s sorry for being a dick to me through our entire time in school? That’s nice. Few years too late if you ask me, but better late than never I suppose.

I look down at all my notes, the ones I have to finish in a few weeks before the new school year. If I were a worse person, I would forget about Baz, finish my lessons, and just go to bed. He’s my former bully, I shouldn’t care. But when I think about Baz, drunk, bleeding, sitting there alone at a bar waiting for me but I never show up, my stomach plummets to the centre of the Earth.

Godammit.

I march towards the door, grab my keys, and set out to fulfill a bad idea.

Turns out this bar is right in the middle of bloody Shoreditch. Which means at this time of night (or morning), there’s lots of closing nightclubs and stumbling drunk people being sick on the sidewalk. Glad I didn’t take the tube.

XOYO is a mostly nondescript red brick building with some black panelling and a neon red sign. I park as close as I can, which is not that close. The stairs up to the club are steep and leave me panting by the end. Bloody hell, I need to get back to the gym. Chasing ten years old is not enough exercise apparently. The bar is one of those hipster places with wooden tables and old Victorian chairs and candles. There’s a few people passed out on tables, snoring with their beer glasses.

“Simon!” a familiar voice shouts from the bar. “Simon, over here!”

I turn to my left too look at the bar, and...wow. After seven years, Baz looks so different, yet so the same. Same sharp cheekbones, same long-ish raven hair, same deep sea grey eyes. He’s broader though, shoulders filling out his blood stained grey dress shirt. Far less gaunt and gangly and vampiric looking than he was in school. The shirt has the sleeves rolled up and the top two buttons undone. Weird. Baz always had his uniform buttoned to collar in school. Then I have to do a double take, because...Baz Pitch is wearing jeans? They’re dark and expensive looking, hugging his legs, which still have a footballer’s strong muscles. He has a big, dopey, drunk grin, which is offset by the small black eye and blood trickling from his nose. It’s unfortunate this is the first time I’ve ever seen him smile.

I walk towards him, hands in my pockets, shoulders nervously hunched in. Why is my heart beating so fast? Bloody hell, calm down, Simon, it’s just Baz. You know him, probably better than most people. He’s an arsehole, not evil. And we haven’t had a physical fight since we were thirteen. Plus it’s been seven years, we’re adults now. He won’t bite. Hopefully.

“Hi Baz,” I say, trying to hide my nerves. “Uh, nice to see you.”

Baz squints at me, and a pang of panic shoots through me. Is there something wrong with my face? Bloody hell, what a cruel twist of fate it would be, to see my childhood enemy after years and have pizza sauce on my cheek.

“Um, Baz, you there?” I weakly wave a hand in front of him.

“Since when do you wear spectacles?�� he asks, still slurring his words.

I instinctively touch my wireframe glasses, immediately self conscious. “Oh. Since first year uni. Turns out one of the reasons school Watford so hard for me was that I couldn’t read the board a lot.”

I chuckle awkwardly, rubbing the back of my neck. I expect Baz to laugh or mock me like he used to. But instead he grins again, leaning his cheek on his bruised hand. “They look good.”

Why are my cheeks heating up? Must be bad air conditioning. “Um, thanks, Baz.”

He keeps grinning, showing off his sharp bright white teeth. (There’s a good reason I thought he was a vampire.) “Welcome.”

It goes silent again, with me standing awkwardly and Baz grinning. Christ, this is so weird. I assumed I’d never see Baz ever again, let alone drunk and bloodied in designer jeans. I have less of an idea what to do than usual.

“Ugh, finally!” a woman’s voice says to the side. I whip my head around to see who must obviously be the bartender. She’s got a deep scowl on her face and hands on her hips. “You’re Simon Snow?”

“Um, yeah, that’s me,” I reply.

“Good. Please take this arsehole off my hands.”

Baz blows a raspberry at her like a toddler. Bloody hell, he is a weird drunk. The bartender glares and flips him off.

“I’ll get him out of here,” I say.

“Thank you.” She digs under the bar and takes out a sleek black iPhone. “Here’s his phone. Took it from him after he almost dropped it in a beer glass.”

“Alright.” My brow furrows in confusion. “Do you have Baz’s keys? Or does he still have them?”

“He never had them. Searched all his pockets, nothing there.”

“Worst feel up ever,” Baz grumbles.

I rub my aching temple. “Baz, did you really forget your keys?”

He frowns and scratches his head with a bloodied hand. “Hm, yes, I think I did. I left my flat pretty fast. Maybe the super will let me in if he’s awake.”

“Where do you live?”

His brows pull together, bottom lip sticking out in a pout. Now that is certainly an expression I remember from school. It’s his thinking face. I used to glare at him while he studied all the time. “Somewhere...posh, and silver.”

I groan and drag a hand over my face. “Alright then. Well...I guess I’ll bring you to my flat.”

Baz’s jaw drops open and he shakes his head, making his black hair fan out in a strangely majestic way. “No no, you don’t have to do that. I’ll figure it out-”

“No, Baz, you won’t, you’re too pissed to think right now. I’m taking you to my place, no questions.”

He frowns. I can’t tell if he’s sad or angry. “I don’t wanna im-”

“We lived together for years, arsehole. One more night won’t kill you. Come on, get up.”

I grab his bicep and haul him to his feet. Bloody hell, does he work out a lot or something? He’s made of fucking rock. Baz wobbles back and forth and ends up leaning on me. I struggle to keep him upright.

“Baz,” I grumble, “you’re too heavy, I can’t hold you up.”

“Sorry, sorry.” He sort of heaves himself upwards, still wobbling on his feet, but at least he’s standing. That’s something I guess.

“You good?”

Baz sticks out his arms like he’s on a tightrope. “Yeah, I’m alright. Mostly.”

“Good enough. Let’s go.” I look over at the still very annoyed bartender. “Uh, thanks for taking care of him.”

“If you’re really thankful,” she spits, “make sure he doesn’t come back.”

She marches off into the back. Baz flips her off before I quickly pull down his hand. “Enough,” I grumble. “Let’s get you out of here before she smacks you.”

“Kinky,” he chuckles. God, drunk Baz is fucking weird.

Getting down the stairs takes far longer than it should. Baz has to watch his every step so he doesn’t go tumbling down. He’s like a shaky newborn fawn. It would be cute if it weren't so frustrating. Finally, we get to the bottom and I lead Baz by the sleeve towards my car. He laughs loudly when we reach it. I immediately scowl and whip around to face him.

“What?!” I snap, assuming he’s making fun of my old beat up beetle. But instead he has his head tilted upwards, laughing at the sky. Neon club signs and yellow street lights light up his smiling face. He’s like a rainbow constellation, colour reaching every crevice. Huh. Baz has always been pretty, but has he always been this pretty?

“Lights in the sky,” he laughs. “Pretty.”

I groan and tug him hard. “Come on, you drunk prat, hurry up.”

Baz stumbles along reluctantly. I shove into the passenger seat and buckle him up like he’s a bloody eight year old, then take my place in the driver’s seat. Baz is slumping, the seat belt digging into his cheek. If we crash his pretty face is going to get cut open. I debate telling him, but Baz rarely ever listens to me, and I doubt that has changed much.

I turn the engine over. Baz lets out a whoop so loud I jolt. “Allons-y,” he shouts like some deranged adventurer.

“Silence, s’il vous plait,” I reply as I turn on to the road.

“Oo, you speak French now, Snow?”

“Yes. I lived in France for a year, I learned pretty well.”

“Very nice.” For a moment I think he’s mocking me, but his smile is completely genuine, if not a bit drunken. Is it weird that I like drunk adult Baz better than sober teen Baz?

I drive through Shoreditch slowly, making sure not to hit any wayward club leavers. Baz grumbles about the slowness, but I tell him to shut up or I’ll drive us into a pole. That makes him quiet for a little while, thank god. When we hit the main drag, he decides to pipe up again.

“So what have you been up to, Snow?” he asks.

My eyes briefly flick over to him, catching his grin and glazed eyes. I scoff and look back at the road. “Really? We’re going to chit chat about life after Watford?”

“You just want us to sit in silence the whole time?”

“Maybe.”

“Boring,” he groans. “Come on, Snow, it’s been a while. Let’s catch up.”

I chuckle low in my throat. “Yes, I would love to catch up with my plastered childhood bully.”

Baz lets out a pathetic sort of whining sigh. Suddenly, something brushes my shoulder. I jolt away and briefly look over, realising it’s Baz’s hand. He’s pouting in the way his mouth is perfectly made for.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About all the shit I did. I was a messed up prick at Watford. I’m really sorry I took that all out on you.”

I raise an extremely suspicious eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?!”

“It’s been seven years, Snow. Am I not allowed to learn from my mistakes?”

“Well, I mean, yeah, of course. I just didn’t expect it from you...”

“I’m a changed man, Snow,” he declares proudly. “No more picking on other people to avoid dealing with my emotional and family problems.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “Wow, you sound like a therapist.”

“That’s because I am a therapist.”

We stop at a red light, giving me a chance to whip my head around in shock. My jaw is firmly on the ground. “You’re a therapist?!”

“Sort of.” Baz grins pointed ear to pointed ear. He offers his hand, though it’s a bit limp. “Dr. Basilton Grimm-Pitch, psychiatrist in training at University College Hospital. Pleasure to meet you.”

I can’t take my hands off the wheel, so I don’t take his, but I smile instead. Baz chuckles as his hand falls, so I think he gets the picture.

“Wow,” I sigh. “You, a psychiatrist. I never would have thought.”

“Me neither, until I took a psychology course in year 10. Then I decided I liked, y’know, mind stuff and shit. It was interesting and challenging. And I could help people with it.”

I scoff, but with a smile. “And you used to call me the overly noble hero.”

“Well, I decided to follow in your golden footsteps, golden boy.” He turns towards me, cheeks squished against the seat. He’s really going to die if we crash. “So really, what have you been up to since Watford, Mr. Hero? Storming castles? Saving damsels in distress? Travelling the world?”

That makes me laugh louder. “You have a way overinflated sense of my heroism.”

He snorts, but it’s not unkind like it used to be. Just sort of amused. “Alright. Then what do you do?”

“I’m, uh, actually a primary teacher. Year six, to be exact.”

“Oh,” Baz breathes out, sounding genuinely amazed. “That’s cool. That makes sense, yeah.”

“Makes sense?”

“You were always helping out the kids in younger years at Watford.”

I chuckle and shrug. “Yeah, guess you’ve got a point.”

“Is it fun? Teaching children?”

“Yeah. I like finding fun ways to teach them stuff. Though it’s not great they get in fights or stuck lego bricks up their noses.”

Baz lets out a barking laugh. It’s a fun, sudden sound. I’ve never heard it before, yet it works well for Baz. “Is that what people mean by ‘the joys of children?’”

“Something like that. Is psychiatry fun?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “But time consuming. Doctors aren’t supposed to have damn lives apparently.”

“Well, good thing you found time to go to a hipster bar”

Everything suddenly gets very, very quiet. It reminds me of when we would study. Backs to each other, no noise, plenty of tension. Did I say something wrong? I used to do that a lot, but I thought I’d gotten better. I’ve learned to chew my words better over the years. But when we stop at a roundabout, I turn to see that Baz is gazing ahead, mouth a thin line and grey eyes lost in the distance.

“Pretty lights,” he whispers in awe, like a child. I guess alcohol does turn adults into children. His nose is still letting out a small trickle of dark red blood. I sigh and shake my head.

“Glove box,” I say.

Baz turns his head to me. “Huh?”

“There’s tissues in the glove box. Your nose is still bleeding a bit.”

“Oh.” He paws at the latch in front of him, floppy drunk fingers struggling to just bloody lift it. I sigh and reach over, lifting it for him. Baz takes out the little packet and flashes me that dopey smile. Why does my chest feel funny? I must be overtired.

“Thanks,” he says, then presses the tissue to his nose. It’s weirdly comforting in its familiarity. I still remember sitting in the headmaster’s office after our fights, covered in bruises and blood, glaring at each other. This is better though. We’re not fighting, in fact we’re being nice. Maybe this is how we could’ve been at Watford. Maybe we could’ve been...friends.

We sit in silence for the rest of the ride. But it’s a comfortable silence, no tension. I like it. A lot. I like all of this better than fighting.

———————————————

I pull into my spot in front of my apartment. Dragging Baz out of the car is a bit of a problem, but luckily my place has a lift, so no more stair problems. He starts leaning on me as we go up to my floor. I use one finger to push him back, and he slumps against the wall. I need to strap him to a dolly.

We go into my apartment, and I instinctively prepare for a snide comment from Baz. Something about it’s size, it’s clutter, the decor. But he says nothing derogatory. In fact, he smiles, brushing his hand against my Van Gogh print and old dining room table.

“You, uh, like it?” I ask. Wait, why does it matter what Baz thinks of my place? I don’t need his approval.

“Yeah,” Baz replies. “It’s very nice.”

There’s a thump from my room, followed by the familiar pitter-patter of tiny paws. Cherry prances into the room, all fluffy tailed and cute. She blinks up at Baz with big green eyes. Baz makes a tiny gasp and gets on his knees, holding his hand out to Cherry.

“Hello, pretty kitty,” he says softly. “Aren’t you an adorable little thing.”

Cherry sniffs his fingers, then immediately nuzzles against his hand. Baz looks absolutely elated, a big childish grin on his face.

“You like cats, huh?”

Baz nods vigorously. “I would have one if my building allowed pets.” He scratches behind Charry’s ear with glee. “What’s this little one’s name?”

“Her name is Cherry.”

“You did love those scones,” he chuckles.

I chuckle as well, fiddling with my shirt sleeve. “Still do. Though none are as good as Cook Pritchard’s.”

“Very true.” He stands up, pulling away from Cherry, and wobbles his way into the sitting room. He stands between my coffee table and ratty old couch. “So may I sleep on that couch?”

I scramble in after him and start piling up my curriculum papers. I don’t want Baz shouting at me for the mess. “Uh, yeah, just lemme fix it up a bit.”

“It’s alright-”

“No, I’ll fix it. And...maybe you should clean up a bit first?”

Baz turns to me with a confused expression. “What?” I sigh and point at is blood spattered shirt. He pulls it in front of himself, like a child who’s spilled food. “Oh, right.”

“There’s stuff on you face too...”

Baz drags a long finger over his cheek, and rubs the dried blood between his fingers. “Good  point.

“You wanna take a shower maybe?”

“Is that okay with you?”

“Uh, yeah. But be warned, I don’t have any of your fancy French soaps.”

He lets out a loud short laugh, like a happy little firecracker going off. “Wouldn’t expect you to, Snow. I doubt you’ve changed that much.”

“Heh, yeah.” I rub the back of my neck, which is getting very hot for some reason. I think I need to fix my fan.

Baz wobbles back towards me. He stands a bit too close, and now that things are calm, I notice how he smells. It’s a mix of liquor, irony blood, and the very faint, familiar scent of cedar and bergamot. Seven years later and I can’t forget that smell. I guess it’s burned into my brain forever. I’m not sure that I mind.

“Where’s the bathroom?” he asks, snapping me out of my olfactory induced daze.

“Oh, uh, down the hall and to your left. There’s towels in the cupboard.”

“Alright.” He sticks his hands in his trouser pockets, a very shy gesture I’m not used to seeing from him. “Thank you. Again. I’m saying that a lot tonight, wow.”

I chuckle and shrug. “I guess so. Now go wash off that awful blood please.”

“Aye aye, Mr.Snow.” He does a mocking little American salute with two fingers. I watch as he half skips his way to the bathroom, trying not to giggle at his ridiculous gait.

The bathroom door shuts, and I let out a long breath. My brain is still playing catch up. I need to sit, relax, just process all this shit. Once I organize my papers into semi-neat piles and close my laptop, I grab a cherry granola bar from the counter and collapse on the couch. I hear the shower turn on. I glance over at the clock. Bloody hell, it’s past 3am, and my enemy is taking a shower in my flat. Well, former enemy, I guess. We’re not fighting anymore. In fact, Baz is being really nice. It’s pretty damn great. I hope we can keep this up.

Cherry jumps onto the couch, startling me from my daze. She immediately curls up on my lap, purring happily. I chuckle as I pet her. Penny jokes that Cherry is my emotional support service cat. Honestly, she’s not wrong. I don’t know what I would do without her.

“Wanna watch Dr. Who, darling?” I coo, scratching behind her ear. “Yes, yes you do.”

I grab the remote and turn on Netflix, going to one of my favourite episodes. We sit there in peaceful silence through the show. I try not to listen to the shower down the hall. I can’t help but worry. What if he slips and hits his head? What if he falls asleep and drowns? What if he tries to eat the bloody soap? All are strong possibilities. But he’s still Baz. He’s too smart and stubborn to die.

As I near the end of the episode, I realise it’s been half an hour since Baz went in. My heart beats double time, every fear racing through my head. (As well as concern for my water bill.) But the sound of water shuts off, and I breathe a sigh of relief. I hear Baz’s unsteady feet pad around the tiled floor. But then there’s rattling and muffled swearing, and I’m on my feet immediately. Cherry meows unhappily and scuttles away.

“Sorry, girl,” I say as I speed walk to the bathroom. I knock on the wooden door. “Baz? You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” his muffled voice replies, but that’s followed by a loud bang. “Bloody fucking hell.”

“I’m coming in.”

“Snow, wait-”

I push the door open and immediately freeze. All the blood in my body goes straight to my face, turning it tomato red. Because Baz Pitch is standing in front of my medicine cabinet with nothing but a towel around his waist. His hair is soaked and messy, falling adorably in front his shocked face. His legs look strong enough to crush someone. Thin rivulets of water drip down his broad, bare chest. I watch them for a few long, drawn out seconds, completely frozen. In our time living together, Baz and I made a point to never see each other without clothes on. Did he even look close to this back at school? Did I just never notice?

“Um...” Baz says, breaking me out of my daze. I whip around, hand cupped over my eyes.

“Bloody hell, Baz!” I shout. “Give a guy some warning.”

“I would have if you hadn’t come bursting in!”

“Well, you took awhile in the shower, then I heard swearing. Excuse me for being concerned.”

“I’m grateful for your concern, Mr. Hero, though not for your usual brashness.”

“Just put some clothes on, please.”

“Very well.”

I listen to Baz shuffle and grumble as I assume he gets dressed. I resist the urge to turn around and check if he can get his legs into his trousers. I’m not sure how drunk he still is.

“You can turn around now, Snow.”

I slowly turn, and my face turns scarlet again. “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt?!”

“Because mine is covered in blood,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Which I guess it is, but still he’s not wearing a shirt. Why are my hands so clammy?

Baz starts sorting through the medicine cabinet. I frown in confusion. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for bandages.” He lifts his left hand, showing off his bruised, still slightly bleeding knuckles. “You got any?”

“Uh, yeah. I’ll get it, sit down on the toilet.”

Baz stumbles over and does what he’s told (for once). I grab the first aid kit from under the sink and sit next to him on the edge of the tub.

“Gimme your hand,” I say. Baz holds out his arm, fingers limp. I try not to look freaked out. His skin is black and blue and there are many cuts, still bleeding slowly. “Why are you still bleeding? It’s been like, an hour.”

“My blood alcohol content is high,” Baz replies. “Booze is a blood thinner. Means I’ll bleed more.”

“Oh. That makes sense. Thanks, Mr. Doctor.”

Baz chuckles, a soft smile playing on his mouth. “Dr. Grimm-Pitch will do.”

I laugh as well. I take a towel off the rack and pat his hand dry, then get the antiseptic.

“I just had a shower,” Baz protests.

“Don’t care. We need to make sure you don’t get an infection.”

“I’m fine.”

I pour the clear liquid on a sterile pad. “Still doing it.”

“I’m the doctor here, dammit.”

“The doctor who is still drunk off his arse after a bloody bar fight. So shut up.”

Baz frowns, but doesn’t protest. I lightly pat his cuts. He inhales sharply through his teeth and tries to pull away, but I grab his wrist, holding still.

“Don’t move,” I say.

“It hurts,” he whines like a toddler.

“Yeah, no shit. That’s what you get for getting in a bar fight, idiot.”

He grumbles, but doesn’t move again either. Once I’m satisfied all the cuts are clean, I use another pad to get them dry, then take out the bandages.

“You get injured a lot, Snow?” He’s smirking playfully, not a hint of malice. It’s much nicer than his smug arsehole face.

“No,” I chuckle. “But it never hurts to be prepared.”

“Especially if your former enemy shows up drunk and bleeding.”

Thoughts start racing through my head. Horrible, nervous thoughts. I stop wrapping his hand for a moment, but quickly start again. Unfortunately, Baz notices.

“Something on your mind, Snow?” he asks.

I chew on my bottom lip as I secure the bandage. I gesture for Baz to give me his other hand, and he does. I slowly pat on the antiseptic and he doesn’t move at all. Slowly, I look up, and I meet Baz’s deep sea eyes. He doesn’t look mad or annoyed, just concerned. So am I.

“Baz,” I sigh, “you’re one of the smartest people I’ve ever met. And considering you’re a bloody doctor now, I doubt that’s changed. So I’m absolutely astounded at how you could get so drunk and end up in a bar fight.”

Baz’s thin lips press together, and I watch his throat bob in a gulp. He leans his elbow on the sink, propping his cheek on his fist. “Snow,” he says slowly, “what do you know about my mother?”

My blood turns ice cold. I stop with the bandage completely, just looking at Baz. “Uh, not much. I know she died a long time ago. And...it was at Watford...”

Baz nods slowly. “Yes, that’s what everyone knows. But what most people don’t know is that I was there.”

And now my heart completely stops. My mouth falls open slightly. Baz’s face stays completely neutral. “You...you were there?”

“Yeah.” He leans harder on his fist. “I was sitting with the rest of the kids in the Watford nursery. Suddenly a group of men with knives burst in. They started to come after the nannies and the children. But that’s when my mother showed up with her hunting rifle. My father insisted she have it for protection when he wasn’t there. She got all of the men immediately, including the one holding me. She hit him in the shoulder so he dropped me. Another man charged her while she was distracted, and she shot him in the chest, but not before...” Baz rubs his eyes and the bridge of his nose, like I do when I have a headache. “Not before he stabbed her in the neck. She bled to death in seconds.” He drags his hand down his face. “I fell unconscious after that. When I woke up, my father and aunt were tending to my wounds, and my mother was gone. I was young, it’s all a bit hazy, but I remember enough.”

I’m left in stunned silence. Baz doesn’t say anything either, just rubbing his head. He’s not crying, but he looks on the verge of tears. I don’t blame him. I can’t believe it, can’t believe Baz went through that and no one ever knew. It’s just terrible.

“Wow,” I finally say, “that’s...wow.”

Baz chuckles quietly. “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“I never knew that happened...”

“No one did, Snow. All the gruesome little details were kept under wraps. It would’ve been terrible if anyone found out Natasha Grimm-Pitch died in such an undignified way that traumatized her heir.”

His voice is mockingly scathing, even with his slightly slurred speech. He’s a mix between furious and mournful. I don’t understand how he feels, but I don’t think I ever could. I may never have had parents, but that’s a far cry from watching your’s die.

“I don’t know how much it means, but I’m sorry that happened to you Baz.”

The corner of his lip quirks up into a small half smile. “Thanks, Snow.”

I start wrapping his hand again, and my brow furrows. “So, uh, what does this have to do with you getting drunk and fighting? If you don’t mind me asking.”

Baz takes a deep inhale through his nose, and lets out the air through his mouth. “My mother was killed twenty years ago today.”

“O-oh. That...yeah, that makes sense.”

“Mhm. I’ve lived with it for most of my life, but this anniversary hit me harder than I expected. I had my first day off in months, so after some mindless telly, I went to that bar. Gave the bartender my card and told her to keep the tequila coming. First mistake.”

“Second one was getting in a fight?”

“Yeah, definitely.” He flexes his bandaged hand. “It was just some arsehole looking for trouble. He kept prodding at me and shoving my shoulder until I snapped. I don’t even remember what he said. I was just so angry and sad and drunk. And that arsehole was right there” He groans loudly and rubs his head. “One of the dumbest things I’ve ever done.”

“Probably. But you made one good choice.”

“Oh?”

I finish bandaging his other hand and smile at his mopey face. “You called me.”

His mopeyness melts away as he lets out a breathy laugh. Our eyes meet, and his are glinting in a way I’ve never seen before. “Yeah, I guess that was a good idea.”

We smile at each other. Something tugs in my chest, something I don’t fully understand. I’ve never felt anything like this. Maybe I’m just overtired.

Baz flexes his bandaged hands. I put the first aid kit under the sink again. Baz stands and presses a hand to his bruised eye. hissing between his teeth. “Got any ice packs, Snow?” he asks.

“Oh, yeah,” I reply. “It’s in the kitchen, c’mon.”

We walk towards the kitchen. I open the freezer and pull out my reusable ice pack. Teaching a bunch of children can result in some bad headaches. I wrap it in a napkin and hand it to Baz. He presses it to his eye with clenched teeth. As he leans back against the counter, I remember he’s not wearing a shirt.

“Uh,” I say, “those jeans don’t look comfortable. I’ve got some spare pyjamas. Want me to get them?”

Baz nods. “Yeah, that would be good, thanks.”

“Alright, stay here.”

I go to my bedroom, wading through the laundry I have to do tomorrow to get to the dresser. It takes awhile for me to find something that will probably fit Baz. Damn his extra four inches, always so infuriating. I eventually pick out some trackies and a long Chicago Cubs shirt. It’s all I’ve got. I go back to the kitchen, and come upon a strange scene.

“Baz,” I say slowly, “what are you doing?

Baz looks up from the messy, cutlery covered counter, still pressing the ice pack to his eye. He lifts a plate with two pieces of bread, both half covered in marmite. “Making a marmite and cheese sandwich. You want half?”

His expression is so innocent, not a hint of the old malice I used to know. I let out a sigh. “Sure. Let me get the cheese.”

He grins and goes back to slathering on marmite. I pull my sliced sandwich cheese from the fridge. Hope Baz doesn’t mind cheap Tesco brand swiss. I bring the package to the counter, and Baz takes out a slice without even looking. Guess he’s not as snobbish about food as he used to be. He cuts the sandwich into two slightly lopsided triangles and swans out to my dining room. I follow behind with the pyjamas.

Baz sits in a chair, leaning back with his legs spread out. I sit across from him, placing the clothes on the table. Baz snatches it. It unfolds and his brows pull together.

“You a baseball fan now, Snow?” he asks.

I chuckle and shake my head. “Nah. Micah definitely is though.”

“Who?”

“Remember that American exchange student from fourth year?���

“The short nerd with large glasses?” His voice is muffled as he struggles to put on the shirt. Drunk Baz doesn’t get along with t-shirt holes.

“Yeah, that’s one way to describe him I guess. He and Penny started dating then and have been together ever since. She lives in America with him now.”

Baz’s eyes light up. “Oh, that’s wonderful. How is Bunce? I miss facing off with her in debate club.”

“She’s doing well. She’s got a job as an assistant professor in Chicago and loves American food. I just saw her a few weeks ago on vacation.”

“Marvelous. Tell her I say hello next time you speak to her.”

“Will do.” We both take one half of the marmite-cheese sandwich. Baz takes a huge bite, followed by a happy groan. I can’t tell if he’s drunk hungry or actually hungry. Probably somewhere in between. I take a bite as well. There’s far too much marmite, but it’s four in the morning. Right now anything tastes good.

Thinking of Penny makes me think of Watford. And something else, or more accurately someone else, pops into my head.

“Hey,” I say through the marmite, “you said you talked to Agatha earlier. How are you two still in contact? She cut off almost everyone after Watford. I didn’t start talking to her again until a year ago.”

Baz quickly chews and swallows. “Funny story there. I did a semester abroad in California and ended up in the same biology class as Agatha. It was extremely awkward at first. But once we sat down over coffee and sorted stuff out, we bonded very quickly. Similar upper class British family problems and expectations.”

“Oh. That’s makes sense I guess. It’s nice you guys talk.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty good.” He chuckles, mouth gummed with marmite. “The weirdest part was telling her I’m gay. I apologised for leading her on, and you know what she did?”

I lean over the table, genuinely enraptured. “What?”

“Laughed her fucking arse off for ten minutes straight.”

I snort so hard I nearly shoot sandwich out my nose. Baz throws his head back laughing. He’s so loud he might disturb my neighbours, but I don’t care. His laugh is too incredible.

“Just like that,” he giggles, calming down.

“So she wasn’t mad?” I ask.

“No, not at all. She admitted she wasn’t really into me. She was just rebelling against her parents. We both sympathised on that front.” He sighs and leans back even more. “That’s all I wanted at Watford, really. I was under so much pressure to be the perfect son. I seriously considered yelling ‘fuck it’ and doing whatever I wanted.”

I sigh too, putting my cheek against my palm. “Yeah, I understand that. Mr. Mage put a lot of pressure on me. He wanted to prove to the Watford board that scholarship students were worthwhile, and since I was Watford’s very first scholarship kid, I had to be perfect. Every time I got a low grade he would yell at me for an hour.”

“What a prick,” Baz grumbles.

I chuckle as I nod slowly. “Yeah, total prick. Watford wasn’t an easy place to be.”

Baz slowly lowers his sandwich, looking pointedly at the plate, and therefore not me. My heart speeds up. Did I say something wrong? Did I piss him off by accident? I do that a lot. And I definitely used to do that to Baz.

“What is it?” I ask.

“I don’t mean to pry,” he says carefully. “And maybe this is me still being pretty drunk. But...I saw something in your medicine cabinet.”

I squint, trying to think what could be so concerning. “Saw what?”

He fiddles with his still damp hair. It’s an old nervous habit I recognise from finals studying. “A bottle of citalopram. I’m a future psychiatrist, I know what that medication is usually for...”

My stomach drops out. I freeze with the sandwich still in my hand. “Oh,” I squeak.

“Yeah.” He leans closer, eyes round and sympathetic. “I’m sorry I looked. And...I’m sorry if I had any part in your need for it-”

“No no, Baz.” I shake my head, leaning forward as well. “You don’t have to. It’s not your fault, it’s not anyone’s in particular, really. It’s stupid chemicals misfiring in my brain. You’re a doctor, you know that.”

“Yes, of course I know that, Snow. But I also know my incessant arsehole behaviour for seven years probably didn’t help.”

I shrug, leaning back again. “Probably. And I bet me insulting you and punching you in the face all the time didn’t help your mental health either.”

He smiles and laughs again. He looks better when he laughs. “Okay, good point.”

“Exactly. So let’s agree neither of us need to apologise. We’ll let the past be the past, move on from here.”

“So you mean a truce?”

“Yeah, I guess.” I reach out my hand. “Truce.”

Baz smiles and clasps his hand with mine. His skin is just as rough and cold as I remember it being back at school. But even after we pull apart, my skin still feels warm.

“Just so we’re even,” Baz says with his mouthful, “my favourite antidepressant was cipralex. I went off it a few months ago because it started making me too drowsy, but it worked well for years. Citalopram made me far too ill. When I first tried it, I ended up vomiting in a bloody bedpan.”

I burst out laughing. And Baz’s grin outshines the sun.

We finish our sandwiches together. Baz complains that his mouth tastes like a rubbage heap. Apparently the combination of old tequila, Tesco cheese, and marmite creates a truly awful flavour. I give him an unused toothbrush from the dentist. He goes into the bathroom and soon emerges with clean teeth and wearing my trackies. I’m back on the couch with Cherry in my lap.

“You tired?” I ask.

“Not really,” Baz replies. “Late hospital shifts have turned me into an insomniac.”

“Wanna watch some Dr. Who?”

He throws himself down next to me, long arm stretched out over the back of the couch behind me. “Sure.”

I switch to a new episode. It’s a standalone, so Baz won’t be too confused. But he still asks incessant questions. Who’s this, what’s that, how the everloving fuck can they do that and survive? No wonder he’s a doctor. He’s perfect at looking for answers, no matter how annoying he is. Eventually I have to threaten to duct tape his mouth to get him to shut up. He huffs, crosses his arms, and sinks down further.. His head ends up on my shoulder. Despite my shorter neck length and Baz’s naturally long face, his head fits perfectly in the crook of my neck. Like it was made to be there. Wait, where did that thought come from?

The credits roll, and I notice a quiet whistling noise. I turn my head to the side. Oh. Baz is asleep. His eyes are softly closed and his lips are slightly parted. I’ve seen Baz sleep before of course, but this is different. Baz had nightmares throughout our entire time at Watford. (So did I.) I don’t think he’s having one now though. There’s no thrashing or whimpers. I’ve never seen Baz look so...peaceful.

“Baz,” I whisper. He doesn’t respond at all. “Baz,” I say louder, jerking my shoulder a bit.

“Ugh,” he groans, “let me sleep in, Daphne, it’s summer.”

“I’m not your step-mum, Baz.”

He cracks one eye open. “No, you’re really not, Snow.”

“Yeah. You wanna go to bed?”

“Mm, yeah.”

“Okay.” I slowly get up, easing Baz off my shoulder. I gently lower him onto the couch. The bottom half of his face hangs off the arm. Yeah, he’s going to need a pillow. I go to my bedroom and grab a pillow and blanket. I also make a stop by the bathroom for some aspirin and make another at the kitchen for some water and a bowl, in case he’s sick. I would prefer not to clean vomit out of my carpet.

Baz is still awkwardly pressed against the sofa arm, drooling slightly. Who would’ve thought I’d see the day Baz Pitch drooled in his sleep? I wouldn’t have. Not in a million years. But apparently tonight is a time for new things.

I place the bowl, water, and aspirin on my coffee table. Slowly and carefully, I lift Baz’s head and fit a pillow under it. I drape the blanket over his annoyingly tall body. His arm hangs like a limp noodle off the side. I sigh, kneeling down to tuck it back in.

Out of nowhere, I feel long, rough fingers touching my cheek. My whole body locks up in shock. Slowly, I raise my head, and I meet Baz’s half open grey eyes and soft smile.

“Uh, Baz?” I say, not sure what else I can.

“You’re still so beautiful,” he whispers. My eyes widen and every nerve in my body is filled with...something? Fear, nerves, an absolute sense of what the fuck? I can’t tell.

“W-What?”

Baz’s hand moves lower. His thumb traces just under my bottom lip. Why does my skin feels like it’s fire? “Your face, it’s still really pretty.”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Uh, I guess you’d know. You punched it enough.”

He laughs softly. His hand falls, pulling back under the blanket, and his eyes slip shut. “Wish I had kissed it instead.”

I don’t even have time to respond to that, because Baz is asleep in an instant, snoring quietly once again. I’m frozen in place. My jaw is slack. Baz would tell me I’m going to catch flies. Baz, who’s sleeping right in front of me, who wished he had kissed me? My brain can’t process this. I’m like a computer with an eternal blue screen. This does not compute, cannot compute, fuck fuck fuck.

There’s only one thing I can think to do.

I grab my phone, rush to my room, and close the door. Cherry is already curled up on her side. The second I’m sitting on the mattress, I click Penny’s contact.

“Hello?” Her voice immediately calms me down.

“Hi, Pen,” I say.

“Simon?! Bloody hell, isn’t it like four in the morning in London?”

I look over at my clock. “Uh, yup, just about.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, but why are calling me at four AM?”

I sigh and flop backwards. “Pen, you’re not going to believe who is sleeping in my living room right now.”

“Who? The Doctor? Boris Johnson? The Queen of England>

A laugh bubbles from my mouth. “Nah, even weirder.”

I can almost hear Penny’s face pinching together in confusion. “Who?”

“Baz Pitch.”

She gasps loudly. “What?! As in Tyrannus Basilton Grimm-Pitch? That Baz Pitch?!”

“You think there’s another Baz Pitch in existence?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, “good point. So why is your arsehole former roommate sleeping on your couch?”

I rub the bridge of my nose. It doesn’t help. I’m not sure anything can help now. “That’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time.”

I sigh, and start spinning my insane tale. From the call to the bar to my flat, how Baz and I talked and became friendly and made a weird truce over cheese and marmite. I try to say everything quickly yet accurately. Penny barely makes a noise as I talk. I can’t tell if she’s shocked or contemplative. Probably both, honestly. I can’t blame her. The more I talk, the more completely nuts it all sounds. I’m living in a bloody sitcom.

“And then,” I say, “he held my face, said I was beautiful, and that he wished he had kissed me instead of punching me!”

“Wow,” Penny gasps. “That’s...a lot.”

“I know right? I’m so confused and I have no idea what the fuck to do!”

“Okay. What do you want to do though?”

I rub my very aching brow. “I don’t know, Pen. It’s so weird. Like, is this something he’s just realised or has Baz always felt this way?”

“Probably the second one.”

I bolt upright, brows knitted together. “Wait, really? You think so?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“But why?!”

“Well, Baz has always been very obsessed with you. He would go out of his way to be around you.”

“Yeah, to torment me,” I grumble.

Penny lets out a sigh. “Yes, he did. But as you told me, Baz said he picked on you because he couldn’t deal with his emotional issues. One of those issues certainly could have been romantic feelings for you.”

“Then why didn’t he just say something?!”

“Because he was the gay son of a conservative upper class British family, which probably wasn’t easy to deal with. Plus, his father and aunt hated the idea of scholarship students, also known as you.”

My righteous anger fizzles out like a dying campfire, shoulders slumping as I fall back against the headboard. “Oh. Yeah, that’s a good point. Still shouldn’t have been a snob and a bully.

“No he shouldn’t have. It was probably half poor coping and half trying to get your attention.”

“Like a boy pulling a girl’s pigtails?”

“I guess.”

“That’s a stupid and sexist way to handle a crush. I tell my students that all the time.”

Penny sighs. “Yeah, of course it is. But I’m pretty sure Baz knows that, at least now. He’s sorry for what he did. It seems like he’s gotten a lot better.”

“Yeah.” A smile creeps across my face without thinking. It just feels natural. “He’s gotten a lot nicer. He’s not the perfect, pretty, unfeeling arsehole I thought he was. And he’s funny, at least when he’s drunk. We had a pretty great time .”

I laugh quietly, but Penny’s is far louder. She sounds like she’s muffling her giggles. I frown a bit. “What’s so funny, Pen?”

“Oh,” she keeps giggling, “I think I’ve just realised something, and it’s hilarious.”

“Realised what?”

She takes a few deep calming breaths while my anxiety just climbs. “Simon,” she says kindly. This is the way she used to speak while explaining our complicated maths homework. “Hear me out, but I don’t think Baz is the only one who feels something.”

“Huh?”

“I think you have at least a few romantic feelings for Baz.”

“What?!” I shout far too loudly, and I worry I’m going to wake up Baz. I crouch inward, like I’m hiding, but I’m not really sure what. Baz? Penny? Myself?

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I hiss.

“Hear me out,” Penny says. “I’m saying that based on the evidence, you may have latent romantic feelings for Baz Pitch.”

“What evidence?!”

Penny lets out a low chuckle, like a super villain who’s plan has come to fruition. “Let’s see. Number one: back at Watford, you spent 99% of your time thinking about, talking about, or being with Baz. I had to put a limit on how much you were allowed to talk about Baz, remember?”

“Yeah, because he was bugging me,” I mumble.

“Number two: when you talked about Baz, it was always about how annoyingly pretty, smart, and graceful he was. You hated him, yet you had so many nice things to say.”

“Well he was perfect and it was annoying!”

“Number three: During the entire time you dated Agatha, you paid far more attention to Baz than you ever did to her.”

“T-That’s not true!” Though, looking back...fucking hell, it might actually be true.

“Number four: even though you hadn’t seen him in seven years, you dropped everything at two AM to go pick up his drunk arse from a bar.”

“It was the right thing to do!”

“Number five: you just gushed about how much you like Baz now and that he’s fun to be around. And I bet you were smiling.”

“No.” I think my cheeks are turning red.

I hear some rustling, and I think Penny is leaning forward in her chair. I can almost see her kind face in front of me. “Simon, I don’t want to push anything on you, but I also want you to really think about this. I know you hate to analyse things but it’s necessary right now. Maybe it could lead to something good.”

I tug on my hair, trying to distract myself. “I don’t know about that, Pen.”

“I know. Doesn’t even have to be romantic, maybe a good friendship. You could use more friends. And I’m not saying you have to jump his bones tomorrow.”

“Penny!” Now I’m definitely blushing.

She laughs uncontrollably, snorting every once in awhile. I cover my blushing face and groan. “Oh, I’m only joking, Si,” she says. “But I’m serious, don’t shut it down. Think about it. Baz is nice now, maybe it could work.”

“Why are you so desperate to set me up with my former enemy?”

“Because you haven’t been on a date or made new friends since first year uni. And I haven’t heard you this happy about being around someone in years.”

I hate to admit it, but she’s right. I’ve had more fun with Baz in one night than I have in ages. I enjoyed talking to him. I enjoyed laughing with him. I’m glad he’s asleep in the next room, where I can make sure he’s okay.

“You may have a point,” I say.

“Of course I do.”

I roll my eyes, just like she does. “Yeah, yeah, we’ve always known you’re smarter than me.”

“Mhm. And in my smart opinion, you need to go to bed.”

“Will do.” I flop backwards. The pillow feels heavenly on my head. “Thanks, Pen. I’ll talk to you later.”

“You better. Night, Si.”

I smile, and I hope she can hear my love and gratitude over the phone. “Night, Pen.”

The phone clicks off. I let it fall to the side. I am 0.2 seconds from passing out, even with so much still on my mind. I plug in my phone and turn on my side. I pull Cherry close to me. She curls around my hand like usual. When I close my eyes, all I see is raven hair, deep sea grey eyes, and a smile I never knew was there before.

———————————————

“Bloody fucking shit!”

I wake up with a start, clutching my sheet. Late morning sunlight is bleeding through the gap in my curtains. There’s muffled banging on the other side of my door. It’s like a very clumsy little rhino is moving through my flat. But I know exactly who it is.

I grab my glasses and slowly walk down the hall, peeking around the corner. It’s weird to sneak around my own apartment. I see a familiar long, lithe back, bent over as he struggles to get his struggles to get his oxfords on. He keeps wavering side to side like a branch in the wind.

“Good morning,” I say nonchalantly.

Baz whips around so fast he nearly topples over, stumbling to the side. He looks even more disheveled than last night, hair extremely tangled from sleeping on it wet, bruise worsening under his eyes, and bloodstained shirt buttoned wrong. He looks absolutely shocked to see me, which is odd, considering this is my flat.

“Um,” he says, shakiness in my voice, “good morning, Snow.”

“Leaving so soon?”

“Uh, well, yes, I suppose.”

I lean against the wall with my arms crossed. “So you were going to go and what? Leave me a thank you note like some bad teen movie?”

He probably thinks I don’t notice, but I see him crumple up and shove something in his back pocket. “No. I-I would’ve texted you my thanks.”

“Because that’s so much better.”

Baz looks down in shame, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I know. It’s just...I didn’t want to make things awkward after last night. I’m truly sorry for the way I acted and imposing on you.”

“It’s okay.” I walk forward, hands in my trackie pockets. “I know you were pretty drunk, but, what do you remember from last night?”

Baz looks up, but still doesn’t meet my eyes. “I remember, being upset, going to the bar, getting in the fight, and the bartender screaming colourful obscenities at me.” That makes him laugh a little. It still sounds so nice. “Then I called you, you came and you had glasses. We drove to your place. I had a shower. You tended to my wounds like some war nurse.”

I giggle, nodding in complete agreement. “Yeah, I definitely did do that.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “Then uh, we ate sandwiches, watched Doctor Who, and I assume I fell asleep.”

“Okay.” I draw out the last syllable on purpose, making my doubt extremely clear. “That’s most of it, but you’re missing a few key parts.”

“Am I?” He’s trying to sound confident, but I know Baz, and I can hear a waver in his voice.

I start walking closer. “Mhm. You’re missing the parts where you apologized for being a prick in school, called my flat was good, liked my cat, said you drank because it was the anniversary of your mother’s horrible death, talked about your experience with antidepressants.” I’m only a few feet away from him now, looking him right in his pretty. “And, the part where you said that you wished you had kissed me back at school instead of punching me.”

With his complexion, it’s hard to tell when Baz is blushing. But I can see it. Scarlet creeps down from his cheeks to his long neck, eyes locked on me in stun.

“Oh,” he squeaks. “I see.”

“You really don’t remember all that?”

He rubs his brow. “Well, maybe, it’s just...fuzzy.”

“But was it true? Did you like me back at Watford?”

He visibly gulps, then looks at the floor again. He looks incredibly embarrassed and ashamed. “Yes,” he says, like he has to force himself to say it. “Yes, it’s true.”

I let out a long breath, half from relief, half to calm myself down. Okay. It’s true. Baz had feelings for me. All through school, all that time, Baz was pining after me from afar. And I never knew. Not a bit. But I think that was the idea.

“Alright,” I say.

Baz lifts his eyes slightly, cocking one eyebrow. “Alright? Is that all you have to say?”

I shrug high then drop my shoulders low. “I don’t know what else to say. That’s all. It changes a lot of things I assumed in school.”

“I bloody well hope so.” His voice is lighter, trying to lift the mood, trying to make this even slightly less than horribly awkward.

“So,” I say drawing out the o, “when, uh, did it start? You feeling like...that.”

If Baz’s blush could get any worse, I think it just did. He plays with his sleeves, his buttons, his hair, obviously looking for a distraction. “I realised it when I was 15. But I think, it started almost since we met.”

That hits me hard. The first year we met, I wore ratty old clothes and was essentially nonverbal. Baz saw me like that, a dirty silent little orphan kid, and he already liked me. He didn’t show it, but only because he couldn’t. He cared about me, even then. Even when so few truly did.

“Huh,” I say stupidly. “That’s a long time.”

He lets out a scoffing chuckle. “No shit, Snow.”

“That makes me feel even more sorry for being a prick to you in school.”

Baz shakes his head very quickly. “No, no, don’t apologize. I was a prick to you first. I just...” he sighs, rubbing his forehead. “In my family, I wasn’t supposed to be gay, let alone have feelings for someone they hated. I lashed out and hurt you because I was hurting. It was wrong.”

He sighs and sits down heavily on the couch. He looks so forlorn and ashamed, head hanging forward, his hair like a curtain. All the guilt seems to be pushing down on his shoulders, making him slump. Penny was right, as usual. But to hear it from Baz, to see him like this, it tugs on my heart. Like that time I caught him drunk in front of his mother’s grave when we were fifteen, or twice last night. He’s grown a lot and gotten happier, but a small part of Baz is still that sad kid, I guess.

Slowly, I walk towards him and sit down. Before I can think too much, I reach out and touch his hand. Baz’s head snaps up, completely terrified and shocked. Yet, he doesn’t pull away. One by one, I slip my fingers between his. Baz’s skin is such a strange contrast. My palm touches the smooth back of his hand, while fingers trace tiny rough ridges. It feels...really good.

“Hey,” I say quietly. “I know it’s been awhile, but what do you think about me now?”

I look him in the eye. I can see the way his lips shift, feel how his hand twitches. I wish I could hear what he’s thinking right now. He stays silent, so I decide to jump in.

“Well, let me start. I know what I think about you. I think,” I move closer, “that you’re kind, funny, smart, and still annoyingly gorgeous.” That makes his eyes widen ever so slightly. “And now I also know that you’re incredibly strong. That you struggled and mourned and came out okay. I mean, you’re a bloody doctor who’s going to help people work through their own problems. That’s amazing.”

Baz looks so shocked, probably both at my words and my coherency. I’ve gotten a lot better at speaking over the years. I’m so glad for that right now. “You really think all that, Snow?”

I smile and nod. “Yeah. I mean, I’ve always found you annoyingly amazing. Now it’s just not so annoying anymore.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. Is it so hard to believe?”

Baz presses his lips together for a split second. “Honestly, yes. We hated each other for years, fought like cats and dogs. I assumed I had ruined any chance of that changing.”

“Well,” I move even closer so our thighs press together, “you didn’t. Because I like this.”

“What is this?”

“This!” I gesture wildly between us. “What we’re doing right now. I like this, I like you.”

He looks so shocked, yet there’s a twinkle of happiness too. “Like me how? As...a friend?”

And he calls me oblivious. I squeeze his hand again. “That depends. I know it’s been a long time, so have your...feelings about me gone away?”

Baz stares at me, studying my face. I just watch his eyes roam over me again and again. Then he reaches forward and delicately places his hand on my cheek, just like last night. Except it feels more purposeful. And so much better.

“No,” he says quietly, “they haven’t gone away. I don’t think they ever could.”

My body feels so light and happy and indescribably full. I’ve never felt like this before. Not with anyone. It’s hit me so suddenly, yet it feels so right. I’m grinning, I can’t stop grinning.

“Okay,” I say. “I feel the same.”

Baz’s hand falls, touching my arm. He raises a perplexed eyebrow. “Okay, but since when?”

I shrug, which makes Baz roll his eyes. “I’m not sure. All I know is that I do. That’s what really matters, right?”

He sighs. His hand moves up and down my arm. I can’t tell if he’s studying me or trying to hold on. “I suppose, yes.”

“Exactly. So why don’t we give it a shot?”

“What are you saying, Snow?”

“I’m saying I want to be your boyfriend.” Baz’s lips falls open and hand slips slightly down my arm. I hold onto him tighter. “Like, fair warning, I’m not a great boyfriend. I forget things, I’m super clumsy, and I haven’t dated anyone seriously since Agatha, so my experience is limited. But I like you. And I’m not asking for something serious right now, I just want to give this a try. Do you maybe want to?”

Baz’s face is such strange, confusing mixture. His brows are tense and pulled together. They scream worry and doubt. His thin beautiful lips hang open is absolute disbelief. But his eyes, a mix of dark blue and dark green, are filled to the brim with hope.

“I’m a doctor,” he blurts out.

“Um, yeah, I know,” I reply, trying not to laugh.

He shakes his head violently. “No, you don’t understand. I’m a medical resident. I’m at the hospital almost every day. I have barely any free time, and if I do I use it to sleep. And I don’t have much experience either. I’ve had two semi serious relationships that both ended in flames. I’m terrible at everything relationship related, probably even more than you, Snow.”

Baz looks so frantic and scared, but he’s hanging on to my hand. In spite of harsh realities, he doesn’t want to let go. I think he’s expecting me to admit defeat and walk away. But what he doesn’t seem to get, is that I don’t want to let go either.

I move closer, and cup his face this time. Baz instinctively leans into it. “You called me Simon before.”

He lets out a bursting laugh, sudden and unwanted. He immediately calms down, but there’s a little smile there. “Really? That’s what you care about?”

“Yeah. Because I like hearing you say it, and I like this. So,” I squeeze his hand again, “I want to try, no matter the risks. We’ll just deal with the rest later.”

He gives me a doubtful expression. “That’s your solution? Put off thinking about the problems we may face?”

“Yup. Because I want this, you want this, and that’s all that matters.”

“I guess...”

Stupid bastard still overthinks everything. I don’t want his mind far away, I want it right here with me. I brush my thumb over the soft skin of his cheek. “Plus, I’d rather focus on other things right now.”

“Oh? What things?”

“Well, more a question.” I deliberately move my hand lower, tracing under his bottom lip. “You said you wished you had kissed me when we were in school.”

He gulps. I watch his Adam’s apple bob slowly. “Yes, I did.”

“So, do you still want to kiss me?”

His eyes flick down, just for a moment. I can feel his hot breath on my face. “Yes.”

I smile, leaning close so our noses brush. “Then do it.”

Baz doesn’t ask for anymore assurance. He just leans forward, pressing his mouth to mine. And my mind completely implodes.

His lips are colder than Agatha’s, than anyone’s really. It’s like kissing a soft autumn breeze. Just chilly enough to send shivers over your skin. Yet when he takes my bottom lip between his teeth, I melt completely, leaning closer and wrapping my arms around his neck. He clutches my sides, hanging on with a death grip. Like he never wants to let me go. (I wouldn’t mind that.) It’s an awkward position, but I couldn’t care less anymore. I run my hand through his hair. It’s soft and slips through my fingers, just like I thought it would. I clench my fist and push his face into mine. I more feel him groan than hear it. He bunches my shirt in his own fists. I like him here, under my hands, not off being sad or drunk, where I know he’s okay. I’ve got you know, Baz, I’m not letting go.

From that first press of our lips, I know I want this. Baz feels perfect and wonderful. I want to kiss him forever. It’s strange, to have something you never knew you wanted before, and suddenly need to hang onto it forever.

We both pull apart at relatively the same time, flushed and out of breath. Baz’s eyes flutter open. His pupils are blown incredibly huge, and his lips are swollen and pink. I think mine are too, at least it feels like they are. I’ve never felt so elated from just one kiss. I’m sure I never will again.

“Wow,” I breathe out.

Baz lets out a breathy laugh, so quiet and sweet. “Very eloquent.”

I chuckle too, twisting a strand of his hair. “Yeah, well, that’s all I can manage right now. I think you broke my brain.”

“Don’t stroke my ego too much, Snow. I’ll get a big head.”

“You mean a bigger one?”

Baz glares, but when I flash one grin, his entire face melts. My heart melts too. It’s in a goddamn puddle on the floor forever.

Baz presses one hand to his temple, eyes squinting shut. “Bloody hell, all the drinking and excitement is too much for my head.”

“Did you take the aspirin I left?”

“Yes, but apparently that only does so much. I want coffee.”

“I’ve got some. Probably not very fancy, but it’s good enough. That alright?”

He flashes a lopsided grin. It’s incredibly sweet, making me smile in return. “That would be wonderful, Simon.”

God, I want to hear him say my name like that a thousand times.

We reluctantly untangle ourselves, but our hands stay linked. I lead Baz to my tiny dining room table. He sits on the far side, facing the open space of my kitchenette. My hand drags across his as we reluctantly let go. I walk into the room and flip on my ancient coffee machine.

“How do you take your coffee?” I say over my shoulder. “Black?”

“Actually, I like a lot of cream and sugar.”

I laugh loudly and smile at him. “Still have a sweet tooth, huh?”

“Absolutely.”

“Of course. I still remember how you would steal my mint aeros.”

“You have no proof of that, Snow,” he singsongs.

His voice is light and joking. I look over my shoulder, and see his soft smile. I want to see that smile all the time. I want to find out every little happy expression he has, the ones I never got to see when we were kids.

“I’ll find some,” I reply..

“It’ll take a lot of coaxing.”

I lean against the counter, looking at him. Really looking at him. Baz Pitch, the former arsehole bully, now the mostly well adjusted altruistic doctor, still someone who can occupy most of my thoughts. This is all new yet so familiar.

“Good thing we’ve got time,” I say.

Baz leans his cheek on his palm. From his calm, happy expression, I know he agrees. We’ve got time to not just catch up, but start something strange and beautiful and new.

And I’ve never been so excited in my life.

———————————————

AN: Is this a bit unrealistic? Yes. Is this super adorable? Also yes. Hope you guys thought the same. I def enjoy writing drunk Baz and switching it up so Simon has glasses this time. And I like Simon's total obliviousness to his own feelings. He's a dumb romantic little shit lol. Thanks for reading, see y'all next time :D

PS: XOYO is a real bar. Hopefully they don't have to deal with drunk traumatized psychiatry residents too much lol.

[bert-thefrog]

The Promise: Rafael Aveiro

Songs: The Script - ‘Superheroes’ and JNR Williams - “Keep Your Head Child’

“Babe?” There’s a gentle shaking of my shoulders and I blearily open my eyes to Rafael standing over me, already in his uniform. “What time is it?” I groan, rubbing my eyes to try and rid them of the dry, scratchy feeling of sleep. The room is almost pitch black, the darkness broken only by the sliver of light sneaking in under the door. “It’s two in the morning, I just got called into work and I wanted to tell you before I left.”

“Oh okay, stay safe, I love you.” I wrap my arms around his neck in a clumsy hug, kissing his cheek before he heads out the door to go be Superman. “I love you too.” He blows a kiss from the doorway before shutting it quietly behind him. Lying back under the warm covers I listen as the thump of his boots gets fainter the further downstairs he goes.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

When we first got married, I was terrified every time he left for work like this; that this would be the last time. This would be the time he didn’t come home. I’d known what his superhero tendencies were like, long before he put a ring on it; but now our lives were tied together, both through our marriage and our child and that only intensified the fear that I may lose a part of me forever one day- and I never knew when. I used to make him promise me, every time he left that he’d come back, and he did; he always came home, leaving his boots tidily by the door for the next time he’d need them. Coming home safely every time until slowly the fear that gripped my chest in an ice cold fist began to loosen, until I stopped making him promise, realizing that this was the one thing he couldn’t ensure.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Hey sleepy head.” I exit the warm cocoon of my duvet to wake up our two year old daughter a few hours later, so I can drop her off at daycare before work. “Where’s daddy?” She whines, scrunching her face at the light pouring in through the open window. “He’s at work, don’t worry baby girl, he’ll be home soon.” I kiss her head as she nestles into the crook of my neck. I hope he’s still at the hospital when I get there though, I’d like to see him before he comes home to crash. I think to myself. As I’m wrestling a cranky, squirming three-year-old into today’s outfit, the phone downstairs begins ringing shrilly. “Aw man. Just a minute Mia.” I promise, running downstairs just as the phone stops ringing. Damnit. Almost as soon as it stops though it starts again, ringing incessantly until I take it off the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Casey, is that you?”

“Jackie? What’s wrong?”

“Oh thank god, I’ve been trying to reach you on your cell but it’s switched off.” She babbles, tripping over her words in a mad panic. Jackie Varma does not babble. Something cold and hard settles in the pit of my stomach and I swallow.

“Jackie, what’s happened?”

“Oh god, Casey I’m so sorry-“

“Jackie, what’s happened?!”

“It’s Rafael. You need to get to Edenbrook now.”

“Oh god. What happened?” My voice cracks painfully as I hold back a sob.

“Please Casey, just get here as soon as you can.” Jackie hangs up and for a split second I freeze, swaying slightly to the dial tone as realization sinks in.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Where is he?” I scream at Bryce, seeing him the moment I fly through the doors to Edenbrook, almost like he’s been waiting for me. “We have him in a private room, I swear Case, I tried everything, but his organs are already failing. He’s in and out of consciousness, but he’s been asking for you.”

“Oh god.” I feel as though my knees are about to go out from under me. “Casey?” There’s a soft voice behind me and Sienna is there taking Mia from my arms, the pity shining from her warm brown eyes. “I’ll look after her. Go.” She nods at me and I follow Bryce away. “We’re keeping him as comfortable as we can in here until it happens.” Bryce’s voice sounds as though it’s coming from far away, like I’m underwater, drowning while everyone else remains on the surface. Not if it happens, until it happens.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

Bryce steps aside to let me into the room. It’s nondescript. Plain walls painted cream, mundane painting of flowers on the wall and in the middle of it all, Rafael lies still, as though already dead, tucked into a hospital bed that hardly seems big enough to contain his tall frame; Dr. Ramsey and Emery look over him, faces creased and lined with worry. “We’ll give you two some space.” Harper murmurs, noticing me there and the pair exit, brushing my elbow in a show of comfort as they pass. Leaving me looking at my husband helplessly, my mouth dries up as I stare at his battered and bruised face, taking all the things I want to say with it. “Raf..” I whisper, sitting carefully on the edge of the bed and reaching out to entwine my fingers with his. “Hey.” He croaks, wincing as he squeezes my hand in response. “What happened?”

“I don’t even know, one minute I was getting the stretcher ready to remove a patient after the firefighters cleared us, the next I’m waking up in here- hey don’t cry.” He reaches out, hissing through his teeth slightly from exertion, as he wipes away a single tear from my cheek. “I brought Mia.”

“No. Casey.” He sighs.

“No?”

“I don’t want her to see me like this.”

“I didn’t much want to see you like this either.” I joke weakly and he smiles.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, shutting his eyes, absentmindedly stroking the base of his thumb across my knuckles.

“Why?”

“I broke our promise.”

“Raf no. I don’t know when, but at some point realised that I couldn’t keep getting you to make that promise, when we both know you had no way of ensuring you could keep it.” I choke back a sob, watching his chest rise and fall in shallow, rapid bursts. “I called your mom. She’s on her way Raf. Just hold on a little longer, please.” I beg.

“Make me a promise.” He groans, his eyes still shut.

“Anything.” I nod my head, pressing his hand to my lips fervently.

“Be happy. Move on. I don’t expect you to just walk out of here skipping and be okay straight away, but promise me you’ll keep going forward, be the best mom and doctor you can be, change peoples lives,” He coughs “Fall in love-“

“No-“ I whisper,

“Let me finish Casey. See the world like we planned. Live your life to the best of your ability and teach Mia to do the same. Because you have no idea how long you’ve got.” He’s wheezing by the end of his speech, ragged, rough breaths that rattle in the empty room. I’m crying freely now, tears dripping on the yellow waffle print spread over his legs one by one in rapid succession; a tiny rainstorm. “I love you.” I kiss each of his knuckles in turn as he watches me. All he can do is nod his head now, too spent to speak.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

He held out long enough for his mom to get here, dying only as we both sat beside him, holding his hands and telling him it was ok to let go. “I’ll be the one to call it.” I promise Ethan as he hovers in the entrance, lips turned downwards, taking in the sorry sight before him. I wait, listening as Rafael’s breathing slows, the gaps between breaths growing wider until I can no longer hear them. Then I watch the monitor above Mrs. Aveiro’s head as the crooked lines signalling his heartbeat go flat. Keening loudly to signal the lack of a heartbeat. “Time of death: three minutes past eleven AM.” I call out to Ethan as Rafael’s mother howls, a gut wrenching sound that rips from her throat, punching me in the chest as I shakily make my way around the bed and allow her to collapse sobbing in my arms. I can’t cry though, instead I choke back red-eyed, tearless gasps; all my tears used up as I let reality sink in. I’ll keep our promise. I just need a little time love. I look over the older woman’s shaking head to where Raf lies, he looks peaceful now, asleep. Goodnight Superman. I mouth, supporting Mrs Aveiro as we stumble out of the room and into the corridor. The light out here seems harsher, brighter more painful to take in; as though I’ve just woken from a particularly long sleep. “Mommy? Avó?” Mia calls from the nurses station, where she plays with Danny and Sienna, perched on the pine counter and swinging her small, pudgy legs. Sienna and Danny are wordless, wearing identical expressions of concern. “Hey sweetie.” I paste on a smile, scooping her into my arms and holding her tight. “Where’s daddy?”

“I- I’ll tell you what, you and me are going to go get some ice cream yeah? Then we’ll go home and I will tell you a story.”

“About daddy?”

“Yeah. About daddy.” I agree, trembling as I try to piece together how I can explain to a three year old that their dad isn’t coming home. “Would you like to come?” I turn to Mrs. Aveiro, she presses her lips together resolutely and clutches my hand in affirmation. Mia reaches out, patting her Avó’s face serenely to try and rid the tears still rolling down weathered cheeks. “Let’s get going then.” I steel myself, walking down the corridor towards the elevator, pushing myself against the urge to run back to Rafael’s room and throw myself into the narrow hospital bed beside him and never let go. Because he’s not there anymore, he’s here. In my heart.

*DISCLAIMER- I do NOT own the art work used in this piece. Credit to @meindraws *

[alrightinbed-betterwithapen]

Blue — Part Five — David Dobrik x Reader

A/N: This was a long time coming and I appreciate all my readers hangin in there for me. I really like how their relationship is going and can’t wait to write a full d/s scene with the two of them. This part was highly inspired by mitski’s Thursday Girl and I Will. Hope y’all enjoy! 😘

Warnings: Smut, oral sex, masturbation, dirty talk, groping in public, David being Daddy lol

Summary: He’s intoxicating and you’re honest to god losing focus on the world outside the two of you.

...

He’s all you can see and he’s all you’d ever want to see.

—- x —-

It’s been a week since David spent the night. After a great morning in bed and some breakfast, you’d both sat and laid down some ground rules.

You let him know that stringent guidelines with severe punishments all the time wasn’t going to work for you; you sucked at following them and at the end of the day, you got off most on making him happy (and bruises, you liked bruises). That didn’t mean you disliked the roughness or his domineering, you just thought it should be a 70/30 split between complete submissiveness and passiveness, the later taking first place.

That made sense to him, and he explained that he enjoyed being obeyed, got off on doting on you when he was pleased and, when his work was getting the best of him, he loved taking complete control. That was a compromise you were more than happy to make as long as that was communicated and real boundaries were established before hand.

Then, all serious business aside, you reminded David of his earlier promise and came just from blowing him on your couch.

—- x —-

It was such an easy conversation in retrospect, you feel a little dumb for avoiding it for so long. But, more had opened between you and David than just clear pathways of dialogue. You had both seemed to give silent permission to open the door on getting to know each other.

He was now sending you stupid, little ten second videos of his life with one word captions of how he feels about what’s going on. You were Snapping him random pictures of the different boardrooms you were in several times a day, adding text over them, complaining about the nonsense you had to deal with on the daily. You were getting these little glimpses into each other’s lives, and it felt like the borders of your relationship were being broken and reformed, larger and larger with each passing message.

Then, he asks you to dinner.

Not to come over half past way too fucking late, not stealthily in the night, crawling in and out of his home like you don’t belong. He asked you to join him in the early evening, out in public, to have a meal with him. You’re shocked, floored really. You have to set your phone down, lean back and assess the situation for a little while.

That really changes everything, huh? No more fucking your tensions away and fleeing. No more pretending you don’t listen to his stupid podcast every once and while to understand the man behind the orgasms. No more ignoring the fact that your late night booty calls have been getting suspiciously closer together over the last month or so. Fuck, that’s a big step... a leap really, a jump over a death canyon. You text him back,

Absolutely.

—- x —-

You’re torn between a respectable, body-con black dress and this short, deep royal blue number with the sides cut out to tease a little. You want to look good for him and not like you’re trying too hard. But really, what’s the point in that? You both have been playing try hard since you saw each other last. You go with blue.

You’re nervous, taking what feels like the first step to cementing a functioning relationship with the man you’d only considered a fuck buddy for so long. He’d made the first move though, by asking. You can’t be rejected if you didn’t extend the invite, right?

A voice in the back of your mind is screaming you’re an idiot, all he wants is a quick fuck and to wade through his kinks, don’t trust him. But you quiet that bitch and finish your makeup and hair.

The bruise around your throat is a dull yellow with streaks of a nondescript brown running through it. You look to your concealer and ponder, cover it up or no? It’s still visible for anyone who looks at you longer than a couple seconds, but you want him to see it, you want him to push on it again and make you whimper. You decide against hiding his mark, wearing it like a badge of honor.

There’s a knock at your door as you’re exiting your room and pulling your heels on. He’s ten minutes early, like always. You look around your home one last time, remembering briefly his visit a couple nights ago, before greeting the man.

David’s wearing a nice pair of jeans and a black button up under a faded black denim jacket. If blue was your color, black was definitely his. He has this smirk on his lips that make you want to say fuck it to dinner and pull him inside. You don’t get a chance as he’s wrapping himself around you and bear hugging your frame. He smells of cologne and apple shampoo, and you lean into the embrace, feeling safe and wanted. He seems to be contemplating the night out as well when he pulls back to look at you with a pained expression and says,

“You look so fucking good, like holy fuck. I- we don’t have to go-”

“Oh no,” you interrupt, pushing him back into the hallway and locking your door, “This was your idea, Dobrik. You’ll take a girl out before you fuck her tonight.”

He laughs and follows you down to the parking lot, specifically trailing behind you, eyeing the way your hips sway. It feels like a proper date and there’s a thrill running through the air between you two. From the way he grabs you from behind, walking closely, head next to yours murmuring on about how sexy you actually look, to the way he reaches over you once you’re seated in his car and buckles your seat belt. He pauses while leaning over you, and touches your neck, whispering, “This is my favorite part.”

You melt, frozen in place in your seat, wanting him to do anything, as long as he touches you. He just barely kisses the edge of the bruise and he’s back to his seat, pulling the car out. Your left flustered while he smirks and leans his elbow on the console, hand hanging, waiting for yours. You interlace your fingers with his and he just plays lightly with them while asking you about your day. The emotional whiplash you have now leaves a pleasant confusion inside you. You enjoy the teasing atmosphere of the night.

(Even if you actually want him to pull over and make the bruise around your throat darker.)

—- x —-

He sits beside you in the round booth the entire meal, pressed along your side and arm holding you against him. It makes you feel so secure, your nerves no longer buzzing. He’s taken control of the situation and it makes you want to preen at him and bury yourself in his embrace. His fingers keep wandering to the mark on your neck throughout the night, lightly tracing and only every once and while pushing hard enough to make you let out a needy little sound. He knows what he’s doing, turning your head to look at him while you groan each and every time.

He’s intoxicating and you’re honest to god losing focus on the world outside the two of you. His head thrown back in laughter, the way his eyes darken when you rest your hand on his chest whispering something dirty in his ear, the wine he sputters on when the same hand moves up his thigh suggestively. He’s all you can see and he’s all you’d ever want to see. But you’re pushing hard on his limits and you can tell.

“Baby, do you want me to have to add my rings to the mark around your neck or are you going to behave while we’re at dinner?” He asks you after dessert had arrived at the table and he’d stopped your hand away from playing with his zipper.

“Can I have both?” You answer back, a coy grin on your face as you settle back into his hold, pulling your hands back to your own lap. “I’ve never seen you wear rings before and I absolutely want those added to your mark.”

“My mark, huh? I guess it is,” he comments, placing a long kiss on the bruise, “How’d you get by with this all week at work?”

His lips don’t move from your skin, words mumbled out around your neck. You have a hard time formulating words of your own until he pulls back.

“Turtlenecks,” you inform him, lost in his gaze. You really want to be on his lap, kissing him breathless, not here at some restaurant pretending the dessert in front of you is going to be eaten. It’s apparent he feels the same when he flags down the nearest waitress and gets the check.

You’re banished from his arms as he pays and gets ready to leave. You’re vibrating now but not from nerves, from want. His hand on your wrist pulling you out of the booth and down to the parking garage promises more. And you want more from David, you want everything.

That’s why you’re willingly wrapping around his body when he slams you against the side of his Tesla and begins kissing you dirty with too much tongue. It’s exactly what you wanted all night. His hand is sliding up the back of your thigh, fingers sliding up and up and up and he gasps, pulling back, shocked and smirking.

“No panties? In this dress? People are gonna think you’re a little slut, we don’t want that do we,” David’s saying, forehead resting on yours, panting just a bit. Your legs are wrapped around his hips and you can feel his hardness through the denim pressed against your bare skin.

“But, I’m your slut, Daddy,” you purr, lips brushing his ear and trailing down to his neck, sucking and kissing the sensitive skin. He’s trying to compose himself, his tiny, quick breaths betraying him, and you roll you hips once right before he drops you to your feet.

“Get in the back, behind the passenger seat,” he’s ordering, slapping your ass as you make your way around his car. You don’t understand why he wants you back there, but you happily listen to his request. He’s driving out of the lot before he speaks again.

“Are you sure you’re my little slut?” David asks, setting the car to auto drive and angling the rear view mirror to look at you with ease. You nod yes to his question as he continues,

“Because when you’re Daddy’s slut, and you decide to go out to dinner without panties, he punishes you. So, I’ll ask one more time, are you sure you’re mine?”

His gaze is so serious, eyes not faultering from yours in the thin mirror. You know this is a cue, you can tap out or negotiate the night, but he hasn’t mentioned wanting complete control, so you are more than willing to slide into this scene with him. You nod again, murmuring, “Yes, Daddy, I’m yours.”

“Safeword?” He smirks.

“Glory.”

“That’s my good girl. Now, as for punishment, I want you to lift those legs over the arm rests and pull your dress up. Let me see how wet you are,” he commands, and you can’t meet his eyes. You’re flushing when you lift the dress and angle your hips toward the mirror. And you are embarrassingly wet, your thighs shiny in the passing street lights. “Such a good girl. Next, I want you to touch yourself. You can move and make all the noises you want, but you will tell me when you’re about to come. Do you understand?”

Your fingers had already pushed down into your folds before he finished and you moan out Yes Daddy, throwing you head back against the seat. There’s a chill running over your body, an excitement from being watched by David, from knowing that if someone is angled correctly at the front of his car they would see everything. It makes you whine as your fingers slid down and collect your slick before gliding back up and teasing your clit.

“You look so pretty, little girl. Touching yourself for Daddy, does it feel as good as me?” He’s asking through labored breath. You’re vigorously shaking your head no, panting into the car. Too wet, you’re too wet already, and you think it must be leaking onto his leather seats. You can’t stop or care in the moment though. Each and every one of David’s words bringing you closer to the edge. “That’s the right answer, baby. I’m sure you can make yourself feel good, but you’ll never make yourself come like I can, huh?”

“No, Daddy. Never. Only you. Only wanna come for you. Daaaaaaddy,” you’re rambling, fingers stretching your opening, teasing, but not pushing all the way in. You’re so close, so you tell him, “I’m, Daddy I’m gonna-,”

“Stop, now! Take your hand away,” and it’s like stopping a freight train, you have to use all the will inside you to pull away from your heat. But you do, you want to be his good girl all night. “Thank you for telling me sweetheart, you behave so well for me. I think you’ve earned a treat, don’t you?”

“Yes! Please, are you gonna let me come?” You ask hurriedly, hand posed to dive right back to work. But he shakes his head, laughing.

“No, but I’m gonna let you blow me the rest of the way home. And if you can make me come, I’ll let you ride me later tonight. How does that sound?”

That sounds like a deep seeded fantasy, and also fuck yes. You’re moving up the car swiftly to sit sideways in the front seat and perch on your knees, waiting for him. You can’t help licking your lips or the way you lightly press a hand to your mound to relieve some pressure from between your legs. Waiting for permission, you watch as he pushes the denim halfway down his thighs and pumps his already hard cock several times, relishing in the feeling.

A sideways glance is all you need from David before you’re leaning over and taking him in your mouth, swallowing around him until you gag. But you don’t let up, you let yourself gag around him until your throat adjusts. His fist is pressed against your lips, still holding himself tight. You push your tongue to flick at the fingers until he removes them and you can actually take him all the way down.

“Fuck, pretty girl. You really are a little slut, huh? You like the way Daddy tastes?” He’s moaning into the car, playing with your hair. You can only nod as you start to bob you head, sucking around him on the upstroke and laving your tongue down the pronounced vein on the downstroke. He’s swearing softly, but letting you work him over.

There’s spit coming down the sides of your lips, making a mess, but the obscene wet sounds only make him groan louder. You have your hands propped on his thigh, holding your weight as devour him. You sincerely hope you look like a sordid whore for him, and you desperately want him to look wrecked when you’re done.

No hands, just swallowing him whole and worshiping your mouth around him, he grows quiet. He’s gonna come. David grunts and his hand tightens in your hair when you slip down on his cock the last time. Holding you in place, you flutter your throat around him as he comes. He’s too far in and you can’t help swallowing all he gives. Not a drop dribbles out. You don’t stop your ministrations until he’s pulling you off of him and into a open mouthed kiss, like he enjoys the taste of himself.

There is slick running down your thighs properly now as he searches your mouth with his tongue, fucking in and out, leaving you to moan wantonly in his hold. He pulls you back by your hair, his face flush and mouth hanging open just a bit (the sight alone makes you try to squeeze your legs closed so you don’t leak anymore than you already are) and whispers against your lips,

“Such a good girl for her Daddy,” he praises, “And you swallowed all my come? God, fuck, what am I gonna do with you, baby? So hot, so fucking well behaved.”

You are actually preening in his hold, warmth spreading through your body for making him so happy. You think you could come from just this, from his words and the way he strokes your cheek so softly, like he adores you.

“I fucking love you,” he says, capturing your lips again, sliding the drivers seat back as far as it’ll go and hauling you over to straddle his lap.

And you let that sentiment go for the time being as David pulls you into a heated, slightly unsafe make out in his Tesla. You can’t bring your mind to focus on that as he ravishes you the entire way back to his house.

His words hang in the air though, electricity coursing around the two of you as you lose yourselves in one another.

—- x —-

First four parts are in my masterlist!

[mamashitty]

Samwell Elementary - Chapter 4

y’all can read this fic on my here on the tumblr or on my ao3. thank you, everyone, who has been reading this. I’m a newbie when it comes to fic writing. Anyway, onward!

In the past few weeks, Eric Bittle has learned a few things about NHL star Jack Zimmermann. He has always been aware of how attractive the other man is, because, Eric ain’t blind. But, experiencing that in person is an awful lot different than just noticing it on television or in a magazine spread. Eric has always had a bit of a crush on the Canadian. Hell, he and Trevor had first bonded over how much they both liked Mr. Zimmermann’s ass. Eric knows that looking is okay, but he does feel a little guilty about it now that he is sort of getting to know the other man. The guilt comes from the fact Eric himself has a boyfriend, that Jack is clearly married or has a partner in Camilla, and that she is pregnant. Oh, and why not toss in the fact that Jack is also the father of one of Bitty’s students. But, he can’t help that his little crush seems to be growing with each minor interaction they have. He can’t help, though he tries, that he files away new little tidbits about the man. Like the fact, Eric can make him blush by just congratulating him on having another kid. That Mr. Zimmermann liked Eric’s pie. That Mr. Zimmermann is really good with his daughter and getting better at styling her as the weeks progress. He is kind and friendly. Maybe not as outgoing as some of the other parents he speaks with, but he tries, and it is adorable.

And Eric really needs to stop thinking about all of that. He is a married man. And Eric has a boyfriend that he loves.

Class is done for the day and Eric is hoping to get home and sneak in a nap before he has to get to the rink. He hates when they have practice in the evening after a full day worth of teaching—but that was the only slot they could get this week. He knows Lardo tries her best to secure better time slots, and he does appreciate all the work she does on that front. He is humming along to the music playing in his car as he pulls into a parking spot. He notices Trevor’s car and smiles, happy that he will be able to see his boyfriend after all today. Maybe he can entice Trevor to snuggle during his nap. Or maybe do a little more than just snuggle. He feels a bit like he and his boyfriend have been ships lately, passing each other, but not able to do much more, not able to actually visit. He feels happy as he opens the door to their apartment.

“Honey, I’m home,” Eric calls, laughter in his voice as he is easily amused by his own antics.

“Babe!” Trevor says, stepping out from the bedroom. He is dressed in a suit and looks to be finishing up tying his tie. He looks a little flustered, but there is the hint of a smile on his face. Eric raises a brow at him, wondering if he has yet another work meeting tonight. He knows he has no real right to be annoyed by that because he is busy himself with hockey practice, but he is annoyed. All it seems that Trevor does these days is work. But… he looks good in that suit and maybe Eric can still have a bit of fun before he has to leave.

“Getting ready for a hot date?” He asks, a grin on his face. He watches as Trevor’s face contorts—a flash of outright panic for just a second or two—with a few emotions before he schools it. Eric feels his stomach drop.

“Eric… we should probably talk,” Trevor says, haltingly. Like this is the last thing he wants to do, but that he realizes, he has no choice in the matter.

“Should I be sitting down?” Eric asks dully. He has a feeling, suddenly, that he knows what Trevor is going to tell him. That… all those extra hours for work probably was not for work. He finds himself feeling more than a little stupid at ignoring all the signs. And then, he finds himself feeling guilty over making such an assumption. Maybe what Trevor has to tell him is solely just related to work? Maybe something happened to his parents? To his sister? There is a lot of things he could want to talk about.

“Sitting down might be a good idea,” Trevor says, not looking at Eric and Eric… he tries to hold onto the idea that whatever his boyfriend has to say has nothing to do with his cheating on him.

Except that is exactly what Trevor has to tell him. It is a couple of hours later, and Eric is seated in Shitty’s kitchen. He knows the two of them should get going, that they need to get to the rink. He is nursing a cocktail of some sorts that Shitty had waiting for him when he appeared at the house.

“Brah, you can stay here as long as you want. I even put clean sheets on the guest bed for you,” Shitty explains, looking unabashedly proud of himself.

“Thanks, Shitty,” Eric says, finishing up his drink. It probably is not the smartest to have a drink before they go to the rink—but their first game isn’t for another month, and they will have other practices at odd times for him to put his all in.

“You up to actually coming, Bits? I can make up an excuse for you…” Shitty offers, an expression of gentle concern on his face.

Eric thinks about it for a minute or two. He is unsure if he is really up to telling everyone how much of an idiot he has been for not seeing the obvious. He is not sure he can hide the fact something happened, either. But, he wants to skate and play hockey. He knows that will distract him from things, for the hour that they have the rink for. He sighs, and it sounds defeated even to his ears so he tries to muster up a smile that he thinks looks brave.

“I am. Honestly, I think it will be better for me to get out and be with friends. I will skate so hard that hopefully, I forget all of this for an hour or so.” Shitty reaches across the table to squeeze Eric’s shoulder and Lord does Eric appreciate his friend. It was no real questions asked when he called him, sobbing and asking if he could stay in the guest room for a little while. Eric lucked out when Shitty decided to take him under his wing when he first started teaching at Samwell.

It is late and Eric has finally finished putting his clothing away in the guest room of Shitty’s house. He is unsure of how long he will actually stay here, he just knows, that he is done with the apartment he had shared with Trevor. An apartment they had rented mostly for the kitchen and he is trying so hard to not dwell on the loss of that kitchen. He has plans to stop by the place tomorrow afternoon to get the rest of his stuff and leave his set of keys behind. He can only hope that Trevor keeps his promise and does not end up being there.

He had found a worn looking Falconers t-shirt shoved in the back of one of the dresser drawers. It will be a bit big on him, but it had looked soft and comfortable. He doubts Shitty will mind if he wears it, and he tugs it on once he is done brushing his teeth and getting ready for bed. He tugs the shirt on, and it basically hides the shorts he likes to sleep in. The shirt is comfortable and does not smell like Shitty at all (not that Bitty really minds how his friend smells). He settles into the bed and tugs the comforter up to his chest.

He fishes his phone out, and mindlessly scrolls through facebook. He tries not to think too hard on the looks of concern and worry from his friends earlier. He had seen Shitty having whispered conversations with everyone throughout their hour on the ice. Each time, he would receive looks that held what he read as pity and tried to tell himself it was probably just concern. No one said anything to him during practice, but he received tight hugs from everyone and reminders that he can call or text them whenever he needs to. It made Eric’s heart feel warm. He is lucky to have his friends.

He stops his mindless scrolling, heaves a sigh that is probably overly dramatic, and then with a determined expression on his face he changes his Facebook status to single. He wonders if maybe he should have waited a few days to do that. He hopes his Mom does not notice or really anyone for a few days. He sets his phone down on the nightstand and flops back into the bed. His gaze locked on the ceiling.

His heart hurts but not in the way he would have assumed it would, after finding out that his boyfriend had been cheating on him. He wonders if maybe he was not as in love with Trevor as he thought he was before or if maybe it is just bitterness at being lied to that is making him think he hurts less than he does. Mostly, he feels angry and embarrassed.

“Hey Bitty,” Eric looks up to see Shitty standing in the doorway. He has on some rather nondescript boxers for him.

“Please get in here and cuddle,” Eric says, realizing that even if he does not necessarily want to talk about everything—that he really does not want to be alone tonight. He is lucky to have a friend like Shitty, who happily obliges by crawling into bed with him.

“Nice shirt,” his friend mumbles, turning into the big spoon for the night.

Eric’s thoughts whirl around his head for a while and eventually, he falls asleep.

[fanfic-scribbles]

Tie a Yellow Ribbon For Me

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Roses are red, Violets are blue, Even death can’t keep him From finding his way back to you.

Quick facts: Romance – [established] Gabriel/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Angst-ish with a happy ending, many flashbacks handle it, use of ‘sugar’ as a term of endearment for a gender-neutral reader

Prompt: Written for @gabriel-monthly-challenge​’s February prompt: Spin the Wheel. I landed on “A Dozen Red Roses”. Tagging @archangelgabriellives, @archangel-with-a-shotgun , @archangelsanonymous, @ttttrickster, @warlockwriter, and @revwinchester.

Words: 2459

Special Context Note: For people who might not know: “Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Ole Oak Tree” was a popular song in the seventies (I think?) performed by Dawn feat. Tony Orlando (I do recommend it; it’s a good song). It’s told from the perspective of a man writing to his lover after having been away for a few years. He tells her that if she wants him still, she can tie a yellow ribbon around a certain tree and he’ll come home, but if he doesn’t see it, he’ll assume she doesn’t want him back and he’ll keep going and never bother her again.

A/N: That summary is a little more sinister than I intended. Sorry, no dark!Gabriel here. Or “The Crow” AU. (Though hm, that’s a possible idea.) This is kind of an alt S5 post-“Hammer of the Gods” where Gabriel doesn’t go to Loki et al. This is sort of similar in premise to some other stuff I’ve written so I apologize to the people who follow me. Ironically, despite the title, this story was actually written to repeat listening of “11 Minutes” by Halsey and Yungblud feat Travis Barker ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Please enjoy! (PS: In case my formatting gets fucked up, flashbacks are encompassed by tildes (~).)

   You feel like you’ve gotten used to the silence.

Sure, you had periods of it before– spending 24/7 with a sometimes-manic archangel is a pre-requisite for madness– but those quiet moments without him had always felt like in-betweens. Small breaks, or minor reprieves, sometimes purposefully taken, and sometimes just waiting. Gabriel could have popped in at any moment.

Now he can’t.

You can say you’re mostly okay now. Mostly. You’ve lost before and you’ll lose again. It’s the nature of things, just being in the world as it is. Being a hunter in it means you’ll do it over and over and over again.

It doesn’t make it ache any less.

But you’re still going, because it’s what you’ve always done and it’s what you’ll always do. Right now you’re on your way to a small desert town that seems convinced it’s living out the movie “Tremors,” and going by the reports, you can see why. You feel a smile creep onto your lips. Gabriel would have found it funny.

~

“Have you been terrorizing a small city in Wisconsin in your spare time?” you ask and flick Gabriel with your big toe.

“Ooo, Wisconsin. Sounds like a party,” Gabriel says out loud, but the look he gives you asks, ‘Really?’ and he holds out a piece of whatever candy he’s focused on now. You trade him for the paper and take a bite while he skims the story.

He snorts and tosses it down. “Amateur. Credit for style though; there’s worse you could do than a Mel Brooks homage.”

You roll your eyes and finish swallowing. “I’m sure the three victims would agree with you, if they could.” You fold up the newspaper and set it aside from the massive stack of other regional papers that Gabriel had whined about, and yet gotten for you anyway. “I’ll head out tomorrow.”

“So you’re done working now?” Gabriel asks. He sits up and puts a piece of chocolate between his teeth, makes sure half of it is sticking out, and waggles his eyebrows.

You laugh and lean forward, bracing yourself with your hands as you stretch to meet his mouth with yours. Just as you’re about to gently bite on the chocolate, it vanishes, and Gabriel slips his tongue into your mouth instead.

Once you’ve had your fill of each other (for the moment) you can’t help how big you smile. “You’re so cheesy sometimes.”

He grins. “Sugar, you have no idea.”

~

You need a shower.

Badly.

You don’t feel the slime as much as you did when the constructs first exploded, but you don’t count that as a good thing, because it’s still there and you keep getting reminded of that whenever you shift. The day is dry and warm and a wind rushes across the desert landscape. When you step out of the car a strong gust blows past you and you shield your eyes until the air settles back to its steady pace. You get to your room and put your key in the lock when something catches your eye.

All down the sidewalk are cutouts in the concrete, just spaces of dirt that look like they’re supposed to be planters. Some of them have scattered cacti, but most are empty. Yours was empty, you're fairly certain, but now there’s a spindly long-stemmed something, being blown to the side and clinging to the dirt with nothing but tenacity. You kneel down to get a better look and–

it’s a rose.

Your breath catches in your throat. Not even a desert rose; a real, thorned rose, with petals that have obviously been sandblasted for a while and a thin stem that looks sickly.

But a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

~

There are flowers everywhere.

Gabriel really likes this place. He’s been here for a couple of months, and it shows; every day he’s seen you (almost every single day, as of late,) he’s given you flowers– a bouquet of twelve red roses. And, as you haven’t exactly had places to put them, he has graciously offered to ‘keep them somewhere safe.’

So of course there are dozens (of dozens) of roses scattered all around the room, still miraculously alive. Heavy emphasis on the miracle.

“You're the one who said I was cheesy,” Gabriel says and sits down, but puts his drink on the side table. Champagne, of course, and he’s even wearing a ridiculous red and black patterned robe. It’s a testament to how much you like him that you are not making fun of him right now.

But you can admit you do like the roses. The petals are soft and they smell nice. You look up from your bouquet to see Gabriel smiling at you. The softness of his expression throws you off and you hide the lower half of your face in the flowers. “Why always roses?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” His smile turns all trickster. “It’s just what they have at the grocery store.”

You hit him with the bouquet hard enough that he falls off the bed. Well, his mad laughter probably helped, but you’ll still take credit for it. Asshole.

~

Someday, sentiment is going to get you killed.

You pick the rose anyway.

The young couple currently having their first date is pretty cute. Now that you’re not annoyed by them blocking the door, you can appreciate the beginning a new relationship. And it’s going to be one; they’re both all soft smiles and longing glances and dumbstruck lovelorn expressions. One of them keeps fidgeting with their hands, and the other shifts an enormous bouquet from arm to arm. You note the roses, of course, but it’s made up of a lot of other flowers too. It’s very pretty– and must have cost a fortune. You smile. Explains the coffee date.

~

“You work too much.”

“You’re a needy guy, aren’t you?” you ask and glance up from the screen. “Five more minutes, Gabriel. Then I’m all yours.”

He huffs and flops onto the table, head in his arms and pouting and grumbling enough to draw attention. You roll your eyes and, while he’s distracted, kiss the crown of his head.

He stops grumbling. But the next time you take a sip of your drink it’s like shoving pure sugar down your throat and you choke.

His smile is almost as saccharine. “I just wanted to make it as sweet as you.”

You stare at him and calmly wipe your mouth. “Twenty minutes.”

He sputters in protest.

“I’ll knock it down to ten if you walk up to the counter, wait in line, and buy me a replacement. With money.”

He starts muttering again. But he gets up.

~

You look at your computer and think about actually trawling for hunts, but, well, your coffee cup is empty and who can be asked to work under such inhumane conditions? You hop off the stool and almost crunch a stray rose underfoot. It must have been dropped by the happy couple by the door. As you pick it up you wonder how you’re going to interject and give it back, but when you stand, they’re already gone.

You look back at the flower. It’s truly lovely; obviously well cared for (and not just shoved in a fridge at a grocery store, Gabriel). You smile at the thought of his indignance, and set the rose on the table. It would be a shame to let it get thrown out, so you’ll take care of it.

Even at the end of the world, there are still mundane monsters to kill. You’re leaving a very shaken family with one less poltergeist and a lifetime therapy to look forward to (at least they have a have a lifetime, now,) when the youngest daughter runs up to you and holds up a rose. “Here! This is for you.”

Though you thank her and take it, the mom echoes your concerns when she asks, “Honey where did you get that?”

“I found it,” the kid chirps, like that’s all you need to know.

It’s a real rose with almost no thorns and a yellow ribbon tied around the stem. That’s an odd thing to just find. But the house has settled and you figure you can burn this and stick around for a day or two, just in case. You thank the little girl again, bid goodbye to her sisters and parents, and as you go you start to tuck the flower away when you see a small embroidered symbol on the ribbon.

An Enochian symbol.

  As you speed away, you barely resist the urge to chuck that fucking flower out the window. You want to. But at the same time, you can’t bring yourself to do it.

Fucking asshole.

~

“I need to understand!”

Gabriel shoves you up against the wall. Not hard enough to hurt, but it does stun you– for a second. His grip is too light and his expression too conflicted for him to convince you what a ‘monster’ he is. “You’re not that kind of person,” you say and stare him down. “So why do you want me to think you are?”

Gabriel jerks, but you grab onto his jacket and yank him back in. “What are you so afraid of, Gabriel?” you whisper. “I’m the one thing in the universe you don’t have to fear.”

Gabriel leans in, close enough to kiss. Your eyes shut on instinct. Or maybe it’s Pavlovian.

“You're the one thing in the universe I have to fear the most.”

Air brushes past your lips, the pressure of his body releases, and you open your eyes to empty space.

~

He had come back within a day, as soon as you had asked, and said ‘I’m sorry’ in every conceivable way without ever saying it with his mouth. (Well, verbally, that is.) At the time, you figured it was fine.

And maybe it was. Now that you’ve had a few days to freak out, get your hopes up and down and all around, you feel a little calmer. You have the roses set aside and the ribbon spread out on the bed while you sit with your Enochian dictionary. Gabriel wouldn’t lead you along willy-nilly. You have faith (just a little) that this means something.

And if this does turn out to be some “Drink your Ovaltine” bullshit you are going to find out how to travel back in time so you can murder him with your own two hands.

It takes a while, but you find the word, and then use a few other dictionaries and translation sites to get it into English. You check it five times, in different ways, and then sit, chest swelling with hope that you’re not sure you can handle.

‘Healing.’

You want to believe, but a rough translation boiled down to its essential part can’t make you Mulder. You put the books away and lean back against the headboard, just trying to process, when something ‘thump!’s against your door. You grab your gun and stay alert as you check the outside area, but as far as you can see, there’s no one.

But there are three roses, piled neatly just in front of the door. You smile. Because really– you’re skeptical, but you’re not stupid. You pick them up and put the flowers to your face while you mind the thorns. You’re pretty good at that by now.

“Okay,” you say and nuzzle the petals. “I’ll wait.”

You find five more roses over the next couple of weeks in utterly random places. On your pillow. In a sewer. In your water glass after you turn away for a second. In the basket you grab at a grocery store. On your passenger seat. That last one makes you ache.

That night, when you open your book and find eight perfectly placed rose petals, you almost cry. Twelve roses. It’s always been a dozen, so that means he’s coming back, right? He doesn’t appear right away, but you go to bed hopeful.

Except he’s not there in the morning.

Or the afternoon.

Or the evening. Or…

It’s late on the third day of waiting and hope is fading fast. You hit your forehead on your steering wheel and whisper, “Where are you?” Did you misread things? Was this set up in advance? Did he mean for you to heal? Was someone messing with–

Your radio comes on without any prompting and you jolt up. You’re so busy trying to look for danger that you don’t recognize the song at first.

“–nt me, if you still want me Whoa tie a yellow ribbon round the ole oak tree…”

You blink. You stop being afraid. And start being annoyed. “Are you fucking serious?”

But the song plays on, and the volume even gets jacked up. “A SIMPLE YELLOW RIBBON’S WHAT I NEED TO SET ME FREE–”

“Okay!” You turn the radio off and sit in silence for a few moments before you burst into tears and laughter both. “Fuck; you’re such an asshole,” you say, with wet eyes and a smile full of teeth.

You consider trying to track down a bonsai or some plastic palm tree, but you’ve waited long enough. Still, when you get back to your room you go through all the motions of getting ready to go to sleep. Once you’re actually sitting on the bed, you put the yellow ribbon to your wrist and manage to tie a messy bow.

You lie down, exhausted by days of constant, immense stress, and sigh. As you drift off to sleep you think, ‘I’m ready, Gabriel.

Come home.’

It happens without fanfare. You simply wake to an arm around your stomach, and a morning still dark.

“Hey,” you say, sleep-addled.

Gabriel chuckles. “Hey.”

You’ve never heard anything so beautiful, even as rough as his voice is. “You sound tired.”

“Yeah.” Gabriel presses closer to you. “Almost getting murdered by your own brother is pretty exhausting.”

“Hm.” That’s a conversation for later. Or never, depending on how stubborn Gabriel wants to be. Either way, not now. Not when you’ve got him back. You turn over and wrap yourself around him. “It’s okay,” you say. “Go to sleep. I’ve got you.”

He gives you a wry smile, but whatever snarky way you expect him to say ‘I don’t sleep’ doesn’t happen. He shuts his eyes, and you hold tight. “I’m glad you came back,” you say. “Even if I don’t have a hundred ribbons.”

He shifts with quiet laughter. “That’s all right.” He holds your wrist and places a kiss that straddles the ribbon and your skin. “I only need the one.”

[wafflebatter8225]

Pepperony Exchange Fic

Title: The Force Will Be With you, Always

Author: microgirl

Recipient: @catsarecutebutaliens

Rating: G

Summary: Aunt May invites Tony and Pepper to spend New Year’s Eve with she, Peter, and Ned.

Author’s Note: This is my exchange fic for @catsarecutebutaliens.  I am so, so sorry you had to wait until the very last day for your fic.  I started your story, but got half way through before I hated everything I’d written.  My friend gave me a much better prompt and this fic poured out. I hope you enjoy it

 “Okay boys!” May announced, walking into the living room.  “It’s time for our New Year’s Eve checklist: Popcorn?”

 “Check!” Ned said, holding up the microwave bags.

 “Candy?”

 “Junior Mints for you,” Peter pointed to the boxes on the coffee table.  “M&M’s for Ned. Reeses Pieces for me.”

 “And the Chinese food should be here in a few minutes,” May clapped her hands together.  “I know I don’t have to ask about the movies.”

 Ned smirked, tapping the blu-ray cases.  “Right here.”

 “Then we are all set!” The sound of knocking interrupted May. “That should be the food, Peter. Can you get that?”

 Hopping up from the couch, Peter went to the door.  He opened it, surprised to not find the typical, nondescript delivery person, but to see Tony Stark and Pepper Potts on the other side.

 “Hey, kid,” Tony grinned.

 “Tony!” Peter blinked in shock.  Even after all of these months it was still weird to call him by his first name.  “What are you doing here?”

 “Moon lighting as a delivery man,” Tony replied, carrying a big box full of Chinese food.  “I decided research and development for Stark Industries wasn’t enough.”

 Pepper rolled her eyes. “Just ignore him, that’s what I do.”

 “Peter, stop gawking and let them in.”  May held out her arms to Pepper for a hug.  “How are you, dear?”

 “I’m doing wonderful. Thank you so much for inviting us.”

 Inviting us? Peter wondered.  Wait, was that why they were here?  Since when were the Starks spending New Year’s Eve with them?  May hadn’t said anything about that.

 Tony followed May to the dining room where he placed the box on the table.  “Thank you so much for picking up the food.  How much do we owe you?” she asked.

 Shaking his head, Tony waved his hand.  “Nothing. We practically bought out the restaurant to cover all of the cravings of my very lovely pregnant wife.”

 And he wasn’t kidding. Peering inside the box, Peter found enough take-out boxes to feed three times as many people as there were in the apartment.  

 “Plus I wanted you guys to be able to get some crab cheese wontons without losing a limb,” Tony said simply as he took off his sunglasses.

 Ned and Peter snickered until Pepper narrowed her eyes at her husband.  “What have I said about making fun of my cravings?”

 “‘Shut up before I rip your arm off?’”

 When Pepper nodded, Tony then quietly said to the boys, “See? Loss of limbs.”

 May led Pepper to the living room, taking her coat and purse.  “How are you feeling?”

 “Good,” Pepper grinned, sitting on the couch.  She settled her hands over her cute little baby bump.  “Morgan is an active little guy.”

 May smiled.  “We’ll eat here in the living room.  Peter and Ned, can you bring the food, and I’ll get the drinks.”

 Peter stepped in the kitchen while May was filling glasses with root beer.  “What are they doing here?” he whispered, a touch of anxiety in his question.  

 “I invited them,” May answered simply.

 “I know, but why?”

 Before she could answer, Tony called from the living room, “So what are we watching?”

 “Star Wars!” Ned said happily.  “We watch A New Hope and time the movie so the Death Star blows up at the stroke of midnight.”

 Much to Peter’s frustration, May left the kitchen to serve drinks before she answered Peter’s question. “The boys have added Rogue One to tonight’s viewing lineup.”

 He couldn’t fathom why she invited the Starks to their little New Year’s Eve celebration. First, Peter figured Pepper and Tony would have been at a swanky and hip Manhattan party.  But, he knew May never cared for Tony; she voiced her dislike about Tony when Peter talked about his “internship.”

 Then she found out Peter was Spider-Man and Tony was responsible for building not one, but two suits.  Peter stayed with Tony through the final battle with Thanos, post being released from the Soul Stone; the move nearly got Peter killed permanently.  And now Tony was his mentor as Peter finished his senior year of high school.  Peter spent a lot of late nights at Tony’s workshop, meaning he didn’t see May nearly as much.

 With all of this, he couldn’t imagine why May wanted Tony in her home.  Swallowing hard, Peter wondered if this would be the night May would tell Tony to stay away from her nephew.

Forty-five minutes later, Peter still couldn’t get over the fact he was sitting on the floor in his living room on New Year’s Eve with Tony Stark and Pepper Potts, eating Chinese food and watching Rogue One.

 “So how long have you guys been doing this?” Pepper asked.

 Peter thought for a moment. “Uh, ever since I lived with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.  Uncle Ben was a big Star Wars fan.”  May smiled at him, and he didn’t miss the sheen in her eyes.

 It had been their New Year’s Eve tradition to watch the Original Trilogy.  When Peter was ten, he and Uncle Ben had figured out when to start A New Hope to where the Death Star blew up right at midnight.  That year, the three of them cheered like they were Rebels at that climatic moment.

 But the first New Year’s Eve after Uncle Ben died, Peter was invited to a party at Abe’s house.  The idea of leaving May alone that night…just made Peter feel sick inside.  So he’d told Ned he was staying with May, and Ned joined them as well.  The tradition stayed alive with the three of them.

 “We used to always watch the movies in order,” Peter went on.  “But then we discovered it was more fun to watch A New Hope closer to midnight.”

 “The boys will continue to watch the rest of the Original Trilogy after midnight, but don’t feel obligated to stay for that,” May said.

 “But so we’re not waiting until 10:02, we start with Rogue One now,” Ned happily explained.  “We keep everything in order.”

 When the Rebels had successfully gotten the Death Star plans to Princess Leia, the little group had enough time before the next movie started to stretch, use the bathroom, and refresh drinks and food

 At exactly 10:02:43, Peter began A New Hope.  When the Rebels were setting up for the invasion of the stormtroopers, Tony offhandedly commented, “You know, I remember when Dad got a phone call from George Lucas.”

 “WHAT?!?!” Peter and Ned exclaimed at the same time.

 Swallowing a sip of root beer, Tony nodded.  “Yeah, George Lucas spoke to Dad about some of the weapons design for the movie.”

 “Are you serious?” Ned asked, his eyes wide and unflinching.

 “George Lucas. Your dad knew George Lucas.”  Peter could not believe his ears.  How the hell did he not know this??

 “George even gave Dad tickets to the movie premiere.”

 “WHAT?!?!?”

 Pepper laughed. “Baby, you can’t casually drop bombs like that to two Star Wars fans.”

 “I remember when Dad got home from his meeting with George.  He thought the plot of the movie was the silliest thing he’d ever heard. After we got home from the movie, Dad said George was the real genius.”

 “George,” Ned practically squealed.  “You call him George and actually know the man.  Do you still talk to him?”

 Peter fired out, “Did Howard help with the design of the Death Star too?”

 “Did you help with the design of the Death Star?”

 “Can you make a blaster?”

 “Can you make a lightsaber?”

 Tony laughed.  “That was actually the one weapon Dad was curious about making.  I think he tried designing something for it.”

 “Did he manage to make one?” Peter asked excitedly.

 Tony shook his head. “No.”

 Peter deflated for a second before grinning at Ned.  “I bet Shuri could make one.”

 “Shuri could totally make a lightsaber,” Ned agreed with a massive smile.

 May shook her head. “No, no, no.  You are not asking Shuri to make you a lightsaber.”

 “What?” Peter protested. “Why not?”

 “Because I like our apartment, and I don’t want you to destroy everything with a laser sword.”

 Peter scoffed.  “It’s not like we’d be using it here.”

 “Yeah, boys,” Tony agreed, swiping his smartphone screen.  “No lightsabers.”

 “That goes for you too,” Pepper said.

 “What?!”

 She pointed to his phone.  “I know you are about to text Shuri and you do not need a lightsaber.”

 “Why not?”

 Closing her eyes, Pepper shook her head.  “I don’t even have time to explain to you all of the reasons you shouldn’t have a functioning lightsaber.”  She scooted to the end of the couch cushion, and Tony jumped to his feet to help her up. “No lightsaber.”

 After she left for the bathroom, Tony leaned down to Peter and Ned and spoke to where Aunt May couldn’t hear him.  “We’ll call Shuri later this week.”  Peter and Ned nodded eagerly, sharing their signature handshake.  When Pepper rejoined them, Tony winked at the boys.

 The rest of the city was counting down to the New Year as Han Solo said, “You’re all clear, kid. Now let’s blow this thing and go home.”  But no one in the apartment joined in.

 Peter and Ned stared at the TV screen with the same wide eyed wonder as they had every time they watched this movie.  The thrill of watching the Rebels win this major battle never got old.

 And when the Death Star met its inventible end, everyone erupted into cheers.  Leaning down, May smacked a kiss on Peter’s cheek before she did the same to Ned.  Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught Tony and Pepper in their own kiss. After, Tony bent his head to press his lips to Pepper’s baby bump.  Peter couldn’t help but smile at the sweet gesture.

 After they toasted with sparkling apple cider, Tony and Pepper gave their goodbyes.

 “Thank you so much for having us,” Pepper hugged Peter before kissing his cheek.  Peter’s face burned with embarrassment.  

 “You’re welcome,” he squeaked.

 Tony pulled Peter into a hug, giving him a friendly clap on the back.  “This was fun, kid.  You and Ned enjoy the rest of the trilogy.”

 After they left, Ned went back to the living room to set up The Empire Strikes Back.  May told them she was turning in.  Before she could leave, Peter asked, “So why did you invite them?”

 May’s eyes softened. “I know how much you look up to Tony. And I admit I haven’t been the most welcoming to him.  He’s an important part of your life and I wanted to get to know him better.”  She cupped his cheek.  “I know I can’t provide you with everything, but I am so happy you have a positive male figure in your life again.”

 Blinking back his own tears, Peter’s chest flooded with joyous warmth.  He wrapped May up in a bone crushing hug.  For probably the millionth time, he was so, so grateful to have Aunt May.

 “I love you,” he croaked.

 “I love you too, baby.”

[rom-e-o]

;ljfsldk this was very hard to choose: "9) a sunrise, a bumper sticker, the color orange" ^^;

[Aaaand finished! Thank you so much to @livefreeordie13 for this amazingly fun prompt! I got to stretch my creative muscles in figuring out how to rope everything together, and honestly, it was great fun. I hope you enjoy!]

[Summary: Yu and Yosuke take their first vacation as boyfriends. Their destination is a lakeside condo, three hours outside their apartment in Tokyo. (Implied/nonexplicit NSFW situations)]

AO3 link is here!

Yosuke’s eyes squinted as hard as they could but to no avail. He just couldn’t make out the words from his current vantage point.

They had been driving behind the same car for almost twenty minutes in light city traffic, and for that same amount of time, Yosuke had strained his eyes in an attempt to read a tantalizing bright but still weather-born bumper sticker.

“It’s too far away to read,” he noted aloud, leaning forward in the passenger’s seat in a futile attempt to read the small and weather-worn sticker through the windshield. “Catch up to them!”

“What?” Yu asked, shooting his boyfriend a quizzical stare from his position in the driver’s seat. “Why would I want to do that?”

“I want to read the sticker,” Yosuke explained simply.

“You want me to tailgate so you can read someone’s old car decal?” he replied, silver brow lofting. “Are you serious?”

“C’mon, we aren’t going that fast and the traffic is totally light right now!” Yosuke said with a whine. “Please, partner?”

Yu rolled his eyes but didn’t argue. His foot put a hair of extra pressure on the accelerator, just enough to speed up their rental car a few extra miles per hour. It was enough to satiate his boyfriend, who leaned forward in his head and practically glued his eyes to the windshield in an attempt to read the semi-faded bumper sticker in front of them.

Once they got a couple feet close, Yosuke let out an odd laugh od delight, signaling to Yu that the distance breached was sufficient.

“It says, ‘Honk if…you like big dicks,’” Yosuke said. His tone had changed mid-sentence from intense excitement to expressionless disbelief.

He reread the words a couple times over just to make sure he was reading things correctly. Sure enough, he’d read the raunchy text correctly the first time.

“Wow, that’s totally what it says after all,” Yosuke said, leaning back in the seat as a dry laugh crackled from his throat like ash from a parched fire. “Geez, I remember people in the city being more brazen when I was growing up, but that’s really…”

Yu laid on the horn as loud as possible.

The strident sound completely severed Yosuke’s sentence and sent a shock through his body so strong that he almost thought he could have snapped the seatbelt in two.

“Hey!” Yosuke squeaked loudly. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“What?” Yu asked between two extra loud, incessant honks. “You wanted me to speed up to read the bumper sticker, right? Well, I read it too, and I’m agreeing.”

Yu spoke with his usual deadpan humor, but the shadow of a catlike grin on his face was unmistakable. Anyone who knew Yu could see the silver-haired teen was being smug, and Yosuke knew him better than anyone. In addition to being roommates in college together in Tokyo, they’d also started dating shortly after high school.

The car in front of them, which had been driving at a steady pace, slowed and changed lanes. The vehicle sank back in the lane beside the couple’s rental car. A few other young adults who also looked like students, with trendy clothes and goofy grins, rolled their windows down to whoop in agreement and loudly thank Yu for his honk of support.

Yu gave them a thumbs up in solidarity and Yosuke’s soul left his body in absolute embarrassment.

Their first vacation as boyfriends was already going swimmingly well.

“I’ll get us checked in at the front desk,” Yu said as he pulled the car into a parking spot near the resort’s lobby. Upon opening the car door, the aroma of damp foliage and running water greeted his senses.

The summer air was warm, but not humid. A light breeze created a deafening rustling sound that made Yu realize just how thickly wooded the area was. The tree canopy that cascaded down the valley all the way to the lake’s edge swayed softly. With each gust, scatter of petals peppered the pavement below with a pink and green splatter.

The scenery was so different from Tokyo’s. In fact, it almost reminded him of being back in Inaba again. The sounds of car horns and aimless street chatter were replaced with sounds of kids playing in a nearby pool and of cicadas lazily chirping along the arboreal pathways.  

Yosuke silently unclicked his seatbelt and staggered out of the seat. He shot Yu a half-lidded look over the roof of the car as he rounded the vehicle to make a beeline to the entrance. The gaze was too soft to be a glare but way too heated to just be a casual glance.

It was a very nondescript look that told Yu he’d done a fantastic job at teasing his friend.

“Are you sure you can handle that?” Yosuke asked cautiously. “Don’t make it weird.”

“What do you mean?” Yu asked with an impish grin.

Yosuke just sighed hollowly in response, which only made Yu laugh even harder. He said, “Hang out here. I’ll be back in a minute, partner.”

Failing to notice the faint blush on Yosuke’s face, Yu jogged up the steps briskly and tugged the door open. Before it shut, Yosuke could hear his boyfriend greet the person at the front desk amicably and, as usual, with complete normalcy. The desk attendant would have never guessed that the nice, silver-haired college student she was charging for a room had just spent almost an entire three-hour carried from Tokyo honking at every ridiculous bumper sticker and then proceeding to give every passing car a appreciate wave when they stopped to compliment him along the roadway.

They’d never know, and yet, it sent a tiny thrill through Yosuke. It felt special and a little extra romantic that he was the only one that knew his boyfriend’s weirdness.

After stretching his nimble legs with a few athletic poses that Chie had taught him, he took a moment to saunter to the edge of the parking lot to peer down the edge at the resort’s scenery below.

Even he, a tried-and-true city boy, had to admit that Yu had picked a fantastic place for their vacation. It was picturesque and rural but lacked the usual ruddiness of some other countryside locations.

At first, Yosuke had been hesitant to take a vacation to a resort at all. It just didn’t seem like a typical trip for a college student to make, in his opinion. However, when Yu brought up the idea of spending an entire trip together and away from work and the crazy hustle and bustle of Tokyo, it suddenly sounded a little more appealing.

Even though the two were roommates, it was hard for the two to find time during the day to spend time with each other as a couple. Yu was a popular guy, after all. People constantly vied for his attention, and even on his days off, he usually had a packed schedule. Not that Yosuke could get too mad at him. After all, Yosuke was a workaholic that spent long days and hours stocking storerooms at night and taking business classes during the day.

Taking a trip sounded like a great way to finally schedule in some alone time without interruptions. At least, that’s what Yosuke desperately hoped for. It had been criminally long since the two had had any time alone together for an extended period of time, let alone days to devote solely to each other. They probably hadn’t had such ample free time for each other since high school, but the responsibility of catching a serial murderer forced the prospect of romance to the bottom of their booked priority lists.

Now, they only had to focus on each other.

Had he not been standing in a public parking lot, Yosuke would have actually cheered at the thought.

The sound of the lobby door chime brought Yosuke out of his daydreams.

As he turned to meet Yu back at the car, the two exchanged a brief high-five. Their hands were still freezing from having the car’s air-conditioning on full-blast for the summertime drive.

“We good to go?” Yosuke asked with a grin.

“We’re good to go,” Yu replied with a laugh as he lifted a hand to jingle two room keys. “One for you, and one for me.”

Yosuke laughed a bit. “I get my own key, huh? Fancy. You’re not going to hold me hostage, partner?”

The teasing was well-received, and Yu reciprocated with a leer that made his silver eyes look even more molten than usual. “Only if that’s what you want.”

Yosuke rolled his eyes. With Yu’s hand still against his, Yosuke decided to seize an opportunity to tease Yu in return. Without any warning, he leaned in a pressed a gentle kiss to Yu’s jaw before they pulled apart moments later. The touch of Yosuke’s lips against Yu’s cheek was brief, but it was honest and uninhibited in the appreciation it conveyed. It was a warm, but fleeting sentiment that left always left Yu wanting more.

While Yu always adored his boyfriend’s affections in any form, something about Yosuke’s signs of love had changed recently in a positive way.

The most recent kiss was quite different from the pecks Yosuke used to give Yu when they’d first started dating. The touches had originally been just as sweet but were just as heavy with hesitation and shyness.

Now, Yosuke freely kissed him with confidence and self-assuredness that came from being in a loving, committed relationship.

It gave Yu unbelievable joy to see Yosuke becoming comfortable in his own skin.

“Thanks again,” Yosuke said with an airy laugh as he pulled away from the kiss with a shallow sigh.

Yu cocked his head, already missing the feeling of Yosuke’s lips against his skin. “For what?”

The toe of Yosuke’s sow swirled gently against the asphalt below.

“Well, it was your idea to come here in the first place,” he said sheepishly. He lifted a hand to rub the back of his neck as he fumbled through his sentiments. “Also, you’re paying for the room, right? I had no idea this place would be so nice. Are you sure you don’t want me to chip in?”

Yu shook his head, bangs swaying gently over his relaxed brow.

“We already agreed,” he said with a wide grin. He reared back his arm with a gentle flick before lowering his hand into Yosuke’s where he deposited a room key. “I pay for the room and you get to pay for food.”

The rental car, along with a pre-loaded fuel card, had been an anniversary gift from the rest of the Investigation Team. Rise especially had been a huge help and, thanks to her plentiful amount of sponsorships for gigs and commercials she’d done, was able to hook the others up with an incredible deal.

“Are you sure?” Yosuke asked again.

“Positive,” Yu replied with finality. That was the end of the matter.

Yosuke recognized the tone immediately from their days fighting Shadows in the TV World. Even though his days as the leader of their Investigation Team were long gone, he could still hear it in Yu’s voice when he spoke with decisive finality. The answer left no room for argument, and honestly, Yosuke hardly minded.

“Don’t worry,” Yu said, tossing Yosuke a sideways grin as he unlocked the driver’s side door and climbed back into their car. “I already have some amazing cat cafes picked out where we can have lunch all vacation long.”

And there he was. His cat-obsessed boyfriend Yu, not the fearless and emotionless leader from the TV World, was back with him.

“You dork,” Yosuke replied, but the words lacked any crunch.

Room keys in hand, the couple jumped back into their rental car and started down a narrow road that was littered with tall, rustic condominiums on either side.

It took a little bit of searching and swerving through the unmarked parking lots before the couple successfully put their hands together and spied the building with their designated room. The couple’s condominium was a corner unit on the top floor and had plenty of windows that would provide a splendid view of the lake behind the wooded resort.

Upon finding a spot and making absolutely sure to set the parking brake on the uneven asphalt, the duo hauled their bags out of the trunk and made the trek up the outdoor staircase to the top floor. It was an exhausting hike, but neither complained because they both knew it would be worth the work. It also helped that they’d both packed light. Yu was an expert at packing his life into a suitcase and Yosuke really only needed Yu, his phone (which held all his music), his headphones, clothes, and hygiene items to be content.

When they arrived at the door, a cute autumnal wreath decorated the wooden surface. It was decorated with oak leaves and what looked, and smelled, like star anise. It was the perfect decoration for such a woodsy getaway. It really felt like they had traveled overseas somewhere together.

“You do the honors,” Yu said with a flamboyant bow as he took a step back. “I already know what it looks like inside.”

Yosuke’s caramel eyes crinkled at the playful gesture. “This place must already be getting to you. You’re already more…extra than usual.”

Yu chuckled lightly at the statement but made no effort to object. With another resigned sigh from Yosuke, he slipped the key into the lock fully and turned it fully. A satisfying click followed the turn, and the door gave way easily with little pressure.

Sure enough, Yosuke was amazed at the interior. Actually, flabbergasted would have been a more accurate word. The ability to form words temporarily left him for aa few moments.

The unit was a spacious, one-bedroom condo with a large living area and tall windows toward the back that offered a perfect panoramic view of the shore.

The interior’s décor was minimalistic, with rustic accents that added to the lakeside ambiance without being too heavy-handed. A few carved bear statues and natural paintings decorated the dark oak antiques and warmly-lit walls.

It was a stark contrast to the minimalistic and natural décor that he was used to from places like the Amagi Inn. Their current room was almost Western in nature and, while it was a strange aesthetic, it was oddly fitting for the rural resort. It was a nice breath of fresh air.

Yosuke suddenly had a feeling that Yu had chosen the resort partially due to the visual appeal. Even though they were only three hours from home, everything still felt foreign enough to feel like an overseas vacation. It felt as if they were hundreds of miles away from their responsibilities when in reality, they were only three hours outside Tokyo.

The kitchen, located to the immediate left of the front door, was simple but furnished with modern appliances that would even put the most expensive stock at Junes to shame. Every surface glittered with chrome perfection as if they’d never been touched before. The lines crisp designs harbored a futuristic minimalism that came dangerously close to clashing with the bucolic décor but fell short thanks to the other homey decorations in the kitchen, such as a few ceramic cat statues and a bouquet of sunflowers lurking suspiciously close to the door. No doubt the flowers were a gift from the staff, and Yosuke wouldn’t have been surprised if Yu had told the staff the bright yellow flowers were his favorite.

The rest of the furniture was made from soft leather and cozy faux furs. A fake fireplace also lurked in the corner near the television. While the fire and logs were most definitely fake, the rosewood mantle looked authentic and polished to perfection. Yu really had picked the perfect place for a getaway.

In the back of the condominium were floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the lake. The view was so clear that Yosuke could see right through to the water’s edge all the way from the front door.

It was truly a stunning view, especially since the evening had begun to roll in. The sun hung low over the water, making the liquid surface glow an intense silver that reminded him of Yu’s eyes.

It looked like a professionally designed room from a furniture catalog or a magazine. The idea of seeing Yu push up his sleeves and using his masterful skills in such an appealing setting was almost enough to make Yosuke weak in the knees.

Before Yosuke could become completely distracted, something captured his attention and made him refocus on the kitchen. On the slate countertop was something bright that immediately stood out against the backdrop of neutral tones and earthen shades.

There was a tray of sugar cookies, each one decorated with bright orange icing and sprinkled with white sprinkles. There also appeared to be a card on top of the wrapped cookies. While he was too far away to make out the writing, he could spy the names of his friends scrawled in a rainbow amalgamation of signature inside the paper bifold.

“Looks like the staff members weren’t the only ones to send us gifts,” Yosuke said cheekily as he pointed to the tray of frosted orange cookies.

Yu inched his way inside and sat the suitcases down with a huff. He gave the sweets a knowing smile before flicking his gaze back to Yosuke. “Is that so? How thoughtful.”

It was impossible for Yosuke to resist. They’d been driving all day long and he was starving for any kind of calorie intake, even if it came in the form of a condensed sugar cookie. As he peeled back the wrapper and examined the disks, he could see that the icing was homemade but that the floury cookies were absolutely from the Junes bakery department. He couldn’t even care.

He broke one of the large cookies in two and sank the half with more orange icing, another favorite of his, into his mouth. The relief brought forth by the sugary-sweet rush of confectioner’s sugar was almost immediate.

“Holy crap, these are delicious,” Yosuke said, mouth full of crushed cookie. He heard Yu laugh behind him as he completely devoured the remaining half-moon of sugary deliciousness.

“Dude, you have to try these cookies,” Yosuke said, keeping the remaining half of the treat safe and sound in his other hand while he swallowed. “It’s so good! Seriously, they must have stolen your icing recipe—woah!”

The young man hadn’t had a chance to finish his review of the treat due to that fact that Yu, after shutting and locking the door to their apartment, had bent down and lifted Yosuke up into his arms. While they two were very close in height, Yosuke was lighter and less bulky than Yu was. As a result, Yu took advantage of his strength as often as possible to surprise Yosuke with impromptu embraces and multiple occasions where he would lift Yosuke into the air or over his body. He did this on multiple occasions inside and outside their bedroom.

At the moment, he was holding him bridal style in a pose that felt oddly familiar to Yu from their days in high school when they already knew they’d become destined partners, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Not that it really mattered. The priceless look on Yosuke’s face always made the effort worthwhile.

“What are you doing? Yosuke asked. “Don’t tell me you’re going to carry me over the threshold or something like that.”

Yu smirked widely. This time, Yu was the one to drop a kiss on his boyfriend’s cheek. “I was actually just planning on carrying you to the bedroom instead.”

The bluntness of the statement caught Yosuke off-guard. At first, he was stunned to silence, but quickly let out a laugh as he wrapped his arms around his partner’s neck and hoisted his face upwards again to meet Yu’s in a kiss that took no time to become feverish.

The sound of Yosuke’s heavy sigh was enough to create a bulge between Yu’s legs.

“I can’t think of a better way to start this vacation,” Yosuke added with a laugh, lips trailing down Yu’s jaw delicately. “But…”

He lifted the cookie to Yu’s mouth and pushed the sweet treat between his lips.

“I’m being totally serious,” Yosuke quipped with a wink. “You need to try this cookie first.”

Yu groaned through the biscuit but obviously nodded. It did give his lips and tongue a perfect dosage of sugary flavor, which Yosuke no doubt appreciated seconds later when Yu’s lips pressed against his in another passionate encounter and the bedroom door was kicked shut.

Minutes turned to hours.

By the time the two had emerged from the room, the sun had slipped completely beneath the surface of the lake. Night had overtaken the resort for a few hours until, inevitably, the rays of dawn started to break through a couple hours later. A lavender skyscape of pre-dawn stretched over the landscape, seemingly going onward into eternity.

At least, that’s how it looked to Yosuke.

He was dressed in one of the resort’s complimentary bathrobes and was seated on the condo’s back porch. With his chin propped up with on arm, his caramel eyes wandered skyward in dreamlike wonder. It had been a while since he’d seen a sky so clear. Hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d awoken early enough to watch the sunrise.

It seemed the resort was having an effort on both of them.

He’d been so busy daydreaming that he hadn’t even noticed the sound of footsteps slowly approached from behind. Before he knew it, a pair of very familiar lips was pressed against his cheek. When he let out a laugh at the tickly sensation, Yu placed another kiss on the nape of his neck.

“Out here daydreaming?” he asked sweetly.

“It’s hard to daydream when reality already feels like one,” Yosuke sighed contently.

Yu circled around to meet him moment later. In his hand, he held two brandy snifters. In each one were jagged pieces of ice and a couple jiggers of pale, warm liquid. The soft aroma gave it away that each glass was filled with orange cognac. It was one of Yu’s favorites, and Yosuke was quite fond of it as well.

He had to wonder if Yu had secretly packed the bottle in his luggage or if he’d run to the store while Yosuke had been in the shower.

Either way, the sneaky tactic warmed his soul as he accepted one of the glasses with a ‘thank you’ that was so soft-spoken it was almost lost on the wind. Thankfully, the two were so close that they barely needed words to communicate with each other.

“Since you brought the booze, shall I propose the toast?” Yosuke asked with a little lilt in his voice.

“Oh?” Yu asked, his moonlight-colored brow crested in curiosity. “Go on.”

His glass moved seamlessly through the air as he gently clinked the crystal rims together. The soft ring sounded like a bell.

“To us,” Yosuke began confidently, shifting his gaze from the sky and back onto Yu’s face. The unabashed eye contract actually brought a coral flush to Yu’s cheeks and Yosuke continued, “The two nerds that stayed friends long enough in high school to know that they loved each other. And…”

He pulled his glass back and leaned forward. His lips met Yu’s in a kiss and, unlike last time, did taste of icing and sugar cookies. This time, the only taste he could sense was Yu’s, naked and uninhibited by any other flavors. The feeling of his mouth, softly agape in surprise against his, was the most amazing sensation Yosuke thought he’d ever encountered. He felt as if he could get more intoxicated off his boyfriend’s kisses than the strong cognac.

Yosuke slowly sat his glass on a nearby table and rose from his chair. He moved over Yu was his usual grace and agility, resting his lap over his boyfriend’s hips so that they locked together in perfect comfort.

Once there, he could feel a distinct pressure against the inside of his thigh that sent a thrill straight up his spine.

His hands, still cold for the drink, cupped Yu’s blushed face. He asked in a low whisper, “Say, Yu…how many days do we have here again?”

Stammering, Yu replied with some difficulty, “Um…five days. Um, four nights too, technically.”

The flustered reply brought another wicked grin as Yosuke bent down and captivated Yu’s lips. This time, he was the one leading their embrace and holding Yu tight in his arms, pinning him to the chaise beneath them with careful pressure.

His lips coasted over the shell of Yu’s ear, pink with an obvious blush. Yosuke whispered deeply against the rise and fall of Yu’s deepening breath, “Plenty of time, then.”

[thatbluegibson]

CH 85

Happy Birthday to you...

Happy Birthday to you...

Liz sunk into Nate's side and blushed fiercely as the crowd at La Féline drunkenly sang to her, led by the band on stage that now included Taylor and Dave. They had been spotted by the lead singer and asked to come jam, and though Dave had only promised a couple songs, he got carried away by playing in such a small venue to a crowd that he could actually interact with.

He leaned into the microphone and looked out towards Liz, "You got any requests, birthday girl?"

"Lumberjack!" she yelled back, making everyone at their table laugh loudly.

He heard Taylor bark a laugh from the kit behind him then swing the mic to his face. "By Jackyl?"

Liz nodded eagerly and Dave tried his hardest to hold her stare, but out of the literally millions of songs in existence, she chose the one with a fucking chainsaw solo. Taylor's giggle broke him and it was all he could do to play the first few notes of It's Late, knowing she'd love that one just as much.

Once they finally left the stage, he slid into the booth next to her and furrowed his brow when she winced. "What's wrong?"

"I'm fine," she insisted. "Just a little sore." A wave of guilt hit him when her forced smile gave away that she was grimacing. He had been so rough with her the night before and though she insisted that she loved every moment of it, he felt awful about taking his frustrations out on her. After she had fallen asleep he had snuck out to the terrace to smoke and overthink his life, dwelling on how bizarre it felt to be in the same hotel with Jordyn, but in very separate spaces. When he crawled back into bed with Elizabeth, he spied the dark blue stain blossoming across her hipbones and shoved back the covers to get a better look.

"Fuck," he swore and traced the outline of her bruise with his finger.

"What?... what's the matter?" she slurred in her sleep.

"Nothing, baby," he covered her back up and lay beside her, stroking her back to lull her into a deep sleep, but the moment he was sure she was out he wept into her hair for the second time in 24 hours.

That morning, Liz had dragged Josie and Rami up to the hotel room under the guise of picking out a birthday outfit, but when Josie darted into the bathroom with her makeup bag Dave knew Liz had asked her help in covering it up. As he and Rami sat on the terrace drinking coffee, he contemplated why she felt the need to hide it. He needed to apologize, but he sure as hell couldn't do it now, not with all the work she was putting in to cover his tracks. But, it was obvious she was taking steps in ensuring he wouldn't feel badly about the night before, especially considering the headspace he was in at the time and he bit back the snide comment he had ready when she emerged wearing her usual jeans and t-shirt instead of some creation of her stylist.

"Wooo!" Josie's scream yanked him out of his thoughts. "It's your birthday, Liz! You shouldn't walk right for a week! Right, Dave?"

Liz laughed and clinked her whiskey glass against her friend's while Dave rolled his eyes and struck up a conversation with Nate. The group at their table consisted of the band and some tour crew along with their girlfriends or wives, mostly enticed by the idea of live music and booze but also feeling a little obligated to join the party for their boss's girlfriend.

Though they were in two separate conversations and faced away from each other, his arm was still around her waist and her hand was settled on his thigh with her little finger drawing circles on the fabric on his jeans. Eventually, the flash of Liz checking her phone every few minutes under the table between them became distracting. "Are you waiting for a text?"

Liz shook her head and flipped her phone to vibrate, then held it between her knees. "No, sorry. Just checking the time."

Dave scanned the table to make sure no one was watching and pressed his lips against her ear. "Are you in that big of a hurry to get out of here? Cause we can-"

Her shoulders twitching interrupted him and she whipped out her phone so fast that all he was able to read was an incoming call, though not from who. "I have to take this," she muttered and quickly ducked under the table in her rush to get outside.

"Ugh!" Josie groaned and slumped back into Rami. "That better not be fucking Kyle." She said his name with such venom that Dave immediately shoved Taylor out of the booth so he could follow Liz.

He found her in the alley next to the bar grinning happily at her phone and all of his fears vanished when she excitedly waved him over. "Hi, Daddy!" she called into the speakerphone and dragged Dave the remaining few feet to her side.

Her father's laugh echoed from the phone, "You ready, kiddo?"

"Yep!"

Dave raised his eyebrows when he heard drumsticks click against each other and then a band launch into a punk version of the Beatles' Birthday. Liz laughed and shook her head, but when she touched her fingertips to her lips, Dave knew she was struggling. He loosely put his arms around her so he could see her face and kissed her forehead when she let a tear fall. When the song finished, they could hear the other musicians laughing and a few of them wishing Liz a happy birthday before it went quiet and a door clicked shut.

"Hey, sunshine," her dad finally said. "Happy birthday!"

"Thanks, Dad. And thanks for the song."

"I sang that to you the day you were born and I told you I'd always sing it to you on your birthday, doesn't matter if you're here or in Paris or on the moon."

"Sometimes it feels like the moon," she said sadly.

Dave felt like he shouldn't be listening to this conversation, but he couldn't let her go.

"What's yours look like tonight?" her dad asked.

"Uh...," Liz moved in Dave's arms until she could see the moon above the trees. "Waxing gibbous."

"That's funny," her dad said, sounding exactly like Liz when he was teasing. "Mine's a waxing gibbous, too!"

"That is funny, Dad," she rolled her eyes making Dave smile.

Her father chuckled and the squeak of an office chair rang through the phone. "How's Dave?"

"He's-"

"He's never been happier," Dave said suddenly, wondering if it was the whiskey or the beer that made him pull that move.

There was a stunned silence from both Liz and her father before her dad spoke again. "Well that's good to hear," he said. "Kiddo, will you take me off speakerphone and give the phone to Dave?"

"Sure thing," she said quietly, though anxiousness was written all over her face. Oh shit.

"Dave?"

Oh fuck, what do I call him? What was her last name again? Finsen? Mr. Finsen? He panicked and finally decided on, "Yep?"

"I want to thank you for taking care of my daughter when she was in London."

"Oh... it was really nothing," he lied, staring at the wall just above Liz's head.

"No, it was definitely something," her father laughed. "She's a colossal pain the ass when it comes to things like following orders and doing as she's told. I'm afraid she gets that special trait from her mother."

Dave laughed before he could stop himself and Liz was leaned over, trying to listen in. "Well, she's healing and that's all I care about," he replied.

"Mmmhmmm...," her dad hummed like Liz did when she was deep in thought and finally said, "Well, I'll let you two get back to your festivities. I hope she'll let me meet you soon."

"Likewise. She said something about a CalJam family reunion," Dave searched Liz's face as he said it, hoping he wasn't overstepping.

"Oh she did?" he chuckled. "That might be something we could arrange. If you'll have us on such short notice, that is."

"Absolutely." Dave did the quick math in his head and determined that CalJam would be the ideal place to meet her family. There were so many excuses and places he had to be that he could just jet if things got awkward.

"Excellent. We'll see you in October then, Dave."

"Sounds great...," he hesitated,

"Steve," her dad finally said with an obvious grin. "Call me Steve."

"Sounds great, Steve," he said quickly. "I'll hand you back to Li... your daughter."

Liz snatched the phone from him and pressed it to her ear, "Hey... I know... okay... yes, Dad... I know he is... Of course, I do! Paris is a hell of a long way to go for someone, Daddy... all right I'll tell him... I love you too. See you on the full moon. Bye, Daddy."

She let out a long, relieved breath as she ended the call and shoved the phone in her back pocket. "He says thanks for the CalJam hook up."

"And?" he pressed, curious about her 'long way to go for someone' comment.

"And... he says you're a 'keeper'," she rolled her eyes and air quoted him, "and then he wanted to know if I love you."

"And?"

"And I do," she said quietly, her eyes fixed on his lips as he leaned into her. "A lot."

"Hey!" Taylor's voice startled them. "Break it up for a second!"

Dave flipped him off and continued kissing Liz, but she was giggling too hard to reciprocate and pulled away.

"We're going to a place up the street," Taylor explained. "The band recommended it. You guys down?"

Dave groaned inwardly, dreading what the next place might be like. He had pretended not to notice that the lead guitarist, drummer, and vocalist were all doing lines while he and Taylor were on stage and just knew it was going to be some sketchy dance club full of people lit on various club drugs.

"It's up to Liz," Dave shrugged and looked back at her as she nodded.

"Sure, let's go."

*

Dave and Liz walked behind the significantly smaller crowd of friends, her arm around his and their hands linked in his hoodie pocket. Most of their group had bailed off to either stay at La Feline or head back to the hotel to prepare for the trip to Italy.

"Here we go!" Josie sang several feet ahead of them and dragged Rami towards a nondescript door where a bouncer stood guard. He looked the group over with a distinct look of disapproval until his eyes landed on Dave, Taylor, and Liz.

"Suis moi," he grunted and pulled open the heavy wooden door to reveal a long, dark hallway.  

Their group filed in two-by-two with Liz and Dave just behind Josie and Rami. "This better not be a sex club, Josephine," Liz hissed at her.

"No, I'll never take you to one of those ever again," Josie muttered.

Rami stopped so quickly that Dave nearly ran into the back of him. "Wait, what?"

Dave felt Liz's grip on his hand tighten when Josie took a breath to explain, but the muffled bass from the club exploded into the hallway when the bouncer opened the VIP door for them and drowned out her voice. They had just made it to their reserved table when Josie squealed and jumped onto Liz's back. "Liz, they have absinthe!"

"Oh... goody!" Liz laughed sarcastically and held Josie up by the back of her legs. "We'll be at the bar!"

He frowned when Liz turned away, but Josie caught him and pointed in his face. "You have her all night, bucko! Just give me ten minutes to get her nice and drunk. Giddy up!"

Ally went to follow but first leaned across the table to where Dave and Taylor had settled. "You guys want something?"

"Whiskey," they said simultaneously.

"We have a set ride back right?" Dave asked, leaning his head back against the booth and closing his eyes. He was drunk, drunk enough that the room was beginning to spin, but another whiskey was exactly what he needed to quit caring about the terrible trance-mix of pop songs blaring around them.

"Yeah, Gus has an SUV waiting whenever we need it," Taylor replied, but Dave wasn't listening. Rami was reiterating Josie's story to a couple of their techs and there were far more details than Dave had anticipated.

"... So they go to this club and of course they get right in because look at them, but it took Johnny like ten minutes to-"

"Wait, Johnny who?" Pat's guitar tech leaned forward, hanging on every word.

"Depp," Rami said quickly, "Josie was seeing him before me. Anyways, he gets in and they end up in this crazy room-"

Dave stared at Rami, watching his mouth move and his hands wave around, but all he could hear was a rushing sound similar to the one he got when he spent too much time directly in front of the speakers at a gig.

Then Taylor's voice came through the void, "Disco... come on, man."

He let Taylor pull him out of the booth and followed him outside. "Have a cigarette, calm the fuck down."

"I am calm," he grumbled.

"Yeah? Is that why you looked like you were going to commit a homicide in there?"

"She told me she didn't fuck him!"

"Who said she did?!" Taylor yelled back. "You're projecting again!"

"Goddamnit, Hawkins! Enough with your psychoanalyzing therapy bullshit!"

Taylor crossed his arms over his chest and bitterly chuckled as he stared at his shoes. "Yeah, heaven forbid I try to save you from losing the girl that 'made everything worth it again'."

Dave glared harshly at him, furious that he would throw his words back at him like that. He had said them the night he and Taylor got stoned on a balcony overlooking a Swedish river, talking about the women in their lives, both past and present.

"You know she didn't fuck him, dude. And even if she did, who fucking cares? It's in the past! Besides, she told Ally she only had you and her ex-husband under her belt... no pun intended, and she has no reason to lie to Ally."

Dave's hand that was holding his cigarette to his lips went limp. "She said what?"

Taylor only shrugged, waiting for him to come to the realization that once again, he had jumped the gun on being angry. "Look," he sighed. "You're the most compulsive motherfucker I've ever met and usually that works well for you, but right now? Slow your goddamn roll before Liz takes off for good."

"I have to hear it from her," he muttered and pushed away from the wall.

Just as he rounded the corner, he heard Taylor faintly whisper, "Stubborn motherfucker."

He stopped at the bar in VIP to put himself completely under the influence of whiskey and had just received his drink when Liz touched his elbow.

"Hey, can we talk?"

"Great plan," his voice was biting, unable to control his anger once again. "So you went to a fuck den with Depp?"

Liz paused for a moment, trying to catch her brain up, but to him it sounded like a hesitation. "I'm sorry, a what?"

He tossed the straw out of his glass and took a long drink, refusing to look at her. "Did you fuck him?"

"Dave, no," she pleaded, her hands now on his arm. "Now is not a good time for this..."

He slammed his drink back on the wooden bar and turned his body towards her, hunching his shoulders just enough that his eyes were level with hers. "Answer me!"

Her stare shifted off of him to a point over his shoulder before her eyes glazed over a bit. "I need some air," she mumbled and ducked her head, letting her hair fall in her face before turning away from him. He tried to grab for her arm, but she shrugged him off and disappeared into the crowd.

"Fuck!" he slammed his hand onto the bar next to his drink and raked his hand through his hair when he felt a delicate touch on his back.

"Hey," Jordyn said gently. "Trouble in paradise?"