#tiny intentional steps away from what drove them before and towards a better future!!

[theopteryx]

[myforeverforlife]

the sacrifice (part two).

“I,” you struggled to get out. “I need a cure. My cousin is dying, and nothing else has worked. I need the help of the Byun witches.” You gulped upon seeing the hardening of his eyes. “Are you one of them?“

The man laughed hollowly, the sound sending a chill up your spine. "Princess, you’re looking at them.”

”I am the last of the Byun clan.”

Series masterlist : ( 1 )  ( 2 )  ( 3 )

A/N: Mentions of blood, vague mentions of minor character death

Pairing: Baekhyun and Fem reader

Word count: 4,670

Masterlist

Baekhyun’s words brought goosebumps to your skin. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

“But,” you stammered. “There were so many of you. My aunt’s book had lists of people from your clan.”

“There were a lot of us,” Baekhyun emphasized. “The witch hunts changed all of that.” He glanced away, eyes falling to the floor as his dog waddled over. Baekhyun’s eyes softened as the pet rubbed its head against his leg. “Now, I am the only representative for my family.”

You knew about the witch hunts, the paranoia and fear that drove people to out even their long-time neighbors. Reports of countless riots had come flooding in for the first couple of years after the queen’s death and the king’s ban on witchcraft. The burnings weren’t as rampant nowadays, but it wasn’t unusual to hear rumors of a witch sighting once in a while. In your ignorance, you hadn’t realized how many of the witches had been killed.

It had never even crossed your mind that entire families would be wiped out.

Opening your mouth to speak, you thought better of it and stopped yourself. A simple apology would do nothing to fix this, to bring back the rest of the Byun clan. There weren’t any words sufficient enough to express the depth of your guilt and shame at the destruction caused by your uncle’s reckless decisions. But there had to be something you could say…

Quick footsteps against the staircase saved you from the growing silence, Jongdae the witch returning with another man behind him. This newcomer stared at you curiously, eyes flickering between your guilty expression and Baekhyun’s empty gaze.

“I assume we’re in the middle of introductions?” he said. With a thin-lipped smile, he nodded in your direction. “I’m Minseok.”

“Hello,” you mumbled.

Jongdae looked just as awkward as you felt, playing with the brim of his pointed hat as you all waited for someone, anyone to speak up. Finally, he nodded at the short hallway leading towards one of the other rooms. “You must be tired from your journey, I know it wasn’t easy to find us. Come eat.”

He walked away without waiting for you to follow, leaving his hat on a side table. Minseok was close behind, glancing over his shoulder when he noticed that you and Baekhyun remained unmoving. His lips parted, ready to call both of you over when he stopped himself. Shaking his head, he continued on.

“I… I’m sorry,” you told Baekhyun. “I don’t know if I would have come if I realized…”

Baekhyun seemed to wake up, breaking out of his daze. He studied your face, mismatched eyes roving over each feature. You weren’t sure what he was searching for, but whatever he found seemed to be enough.

“I understand why you came. The prince suffers from the same illness as the late queen, doesn’t he?”

You nodded weakly. “The latest physician believes it may be hereditary. Nothing works, I don’t know what else to do. I thought that…”

“That magic would be the one to save him,” Baekhyun finished. “But you traveled all this way, in search of the one thing that the king hates above all else. You would go against your uncle, your king?”

“Yes,” you replied without hesitation. “If it meant that my cousin would live, yes. I would do anything to save him.”

That seemed to trigger some sort of response, Baekhyun’s jaw clenching as he broke eye-contact. “Be careful with what you say. You might think you’re noble, but sacrifices have always been made in vain. You’ll need more than sheer will to find a cure for the prince.”

He left you behind, frozen by his sudden change in attitude. You hurried to catch up to him, almost tripping over his dog. What was it with these witches and their pets?

“I’m not a fool,” you told him. “I know of the risks and trials ahead of me.”

Baekhyun whipped around, eyebrows drawn low over his face. “You know nothing. The worst is yet to come, princess. Are you willing to die for your cousin, if that’s what it takes?”

You flinched at the harshness of his words, meeting his glare with one of your own. “If I had to sacrifice myself for Sehun, I would do it in a heartbeat.” Your hands were trembling, your entire being in shock as you realized that this was the truth — you would lay your life on the line to save your best friend. No hesitation.

The witch shook his head with a scoff. “Sacrifices get people killed. A hero complex won’t save you, little princess.” He left you behind, boots stomping against the wooden floor as he went to join the rest of his coven.

His dog looked up at you, whining uncertainly before running after his owner, nails clicking against the floor with every step.

Baekhyun was an enigma, polite one moment and then cold the next. You weren’t sure why he had reacted so strongly to your responses, caught off guard by the anger simmering in his voice.

But you wouldn’t let this deter you. Your path had brought you here, and you were intent on making sure that you got what you came for.

Squaring your shoulders, you made your way down the hall. The sounds of chairs scraping against the floor and hushed voices led the way. The witches had mentioned supper, but that didn’t stop you from gaping in wonder at the sight before you.

Minseok stood in front of the fireplace, this one larger than the one you had seen when you entered the house. He peered into the pot as he stirred, sniffing fragrant smells in the air. Jongdae passed Baekhyun a bowl of stew as the other man took a seat at the small table, his corgi staring up at him expectantly. A bowl of food lay on the floor, but the dog seemed more interested in the human food.

But in the center of the room sat a large cauldron, a white cat napping beside it. What was even stranger was the faint green light emitting from the top of the cauldron, casting warped shadows on the ceiling above.

Minseok looked up, confused by the awe in your expression. “Ah. You’ve probably never seen a potion brewing.”

“Never.” You took a step closer to it before pausing. “May I?”

He nodded, waving a hand thoughtlessly in your direction as he focused on serving up another bowl of food. “Go ahead. Just don’t touch it.”

The cat opened its eyes, mewling softly before standing up and strolling over to the table. You took this chance to move closer, eyes wide as you watched the mixture bubble and froth. “What is this?”

“Potion for the radishes in the garden. They haven’t been looking too good.”

You almost couldn’t believe what you were hearing. These men were witches, and yet they were concerned with using their magic for radishes?

“Oh,” you replied lamely.

“I think the princess was expecting something more exciting,” Jongdae spoke up. He broke off a piece of bread from the loaf that lay on the table. “Maybe a potion for eternal life.”

You blushed at having been discovered. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I just figured that you wouldn’t need to worry about things like that. What with your magic, and all.”

“Not all magic has the same capabilities,” Minseok said as he brought a bowl of food to the table. “Come eat, and then we’ll talk.”

To your embarrassment, your stomach chose the most opportune time to grumble loudly. The other men didn’t seem to notice, or care. Either way, they didn’t mind as you left your knapsack on the floor at your feet and took a seat next to Jongdae. But before you could eat…

“Thank you,” you said softly, the whisper of your voice heard even as the men ate. “I know that me being here is less than ideal, but I appreciate the three of you letting me into your home.” You thought of how Dotori had led you to them, your tiny guide through the forest. “How long have you known I was coming?”

Minseok and Jongdae stared at Baekhyun pointedly, waiting for the witch to answer. Chewing through a mouthful of food, he replied, “About a week. The scrying stone showed me.”

Scrying stone? You were about to ask what he meant when Minseok cut you off. “Eat first. You look like you’re about to pass out from exhaustion.” He frowned at the shadows under your eyes.

He had a point. As much as you wanted to delve into getting all of your questions answered now, there was no denying that you were on the brink of total exhaustion. You were safe here, eating supper with a trio of hidden witches.

For now, all was well.

You didn’t hesitate to start bombarding the trio with questions as soon as the last person finished eating.

“How did you know I was coming?”

Baekhyun ran his hands through his dark hair, trying to figure out how to explain everything in a way that made sense. “My gift is in clairvoyance — the ability to see the near future. I can’t pick what I want to see, the scrying stone chooses for me. For some reason, it decided to show me you.”

“So it was mere coincidence that you knew I was coming?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Although magic is never just the result of mere coincidences. I think the craft might have brought you here.”

“The craft? Witchcraft?”

Baekhyun turned to look at you, one eyebrow raising. “You’re one of the Shin witches, right?”

“Yes, but I have no magic. I’m just like any other human.”

“You might not have the power,” Minseok chimed in, “But you’re still a witch.” He leaned forward on his elbows, hands clasped in front of him. “As a coven, we’ve agreed to help other witches in need. But your case is different, seeing who you’re related to.”

You gulped, the weight of your uncle’s sins present now more than ever.

“We weren’t sure whether to let you find us,” Minseok continued. “Some of us,” he glanced at Jongdae, “Thought it would be a mistake to let you know of our existence.”

“And so,” Minseok’s voice took on a serious tone. “We’ve decided to help you on one condition.”

Straightening up in your seat, you nodded. “Anything.”

Jongdae let out a deep breath. As if sensing her familiar’s anxiety, Dotori came out from where she bad been hiding in Jongdae’s pocket, climbing up onto his shoulder.

“We will agree to do everything in our power to cure the crown prince,” he began. “In return, you will find a way for the king to lift the ban against witchcraft and put an end to the burnings.” You were about to speak when he held up a finger, asking you to wait. “If either side, yours or ours, goes back on the agreement, they will pay with their lives.”

Your blood ran cold, the full weight of their request dragging you down, down. How were you supposed to enact such a change, to bring the witches back when the kingdom was out to get them? To fail would mean the end of your life, your existence.

But, another part of you reasoned. If they found a cure for Sehun and he was saved, you would have solid proof to show the king that the witches were to be trusted. Honestly, who else would you go to for help if you turned down their offer?

Feeling a set of eyes on you, you glanced up to see Baekhyun staring at you from across the table. His words from earlier came back to haunt you. “Are you willing to die for your cousin, if that’s what it takes?”

At the time, you had answered yes without hesitation. Now…

“How do I know for sure that you won’t go back on your promise?”

Jongdae smiled wryly, no humor in his expression. “A blood pact. Those who take part in the blood pact seal the deal with their lives. There’s no backing out once it’s made.”

“The deal will be upheld, one way or the other,” Minseok added. “The choice is yours.”

You would be engaging in real witchcraft, the final nail in the coffin to seal your fate. Your hands were shaking, fingers twitching restlessly from where they lay in your lap. But despite your apparent nervousness, you voice was strong and clear when you answered. “Yes. I accept.”

The three witches stared at each other, surprised by how quickly you came to a decision. “Once we make the pact, there’s no turning back,” Jongdae warned.

“I meant what I said. I will find a way to save my cousin, or die trying.” You looked each of them in the eye, refusing to back down. You lingered when you came to Baekhyun, trying to decipher the meaning behind his stoic expression. “I am confident that we will find a way to heal him.”

Baekhyun leaned back in his chair. “You have more confidence than we do, princess.”

“Alright,” Minseok declared, ignoring the younger witch. He pulled out a small switchblade from his pocket, the metal flipping open and glinting in the firelight. Jongdae got up, rummaging through the kitchen materials before returning with a small bowl.

Minseok held out a hand towards you. He nodded towards your folded hands when you stared at him in confusion. “Your hand — we need blood from all included in the pact.”

Slowly, you reached out across the table, palm up as you bit your lip. Even with all your talk of bravery and selflessness, if there was one thing that made you queasy, it was the sight of blood. Minseok handled your palm carefully, the blade of his knife cutting swiftly across the skin. You hissed in pain, watching as Minseok let the blood drip into the bowl.

“Baekhyun, get a rag and help her cover the wound,” he ordered. Quickly and efficiently, he cleaned the blade before drawing blood from his own hand. You watched in horror when he didn’t show any signs of pain or discomfort.

You were so transfixed by the ritual before you that it took Baekhyun a few promptings to get your attention. “Let me see your hand,” he said, holding onto a small cloth.

He was careful with your hand, wrapping the cloth around it and tying it firmly in place. Although the process was quick and over in a matter of seconds, he didn’t let go. You looked up to see him staring down at you, an unreadable look in his eye.

“I hope you don’t regret this.”

“I won’t,” you replied firmly, pulling your hand out of his grasp.

Baekhyun sighed before sitting back down, emotionally distant as ever as he and Jongdae contributed to the bowl.

All four of you sat with hastily bandaged hands as Jongdae began mumbling under his breath, eyes closed and hands cupped around the base of the bowl. You waited, unsure of what would happen next. All you could see so far was a bowl of blood that made you sick to look at.

“Bind the four through promises sworn, break the bonds and trust is torn,” you heard from among the whispered jumble of words. “Save the prince from his final breath, and save our people from further death.”

Jongdae opened his eyes, one finger dipping into the bowl and coming out bloody. Sitting across from him, Baekhyun leaned forward, eyes closing as Jongdae drew a line down the bridge of his nose. “Baekhyun, the clairvoyant,” Jongdae breathed out.

Minseok did the same, nose wrinkling at the sensation as Jongdae proclaimed him, “Minseok, the knowledgeable.”

Jongdae turned to you, his finger dragging down the length of your nose and leaving behind a crimson trail as you fought back the urge to flinch. “Y/N, the truth seeker.”

He did the same to his own face, a drop of blood falling off the end of his nose and onto his tunic. “Jongdae, the protector.”

The rest was incomprehensible to you, spoken in what sounded like another language. You found your eyelids growing heavier, only relaxing when you saw the others waiting with eyes closed as well. A tickling sensation began at the top of your nose, making its way further down. Just when it started to get uncomfortable, the feeling was gone.

“You can open your eyes,” you heard Jongdae say.

You did as you were told, surprised to find all traces of blood gone from everyone’s faces. In disbelief, you reached up to touch your own face, taken aback when your fingers didn’t come away red and bloody.

The witches laughed at your surprise, lightening the heavy mood that had been hanging over everyone since stepping foot into their home.

“That’s it?” you asked. “We don’t have to… drink the blood or anything?”

Jongdae snorted at your naïveté. “Whatever they’ve been teaching you about witchcraft is wrong. We’re not blood drinkers. Just practitioners of the craft.”

Now that the pact had been made, you were buzzing with anticipation. “Well? What’s the cure?”

“We’re going to need to do a lot of research first. Possibly even some scrying,” Minseok said. “We need to make sure that we know what’s ailing the prince first before we try to find a way to heal him.”

“My aunt had a book.” You reached down, pulling the leather-bound book from your knapsack and placing it on the table. “I can’t read some of the text, but it’s what led me here. Maybe there’s something in it that could help us?”

Jongdae reached out before pulling his hands back. “May I?” he asked you, nodding towards the book.

“Of course.”

Carefully, Jongdae brought the book closer to him. As he turned the pages, he treated each one carefully, fingers barely brushing against the parchment. “Wow,” he breathed out. “I wonder how long its been since the Shin grimoire was last read.”

“A grimoire?” you asked.

“A book of spells, or instructions for making amulets or potions. Things like that,” Baekhyun chimed in. He was leaning forward, reading the pages upside down from where he sat across from Jongdae.

Minseok elaborated for you. “A grimoire is a clan’s lifeblood. It’s how witches preserve their information, and then pass it down to their children. All three of us continue to learn from our families’ grimoires.”

Jongdae continued to flip through the pages, eyes drinking everything in while Baekhyun did the same on the other side. The two reached the list of Shin witches, glancing up at you in unison when they reached the bottom of the page.

“You and the crown prince really are the only two witches of your generation,” Jongdae gasped out.

You shrugged uncomfortably. “I always knew it was only us and my father left. All other family members that I have are from my mother’s side, and none of them come from a family of witches.”

Baekhyun turned the page, face alight with curiosity before realizing what was written there. Even with the book flipped upside down from his viewpoint, he could still clearly read all of the names staring up at him.

The names of his family.

Hastily, he turned the page, focusing much too intently on a random list of ingredients. “Not like we need to read about my family,” he mumbled. “We know what’s happened to them.”

Jongdae paused, worried brows drawn low over his expressive eyes as he stared at his friend. “Hey, do you want to talk — ”

“No, Jongdae. I don’t. Just drop it, please.”

All four of you sat in the thick silence, Baekhyun pretending to read through the pages as the rest of you worried about what to say next. The dog from earlier, the one who stuck by Baekhyun’s side, got up from where he had been lying down on the floor. He let out a soft whine, weaving in between his owner’s legs before settling down on top of his feet.

Minseok reached over, pulling the book away from Baekhyun and closing it. “I think that’s enough reading for tonight.” He slid it back over to you, giving you what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Thanks. Do you mind if we look through the rest of it tomorrow?”

“Go ahead. All of you are free to read it whenever you’d like.”

Minseok nodded. “Thank you.” Stretching his arms above his head, he let out a long yawn. “I guess we’d better find a bed for you tonight. You can take my room, I’ll just sleep on the floor in Baekhyun’s or something. Tanie might go insane if we have to sleep in the same room as Dotori.”

Jongdae was about to fight back when Baekhyun stood up, the chair scraping against the wooden floor. “You can take my room,” he told you. “You’re the guest, and this is my family’s house. It’s only right that I give you my room for now.”

“I’m fine with sleeping on the floor out here,” you began, blinking in surprise when all three men groaned.

“Like we’d let you sleep on the floor,” said Jongdae. “Just take the room.”

“I — ” You began, growing silent when Baekhyun shook his head.

“Take the room, Princess. Please.”

It was the “please” that sealed your fate, such a simple word to be changing your decision. You couldn’t protest, not when you felt both indebted and grateful to the witches, especially Baekhyun. You still weren’t sure if he hated you or if he was just this distant with all strangers, but he had still let you into his home.

He let you in, even with what he knew about you and your family.

“Okay,” you gave in. “Thank you.”

His dog followed both of you upstairs as Baekhyun led the way to his room. The other witches stayed behind in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess from earlier. Although the two of you walked in silence, the dog barked happily up at you, tongue hanging from his mouth.

“Mongryong likes you,” Baekhyun said with a tiny smile. You were struck with the realization that this was the first time you had seen him smile all night.

“Is that your name?” you asked sweetly, giggling when Mongryong jumped up in response. “You’re very friendly.”

Baekhyun stopped before a door, pulling it open and gesturing inside. “Here’s my room. Feel free to move anything you need to.”

“But where are you going to sleep?”

“I’ll be in Minseok’s room.” He nodded at the other door down the hall.

“Alright.” You stepped inside, eyes roaming over the cluttered messes that took up space. A stack of books and other knickknacks covered his desk, with what looked like a pile of robes and other fabrics clumped together on the floor by his nightstand. It was messy, but it was also obvious that this room was well-lived in. A window was positioned at the other end of the room, moonlight peeking in between the curtains.

You turned to look back at Baekhyun. “Thank you, truly.”

The man coughed, nodding stiffly. “You’re welcome. Well… good night.”

“Good night.”

You closed the door, smiling down at Mongryong as he let out a small yip. “Come, Mongryong,” you heard Baekhyun say once the door had clicked shut. Both sets of footsteps grew fainter as the pair walked away, until you could hear them no longer.

Your knapsack dragged along the floor as you walked to the bed, the blankets shifting as you sat down. You still weren’t sure if Baekhyun hated you, or if he was just this closed-off to all strangers.

But if he hated you, he wouldn’t have agreed to help. If any of the witches downstairs truly hated you, they wouldn’t have risked their lives to help you. Maybe you were just overthinking things.

With a sigh, you lay back on the bed. Did it matter if they liked you or not? You were here to find a way to save Sehun, and that was all. Even if the witches didn’t trust you completely, at least they were helping you. All you had to do was fulfill your end of the deal. But the king’s word was law, and once he made up his mind, there was rarely any chance of changing it. What if you couldn’t convince him to lift the ban?

One thing at a time, you thought to yourself, closing your eyes. Save Sehun first, and then worry later.

But that was easier said than done.

Baekhyun shivered in the night air as he waited for Mongryong to finish doing his business. The corgi barked, choosing instead to stroll through the grass leading to the gardens.

“Mongryong, hurry,” Baekhyun grumbled. “Minseok will kill me if you pee on his vegetables.”

Mongryong sniffed at the leaves of a plant, ears perked up in interest before he walked away. He wandered over to the ring of trees, still close enough for Baekhyun to keep an eye on him.

Baekhyun loved his familiar, but sometimes he wished he didn’t have to bring him out for restroom breaks throughout the day. Even now as Minseok and Jongdae were getting ready for bed, he was out here trying to get his dog to pee one last time before bedtime. He assumed you were asleep already.

Baekhyun cringed to himself, imagining you trying to navigate between the piles of things he left lying around the room. He was usually good about keeping his things clean — he had to be when he was living with Minseok. But he was so busy lately that he hadn’t gotten a chance to organize his things.

Why did he care what you thought anyway?

He had gone back downstairs to whisper with Jongdae and Minseok after saying good night to you, the three of them trading their thoughts and opinions. The general agreement was that although you were naive, you seemed genuine enough to trust. Even Jongdae was warming up to you, although he had been the one most worried about you coming.

Baekhyun was still bothered by the easy way in which you had decided to bet your own life in order to save another’s. Baekhyun had nothing left to lose, and had agreed when Minseok first mentioned the idea of a blood pact, days before you arrived. But for you to agree right away, just after learning about what a blood pact even was…  It was reckless and stupid, even if you were doing it for your cousin.

Sacrifice hadn’t saved his brother, no matter how brave he was. Images of flames dancing against shadows, screams in the night and light blue eyes flashed through his mind.

With a shudder, Baekhyun straightened up, looking for his familiar. “Mongryong! Hurry up!”

His familiar ran over, already sensing the shift in Baekhyun’s mood. Mongryong barked at him, whimpering when Baekhyun didn’t respond right away.

“I’m okay,” Baekhyun murmured. He reached down, petting the corgi affectionately. “Just old ghosts back to haunt me.”

Looking over his shoulder, Baekhyun stared at his bedroom window. He hoped you wouldn’t regret your decisions.

You may be a witch, but you hadn’t suffered in the same way that Baekhyun had. The way that he, Jongdae and Minseok constantly lived in fear of facing the same fates as the rest of their families. But no matter how angry he was at how life had turned out, he wouldn’t wish it on anyone else, not even his worst enemies.

Baekhyun sighed, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes as he stared up at the night sky. The moonlight seemed to be reflected in his one blue eye, the mark of his family’s magic. If he could prevent the loss of another innocent life, he would do everything in his power to help.

He only hoped that what he had was enough.

Series masterlist : ( 1 )  ( 2 )  ( 3 )

A/N: alright here’s try number two of me trying to update the series WITH tags this time lol. the series might be longer than I expected? I didn’t think it would take me a whole chapter to write these scenes, so I’m thinking that the whole series might be extended a chapter or two. I also want to add that any kind of magic/witchcraft mentioned in this series is a mix of things I’ve read/watched in TV or movies, and things I’ve made up for this series. (also, please let me know if there are any typos in here, I feel like there’s always something I miss when proofreading haha)

@shesdreaminginoverdose​

[theroseandcrown]

The Rose & Crown: Chapter Five

Rating: M Chapters: 5/24

Summary: Clara and the Doctor find themselves on the trail of the mystery surrounding their memory loss. What will they find when they follow the clues?

Read this story on another platform: Archive of Our Own Fan Fiction WattPad

Clara had always been impressed by the selection of clothing available to her in the ship’s wardrobe. The items she found in there consisted of such created by the TARDIS herself or those that had been left behind by the Doctor’s previous companions. Either way, they excelled in their knowledge of well-fashioned taste when it came to providing her with disguises to accompany him on his travels. Whether it be the year nineteen hundred or forty thousand, the old gal certainly knew how to treat a girl. Although, this time she may have outdone herself a bit. Having searched for quite some time through the ever-changing, ever relocating closet, her heart jumped when she saw the dress. Champagne in colour, the floor-length fabric was entirely embroidered with tiny sparkling silver patterned jewels from the modestly draped straps over her shoulders to the tips of her clear heeled shoes. Gazing at her finished form in the mirror, the dress seemed to embrace her with an ethereal glow. A part of her shook the thought that a particular dress of this nature might be too fashionable for a girl such as her. She exited the wardrobe and headed for the control room where the Doctor told her to meet him. Hesitating for only a moment to regain her confidence, she lifted her skirt above her shoes and climbed the metal staircase towards the heart of the TARDIS.

“Finally!” the Doctor exclaimed after hearing her soft footsteps approaching from behind. “You’ve been down there nearly an hour!” He spun around to face her. “What on Earth took you so-?” And then he saw her, truly saw her. Her presence in the room suddenly cleared him of all thought and speech. He had travelled with her an uncountable amount of times. From the past to the future and beyond even that. And yet, she always remained the same Clara to him no matter what version of her he was with. Always his impossible girl. There was no one else he would rather have by his side. He cared for her more deeply than he would ever dare to admit. All the dangers he put her through, all the incidences in which he thought he’d lost her had been more unbearable each time. He fought to keep the feelings he had for her from himself and anyone they ever encountered together from the moment he first laid eyes upon her in his previous form. He felt that somewhere buried deep inside his stubbornness, she would never accept him in this body as she did with his last. This furrowed old man he had become could never compete with the love she still carried in her heart for his younger self. It was better this way. Emotions are dangerous. There were far too many enemies in the universe willing to take advantage of a weakness so great.

Something inside of him was freed from its forgotten place as she approached him, a feeling he thought he would never have for anyone else. He couldn’t tear himself away from her magnificent grace. She could light up every star in the sky or power an entire world with just the look in her eyes at that moment. He could feel the electricity emanating through the air in the palms of his hands. The deafening silence in the room could only be tamed by the delicate sound of her shoes tapping along the metal flooring. He watched her approach until she was but an arm’s length in front of him. “You look, uh…” were the only words he could manage.

“Is it too much?”

“No, um-”

“It’s too much, isn’t it,” she responded nervously, beginning to feel foolish.

“No, no! Well, I mean, it’s not bad. For a girl who can’t even tie a tie correctly. But I suppose the dress will have to do,” he humoured her in an attempt to maintain a hold over his emotions.

“Thanks.” She knew that was the closest to a compliment as she was going to get. She noticed he’d taken the time to groom himself in her absence. A characteristic he hadn’t seemed to have adopted very often in this body, if at all. And yet, something about the way he looked in his tuxedo warmed her from within as if she were standing beside an open flame during the dead of winter. All the anger she felt earlier in the day and the past several weeks had melted away leaving no trace of its former existence. The warm feeling inside of her began to grow more intense as she stepped closer, their shoes nearly touching. “I could say the same about you,” she pointed out, slowly reaching up to straighten his tie.

He watched her every move. His hearts raced at the sensation of her fingers grazing along the outside of his collared shirt. He gazed down at the top of her head as she perfected his slightly skewed necktie. The closer she was to him, the more he could feel the electricity making its way throughout his body. There was something different about her, something he hadn’t noticed before. Not strange, per se, a rather enjoyable feeling actually. A warmth about her. He felt the tiny hairs on his arms rise underneath the sleeves of his jacket. A very faint, almost entirely unnoticeable connection to his telepathic abilities could be detected. Is she somehow reading my mind?

“Well!” He nervously pulled away from her grasp and quickly moved to the console. He feared he may have endured her closeness for too long. If she had been reading his mind, there was no doubt he might have let some thoughts slip by he shouldn’t have. Trying to distract himself, he made a few adjustments to the computer. “Shall we?” he asked, extending a hand towards her. He could sense her reluctance, possibly having to do with the day’s previous conflict between them. The look of uncertainty in her eyes. He knew he had tampered with her trust in him. There was only one way to make it right. “Clara Oswald, I would be deeply honoured if you would accompany me as... my date,” he requested, offering a bent arm for her to accept if it pleased her. Clara smiled. The same smile that drove him into the deepest parts of his sanity. Accepting his offer, she interlocked her arm in his and prepared to be transported to the next adventure. Matching her smile with his own, he pulled down on the lever and sent the time machine to its instructed coordinates.

Prima Nova

The TARDIS materialized into the medium-sized vacant room. The door opened and the Doctor poked his head out from within to examine their new surroundings. Once it was decidedly safe, he exited the box as Clara followed closely behind.

“Well, this is exciting!” She took hold of his arm with her own. The anticipation of what was out there sent a sense of thrill throughout her body. Each time they encountered the unknown together, there was always a feeling of excitement mixed with a small amount of fear of what they might come across. But this time felt different. Being with him made her truly feel like a part of his life again. “It’s as if we’re solving our own mystery! Just the lot of us. Like Sherlock Holmes!”

“Yes, well, if only Sir Conan Doyle had known the true identity of whom he really based his main character on, I’d bet he would’ve looked a little more green, and had scales, and was actually a woman,” he replied, remembering his past adventures with Vastra, Jenny, and Strax. Back when he felt the universe didn’t need him to be the Doctor anymore. Back when he had given up all hope. “Besides, their mysteries were nothing but child’s play in comparison to what I’ve seen in my lifetime. Imagine the pair of them encountering an army of Cybermen back in their day. What a great story that would have been to tell the kiddies.”

They approached the extraordinarily large double doors to the room in which they were standing. They were over a storey in height and several arm lengths wide. A questioning look appeared on his face as he took out his sonic-screwdriver and attempted to scan the door. Other than being made of wood, in which the screwdriver lacked in its abilities, there was nothing he would usually be concerned about. Except that these doors appeared brand new as if they had just been installed, unlike the other walls in the room or the ancient relics hosted inside of it.

“Doctor? What is it?” Her grip on him tightened with concern.

“This door. It’s unusually large for a room this size, don’t you think?”

“Maybe they’re just really tall people?” She couldn’t help the smile that formed.

Frowning at her humour, he placed his ear to the wood and listened for any sounds. Glancing towards her, he opened the door. The light from the other side brightly filled the space all around them. In the next room, they could see hundreds of well-dressed normal-sized people chatting and mingling amongst each other while oblivious to their entrance. Shutting the door behind them, he led her into the crowd to blend in as if they had been there all along. “Now remember,” he warned, continuing to lead her through the mixed mass of aliens. “We’re here to find out what happened to us, not to dilly-dally. No distractions. Look for anything you might remember.”

Clara frowned. All these people enjoying themselves and she was stuck with the Time Lord, Slayer of Fun. Doing as he asked, her eyes scanned the room for anything that would jog her memory. She didn’t recognize any of the other guests nor the room they were in. Nothing out of the ordinary, besides being surrounded by aliens of course. However, she supposed that to them it was she who was the alien. She noticed a strange object hanging from the ceiling high above the guests’ heads. An orb-like structure encased in shaded glass. “What’s that?” she asked, pointing upwards.

“Brain scanner,” he responded, having already noticed it the second they entered the lobby. “It detects ill-intent.”

“What would they need a brain scanner for at a party?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

She could feel him pulling her towards the next room where they were greeted by a well-dressed man of a species she was not familiar with. He stood eagerly behind a host’s station. A badge clung just below his lapel were inscribed with the words Xarbanka, Maître D’.

“Ah! Mr and Mrs Smith!” he addressed them, extending a scaled hand towards the Doctor. “So good to see you again! Mrs Smith, you look absolutely stunning this evening!” He returned his attention to the Doctor. “Better keep a good eye on her tonight, sir!” he boasted with a friendly smile.

“Will do,” he replied, trying to keep the thought of having no memory of this man at rest.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” the man added, retrieving a lightweight box from inside the station. “This arrived earlier today with strict instructions to deliver to you personally upon your arrival.”

“For me?” The Doctor raised a questioning brow. “Who sent it?”

“They didn’t say. It was accompanied by this.” The man pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him.

Taking the note, he opened it to observe its message. For Mr Smith, from a friend. Glancing towards the Maître D’, he placed the note inside his pocket and released the clip holding the small box shut before hesitantly opening the lid. Inside were two identical pairs of what appeared to be ordinary reading glasses. Upon examination, he found nothing peculiar about them. Removing them from their case, he promptly placed them into his jacket pocket and nodded his gratitude towards the man. Turning to Clara, he noticed she was experiencing the same confusion as he. “Well, shall we head for the refreshments, dear?” A smile formed on his face as he played along with his new role. They parted ways with the man and headed towards the entrance of the next room where the sound of live music was heard playing.

“That was a bit strange,” she whispered. “Were you expecting a package here?”

“No, which means whoever sent it must have known we were going to be here at this exact moment.”

“So, Mr Smith, eh?” She tried to hold back her laughter. “They get a lot of caretakers to come to these things, do they?”

“And, apparently, their wives,” he teased.

“Hmm, Mrs Clara Smith. Doesn’t sound all that bad. Better than Mrs The Doctor. Doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” She let out a small laugh.

“My, aren’t we chipper this evening,” he noted, addressing her sudden adjustment in mood from earlier. The more they immersed themselves into their surroundings, the brighter she had become. He could feel the happiness resounding inside of her now seeping into him. “To what do I owe this new change? Surely you haven’t forgiven me for everything already,” he prodded, yet remained hopeful the answer would be, ‘Yes.’

“I dunno.” Clara thought about it. It was as if she didn’t even remember being so cross with him. As if it happened ages ago. Whatever feelings she felt before had been replaced by something else, something warmer. Something she wasn’t so sure she had control of. Whatever it was, she liked it. She liked the way she felt around him now more than ever. The thoughts and feelings she still clung to of his last form were slowly being replaced by his new one. “I suppose it doesn’t matter. You’re here now,” she added. As they entered the next room, her grip on him tightened. “Doctor!” she nearly gasped his name. “I’ve been here before. I remember this room from my dream.” She looked around the structure to observe the walls and flooring. It was the same as the nightmare she experienced right before the spectre attacked her. It sent shivers down her spine seeing this place again. Her eyes searched the room for the ghosts she had seen before only to find it was vacant of them. Even the people were different from those in her vision.

“Do you recognize anyone?” he asked, taking in all the details they might have been missing.

“No, you?”

“Nothing.” He strained to discover a clue, anything that might jog his memory of having been there before. He noticed a second scanner atop the ceiling and assumed there was one in each room.

As Clara examined the unfamiliar faces, she couldn’t help but wonder it if was possible they had been wrong. That there wasn’t anything there to find. Had they come all this way for nothing? She continued to observe the guests paired with their partners and dancing to the rhythm of the music. So carefree, so unaware of anything out of the ordinary. Just simply dancing and enjoying the company of one another. Feeling safer, for the moment, she turned to him. “Would you care to dance?”

“Good thinking! Blend in, gather details. Surely one of these people holds the key to our memory!”

Shaking her head, she smiled and determined that he would always be the same old Doctor to her no matter how hard she tried to tame him. A part of her loved that about him and wouldn’t change it for anything.

He took her hand and led her onto the dance floor. Facing her, he realized how long it had been since he had done this even if it were to simply gather data. Trying to recall exactly where he was supposed to put his hands and who was supposed to lead, he decided to go with his instincts instead. Under any other circumstances, he would have felt the flutter of his hearts beating. But this time, something about her was different. She placed the palm of her hand in his, the other wrapped around his back to which he mirrored. As he held her hand, he felt an overwhelming sense of emotion as he detected the vast amount of electricity emanating from her soft delicate fingers entwined in his own. He tried to hide his concern and concentrate on his objective, finding those responsible for all of this. Yet he couldn’t keep his mind focused on anything else. What was different about her? What was he missing? Stay focused, Doctor. Don’t lose yourself in her eyes. You are here for a reason. His mind teetered between studying the room and her gaze. He could feel her pulse in the palm of his hand, though it was strangely foreign. Far too fast to be her own. It’s nothing, she’s just excited. You mustn’t get distracted.

He could feel his muscles tense as her body drew close to his. Her head rested on his shoulder. The hand he claimed around her back found its way to her waist while the other held onto hers firmly. The same warmth he felt before in the TARDIS began to rise within him. The electricity from her hand deepened as if it were connecting to every fibre in his body. What is she doing to me, he wondered? Trying his hardest to stay on task, he began to distract his senses with observation. He counted the tiles on the floor, the number of beverages being passed around, anything even remotely relevant to their reason for being there. He noticed a few of the guests had their attention turned towards them. Did he know them? Did they know him? Could they be involved or was he just feeling paranoid? Before he lost himself in her arms, he attempted to de-escalate the intensity of their embrace. “I feel we are being watched,” he finally spoke, breaking the silence of the moment.

“By who?” she asked, slowly lifting her head off his shoulder.

“Usurians, behind you.”

“What’s a Usurian?” She started to look in their direction.

“Don’t turn around!” he ordered quietly, closely monitoring the other guests as he waited for just the right moment. Seizing the opportunity, he spun her around to the rhythm of the music. His dominant hand retained its grasp on hers as her back became flushed up against him. His other hand slid across her front and held her midsection firmly, pulling her even closer. He ignored the small gasp that escaped her lips. “There, just in front of you,” he whispered into her ear. “Do you recognize them?”

Clara, trying to swallow the surprise that overtook her from his sudden intimacy, glanced in the direction of which he was speaking. “No, I don’t think so.” She hardly even looked at the suspected guests, being too distracted by his closeness. Her free hand found its way to his and placed it gently atop his own. She could feel herself breathing more heavily as he applied pressure to her abdomen.

The Doctor, not ready to eliminate the Usurians as possible suspects, scanned the room again looking for more clues. Suddenly, and quite unexpectedly, a powerful surge swept through him originating from the hand resting securely upon Clara’s body. A telepathic connection he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was so unbelievably strong, it pulled him out of his reality entirely.

He opened his eyes to find himself in an undetermined space, relocated from where he last stood as if he had been teleported. Darkness had formed all around him. Am I dreaming?  Far off in the distance, he saw a small light. Approaching slowly, he shielded his eyes from the intense glow emanating from it. As he drew closer, more finite details of its existence began to occupy the void surrounding him. Light particles circulated from its main source. The closer he stepped, the more he could hear it trying to speak to him. He heard the sound of its heart beating faintly, then louder until it beat like a drum deep in his soul. Yet there was something different about it. Something only he would be able to feel. There were two. Two distinct heartbeats originating from the same source. No, it can’t be! How is this possible?! He found himself being drawn to its life force, unable to stop himself from stepping closer until he could nearly reach it. The light burned his eyes yet he could not look away. His hand reached out, ready to succumb to its will, until his fingers made their first contact with it. Then there was a flash of light.

The Doctor opened his eyes once again, gasping and breathing heavily. He searched his surroundings thoroughly. He was back in the ballroom. His hand was still clenched around Clara’s as the other pressed her tightly against him from behind. Panic came over him. He quickly released himself from her and stepped away as the music came to an end. He saw her turn to face him, her eyes conveyed worry and concern for her friend. He couldn’t shake the vision in his head of what he saw, for what he feared was happening inside of her. He tried to even conceive of the possibility. His mind raced, his hearts beat rapidly in his chest. No, this isn’t possible!  Yet everything he knew and felt was pointing to only one answer, that his Clara was with child.

“Doctor?” She stepped closer only to watch him step even farther away. His eyes were wide with fright. “Doctor, what is it? What’s wrong?”

His mind burst and flooded with a thousand thoughts as if it were a shattering dam. So many questions, so little answers. It all started to make sense and didn’t at the same time. The electricity and warmth he felt just being around her, a warmth he thought to be the deep feelings he carried for her, was, in reality, the tangible emotions of the life form growing inside of her. Emotions they now shared. If Clara was upset, the child would imitate her distress. When she became elated, so would the child. And if she were to experience pain or suffering...

“I-I’m not sure.” He kept his distance. The words he wanted to say were lost under miles of thought. She came closer, the look of fear on her face as she did when they were in real danger. He couldn’t move, not because of the couples dancing all around him and trapping him where he was, but because his legs would not allow him to. As she stood in front of him, her hand reached for his. “Don’t,” he stopped her firmly. He couldn’t bear their touch again. Not now. Not when his mind needed to repair itself of its malfunction. They stood in unbearable silence, the music having long since ended as the musicians adjusted their pages for the next set. “I think I’ve had quite enough dancing for one evening,” he told her, trying to keep the worry off his face.

Clara was confused and mildly hurt. Had she done something wrong? Why was he so flustered, she wondered? The music started to sound again yet neither one of them yielded their positions on the floor. She hardly even noticed the young man approaching her side.

“Excuse me, Miss?” the man addressed her.

She turned to him, nearly forgetting the Doctor’s strange behaviour. She was taken aback by his youthful features. Not young enough to be a boy but certainly not too old either. He appeared human, but so did many others who either were or simply used a type of cloaking device to possibly hide their true race from potential enemies.

“I was just wondering,” he continued shyly, “if you would do me the honour of sharing this dance with me. If it pleases you.” He looked towards the Doctor. “Of course, that is if you do not mind, sir?”

“Well, actually,” he started, trying not to show his infuriated demeanour over the sudden interruption between them. “We were just about to-”

“I’d love to.” She took the arm of the young man.

“Clara, we really should be going,” he insisted, attempting to lure her back to him.

“I’ll only be a minute! I’m sure you can ‘handle things in my stead,’” she replied, turning his own words against him.

Impossible woman! The Doctor attempted to remain unaltered by her unexpected leave of him. He removed himself from the crowd and leaned against the wall, crossing his arms in disapproval as he watched them from a distance. He could see the young man take her into his arms and pull her close to his chest. She appeared to be somewhat taken with him, laughing and smiling in his direction. He could feel himself becoming jealous but tried to ignore it. Of course she would feel an attraction, just look at him! He’s everything I’m not; young and handsome. While compared to him, I’m nothing but a frustrated emotionless old man.

He attempted to distract himself by continuing to observe the room around them. Maybe he had been wrong. Maybe they were too late. Or just maybe there was nothing there for them to find. But why the brain scanners? What could be so crucial there to require them? And even more importantly, who sent him the glasses? Who had known he was going to be there on this exact night? His eyes drew back to his companion. The young man’s hand had found its way to her waist, her head rested just slight of his lapel. “Will this song never end?!” he mumbled to himself.

As he continued to watch them, he couldn’t help but think of the child developing inside of her. Was she aware of its presence? Could she feel it within her or was it simply too early to detect? The dreaded thought of how it came to be was secondary to his greatest concern, that the child was of Gallifreyan decent. The list of possible fathers was too short to deny being responsible for any part of it. But how had this happened? There must be some sort of an explanation, he thought. The song finally ended and the young pair made their way towards the refreshments.

“May I offer you something? Some champagne perhaps?” asked the young man.

“That would be lovely, thank you.” She watched him head towards the bar to attract the attention of the bartender.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” she heard the voice of the Doctor say behind her. Rolling her eyes, she turned around to face him. “My my, what a lovely couple you two are!” he added.

“Doctor,” she replied, now slightly annoyed with him.

“How old is he? Twelve? Thirteen? Ages, not my area.”

Ignoring his jealous comments, she decided to change the subject. “Did you find anything?”

“Oh, I thought we were here to dance and party!” Behind her, he saw the young man returning with two filled glasses in his hands. “And drink!”

“Champagne, for the lady,” the young man offered, handing her a glass.

“Thank you.” Accepting the glass from him, she raised it to toast the gentlemen.

“That other one must be for me then?” the Doctor asked the boy, his temper getting the better of him.

“Doctor!” she hushed him, lightly smacking his arm. “Behave.”

He watched her bring the glass to her lips. A sudden unexplainable protectiveness came over him as he removed the drink from her hand before she could take a sip. “No, I don’t think so. We wouldn’t want you to get all sloshy.” He handed the drink back to the young man. “Don’t let her appearance fool you. She’s a terrible drunk. Absolutely the worst! Now, if you’ll excuse us.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her away from the confused man.

“That was incredibly rude,” she scolded.

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll forget all about you. Plenty of other sultry girls here to choose from.” He felt her rip her arm away from his grasp. Surprised, he turned around to see her face. He could only describe the look of shock and hurt in her eyes.

“Is that what you think of me then?” she asked as tears started to form at the brim of her eyes.

“No, of course not.” He realized he had let his jealousy take control of him. “Clara, I need to speak with you,” he implored, extending a hand towards her apologetically. After a moment, she wiped the tears from her eyes and took his hand. He took her to a less crowded area of the room and made sure there was no one listening in. He looked into her eyes, still damp from tears. He didn’t even know what to say or how to begin. He brushed the loosened hairs from her face and wiped the remaining tear still clinging to her cheek. “Clara, I-” he stopped himself and ran his fingers through his hair. Why is this so difficult? Just tell her! He sighed heavily and regained his thoughts. “Clara, I need to tell you something.” She did not reply, only gazed into his eyes awaiting his next words which only made it harder for him to speak. At last, he found the courage to tell her the truth. “This may be difficult for you to understand right now, but you… you’re-”

“Welcome guests to the Prima Nova Biannual Charity Auction Ball!” a woman suddenly shouted from the top of the stairs. The guests cheered and clapped at her entrance.

The Doctor was frozen in thought by the interruption. He knew that voice. It sent a cold chill of unavoidable fear down his spine. There was only one person he knew of who had power over him such as that. He glanced towards the sound of her voice hoping he was very wrong about the thoughts invading his mind.

“I’ll be your host this evening,” she continued, descending the stairs. “But you may call me... the Mistress.”

[scottybrock]

You’re The One That I Want - Tara Yummy

Requested by a lovely anon: “can i get sum tara and reader? like they get into a fight but end up making up? Angst to fluff??? Pleaseee”

It wasn’t often that you and Tara would get into arguments, but when you did, they were explosive. Not physically, but verbally and emotionally. The two of you rarely ever fought, but when you did, it was over something important. The two of you had been dating for almost two years- if you wanted to be exact, one year and eleven months. You wanted Tara to move in with you, but she claimed that it would destroy the relationship the two of you so carefully built from the ground up. 

You had asked her on the one year mark, your expression hopeful and happy. She shut you down. You understood then, but after another year passed, your hopes for ever becoming more than just girlfriends, diminished to nothing. You wanted a future with Tara- you could see yourself marrying her. But apparently, the feeling wasn’t mutual. 

“You’re being ridiculous!” Tara shouted after you. You were angrily packing your bag full of the things that had accumulated at Tara’s place over the past year and eleven months. You were a whirlwind of angry movements, flitting around like a pissed off hummingbird. You simply glared at your girlfriend, shoving yet another t-shirt into your bag. “What does it matter?” You shouted back at her, your face turning a comical shade of red. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore!”

Tara turned a sickly shade of white, her wide brown eyes growing even wider. “What?” She gasped. You sighed, then turned around. Your angry posture wilted into one of pure sadness. You looked so distraught, so sad, that Tara wanted to bundle you up in blankets and keep you away from the world. But she couldn’t. You were breaking up with her. 

“I can’t be with someone who isn’t ready to fully commit to me,” You replied, your voice soft. “I can’t be with someone who won’t take a risk, and be with me fully. I want to wake up next to you, Tara,” You continued. “And I want to fall asleep next to you every night, too. You don’t want that. You’re not ready, and I get it. But I can’t wait anymore.”

Without waiting for an answer, you scooped your bag into your arms and walked out of her bedroom. You wouldn’t let her see the tears streaking down your face, or the way your mouth trembled with held-back sobs. Tara let out a whimper, shaking her head. How the hell had things gotten like this? 

As soon as the door clicked shut quietly, she allowed herself to break down. Tears leaked out of the corners of her eyes at a steady pace, and sobs wracked her tiny frame. She cried for all of the things left unsaid. It was clear that you still loved her, and she still loved you so much it fucking hurt. It hurt to think that the two of you weren’t together anymore, but that’s what the reality of things were— you dumped her. What hurt even more, was that it wasn’t done out of malicious intent. You knew what you wanted, and she didn’t. 

Except she did, now. She knew exactly what she wanted, and she feared that she was too late. That she was too late to tell you what she wanted, how badly she wanted it; she wanted a future with you so badly, it felt like a dagger to her heart at the mere thought of, “maybe you changed your mind already.” She wouldn’t blame you, if you did. 

Of course, you hadn’t changed your mind. Not in the slightest. You wanted to be with Tara so badly, you ached. Tears ran down your cheeks as you stalked out of her house, and your chest throbbed with aching sobs and a broken heart. You slid into your car and drove away, not looking back. You knew that if you looked back, you would run back to her, begging her to forgive you, begging her to be with you again. But as much as you loved Tara, you respected yourself more. So you kept driving, using your shoulder to wipe away your tears.

A few days passed. The pain didn’t lessen, for either of you. Tara paced her apartment, her movements erratic. She hadn’t slept since you left her. She didn’t want to- she knew that when she closed her eyes, you would be in her dreams. It wasn’t any better for you; you hadn’t eaten, hadn’t slept, for the very same reasons. You longed for Tara to hold you, to feel her arms wrapped around you, listening to her heartbeat to comfort you. 

A knock on your door startled you, and you grudgingly walked over, then looked through the peephole. Your heart raced. You rubbed at your eyes, to make sure you weren’t hallucinating. You looked through the peephole once more, and your eyes didn’t deceive you; Tara was standing on the other side, a bouquet of sunflowers in her hands- and a plastic bag by her feet. 

You opened the door with shaking hands. Tara stood before you, a shy, uncertain smile on her face. “Hi,” Her voice was a croak, and you could only blink at her rapidly in response. “Can I come in?” She asked. You nodded, your throat dry. She scooped up the plastic bag, then offered you the sunflowers. You took them from her with shaking hands. 

“I love you,” Tara’s voice was soft. Her expression was even softer. Her hands were trembling by her sides. “I don’t think there will ever be a day where I don’t.” You shook your head, and her heart dropped. “That was never the issue,” Was your quiet reply. “I love you with all of my heart, with everything I am. I always will.” 

You continued. “The issue is, you act like you don’t want a future with me. Moving in is a huge step, I know. But compared to everything else in the long run, it’s a minuscule thing. Marriage, children, the rest of our lives together…” Tara stepped forward. “I want all of that with you too, babe.” Her voice was soft, vulnerable. “I’m sorry that it seemed like I didn’t, but I do. More than anything.”

Your heart melted in your chest. “I brought something with me to spruce up our home.” Tara gestured towards the plastic bag. You knelt down to open the bag. Inside of the bag were two black and pink throw pillows. 

Your lips formed a wobbly smile. They were so Tara’s style. You closed the bag, then shook your head. “I want you to move in, but not like this,” Your voice was quiet. “I want you to move in because you want to, not because you think that’s what I want. It has to be something you want, too.”

Tara knelt down next to you, her brown eyes wide. Her lips were trembling. “I want this, too.” She replied. She took your hand, intertwining your fingers with hers. You smiled down at the sight of your fingers intertwined with hers. “I want this. I want to wake up next to you every day, and fall asleep next to you every night, if you’ll still have me.” 

You released her hand, favoring to cup her face with your hands instead. Her eyes were wide, hopeful. “You idiot,” You replied, but your voice was undeniably fond, soft. “I want you. For the rest of my life, you’ll always be the one that I’ll choose.” With that, your lips found hers in a soft, sweet kiss. Her eyes fluttered shut. 

When the lack of air became a problem, you pulled back, smiling at the dreamy expression on her face. You felt like you were floating. “By the way,” You grinned. “Wanna be my girlfriend? Again?” You asked, ducking your head bashfully. 

Tara rolled her eyes fondly at you. “Duh,” She replied. Her expression softened. “You’re the one that I’ll always choose, too.”

[thedeviltohisangel]

He’s A God, He’s A Man: 10

You can’t have me.

masterlist is my url/writing

smut warning

“I bet he said you could have me while he had her.” Tommy had been staring intently at Kimber’s house which he was parked in front of. He was trying to put a bit of distance between Lydia’s arrival and his. He couldn’t go in there guns blazing and light the entire business deal on fire.

“Something like that,” he mumbled in response.

“I was a milliner when he found me. A good one. I made this hat.” 

“It’s a very pretty hat,” he obliged. It made him think about Lydia. About all he had watched her accomplish while in France. The countless lives she had saved including his own. And now she was a barmaid in a dirty town being dragged to shady events on his arm and volunteering to be alone in rooms with slimy men because she loved Tommy. He flicked his cigarette out the car window. He was not going to be responsible for her giving up on her dreams.

“Is she a prostitute?” 

“No. She’s an angel.”

----

Lydia had to admit that Billy Kimber’s house was nice. Apparently the race business was more profitable that she could have ever dreamed of. He led her into a grand room with a gramaphone in the corner. Eagerly he helped her out of her coat and put on one of the slowest songs she had ever heard.

“This is too slow to have a fun dance to. Put on a Charleston,” she said with a forced smile as he grabbed at her waist roughly. She had grown accustomed to the smell of cigarettes that followed Tommy wherever he went. Had grown to love it and seek comfort in it. But on Kimber it made her stomach flip into nauseous knots. Made her arch her head as far away from him as it would possibly go.

“I want to be close to you. Have you ever been in a house this big? I bet you have. Look like a bloody film star I bet all the men want a piece of you.” She watched his eyes close as he leaned forward with puckered lips.

“May I get some air, Mr. Kimber?” she asked politely as she pushed her hands against his chest. He took one step back with a roll of his eyes and went to the glass of whisky he had poured for himself. After he finished it, he dropped his glass onto the floor and watched as it broke into tiny pieces.

“Pick it up.” She froze. This was a power play. He got off on belittling women. “I want to watch you bend down and pick it up you little slag.” 

“I’m off the clock. I don’t clean up after adult men when they aren’t paying me to,” she spoke through gritted teeth. Where on earth was Tommy? Surely the agreed upon time she had to spend alone with him was nearing to an end. Lydia walked over to the table to pick up her purse and gloves. She’d wait out the rest of her time in the restroom.

“Listen here. I tried to be nice, but if you don’t do what I ask when I will force you.” She felt him come up behind her but she wasn’t quick enough to turn around.

“What-No!” she screamed as she felt his hands wrap around her thighs and begin to travel under her skirt. Lydia grabbed a shard of glass from the table she was bent over and swung her arm wildly, Kimber falling backwards just as the door banged open and Tommy came running through.

“What the fuck are you doing? I still have time on our deal!” 

“I was going to let you go through with it but she has the clap. She looks good from the outside but believe me…” Tommy trailed off and let Kimber’s mind go wild with what he could possibly be talking about. “I thought I could use her but call it my conscious getting the better of me. Couldn’t let you go through with it.” Lydia dropped the piece of glass she had been prepared to use as a weapon and squared her shoulders before marching towards the door. She walked right past Tommy without even a look. God did she feel stupid. She knows she put herself in that position but how stupid of her to do so. To believe accompanying Tommy on this excursion would be any sort of positive experience for her.

“I don’t want to talk about it. Just start the car and drive,” she instructed as he slid behind the wheel and turned to talk to her. He respected her wishes and kept silent as they drove back to Birmingham. She didn’t even take his hand once they pulled back into Charlie’s yard to return the car. Even Curly kept quiet when he saw them. He could sense the tension between the two though he was happy to see that both returned in one piece. Physically at least.

“Will you talk to me now?” he asked quietly once he had shut the door to his bedroom behind them. Lydia sat down at the desk by his window and began to remove her gloves and pearl necklace. It had been her grandmother’s. And she had whored herself out in it.

“Can I have a drink first?” Tommy stood quickly and poured her one, kneeling next to the chair she sat in before handing it to her.

“At least just tell me if I made it before anything...happened.” She tipped her head back and felt better as the alcohol burned down her throat.

“Yes. I would’ve killed him before he had the chance to do anything.” He wanted to touch her but didn’t want her to reject him. He thinks that would’ve killed him. “But I can still feel his hands on my thighs,” she whispered like it was a secret. She lifted the skirt of her dress ever so slightly. Tommy knows it was his mind playing tricks but he swears he could see Kimber’s hands on the sacred skin of her legs.

“What can I do to make it go away?” He placed his hands where he thinks Kimber’s had been in the hopes she would feel his touch instead.

“I need to feel you. All over. I need you to claim me so I will never even be looked at by another man like that ever again.” He nodded as a lump appeared in his throat.

“You’re mine and I’m yours,” he said as she knocked her forehead against his. 

“Make love to me, Thomas.” She needed to feel every inch of him against her. Needed to come together with him as one in a way they hadn’t since their last night together in France. In a way that she would never experience with man other than him after tonight. Breathlessly, Tommy began to oblige her request. He parted his lips against hers and tried to convey all he could in the gesture. He was trying to show his love for her, his appreciation for her, his commitment to her. But he was also telling her how sorry he was that her love for him put her in this predicament. That he was sorry he couldn’t promise there wouldn’t be more days like today.

He moved from her lips to the curve of her jaw, sucking on the skin behind her ear that he recently learned was a sensitive spot. “I love learning about you,” he mumbled as he trailed down her neck. Tommy hoped he would always be learning about her. That Lydia would always be surprising him and growing with him and showing new corners previously unseen.

“Are you making a little map in your head?” she breathed, tilting her head back so Tommy had unfettered access to her skin.

“I thought  had an accurate one from France but it’s in need of updating.” She giggled but then frowned when he pulled away from her completely and stood. Tommy offered her his hand which she took. He pulled her against his chest in the name of simply admiring her for a few moments. “I never want to forget how you look right now. How I feel right now.” 

“Life will bruise us, Tommy, but never break us.” Lydia was sure of that. They didn’t go through what they went through in France and find their way back together just for an angry bookie or temperamental copper to ruin things. She moved her fingers down the buttons of his shirt with ease, helping him slide it off his shoulders before kissing the freckles that were now exposed to her on his pale skin.

“Please tell me this is not one of those complicated dresses I will never be able to get off you without tearing it,” he muttered as she turned around for him with a smile.

“Just a little bow on the top but the undergarments…”

“Jesus, the undergarments,” he exclaimed as the dress pooled at her feet but her brassiere and underwear remained intact. To Tommy they actually looked quite constraining. “How did you dance in these?”

“Years of breathing practice. While you were out learning to shoot, I was learning the art of short breaths and bladder control.” He appreciated that she looked quite proud to have mastered the skills of a traditional, upper class lady. But he remembered her stunt with the revolver in the kitchen. She knew how to shoot too. 

She kissed him, bringing him back to the task at hand. As Tommy’s fingers found the front laces of her corset, her fingers brushed over the front of his trousers. He sucked in a breath at the fleeting moment of contact. “Your touch is dangerous.”

“I’d prefer to touch you without this nuisance,” she replied with a snark as she pulled the waistband of his pants and let it snap against his skin. Somehow that felt even better for Tommy. He obliged her request, removing his bottoms and undershirt while she fiddled with the laces of her corset and finally freed herself. They kissed more fervently now. Both of her hands were on the back of his head and holding him to her. One of his hands pressed against her back and the other hitching her thigh around his waist. 

She was warm and willing and needed him. And it felt good to know that, after today, she wasn’t repulsed by him. That was still here. Still interested in having a future with him. No matter what that might entail. “Shall we lie down, Mr. Shelby?” she whispered against his lips. Tommy twirled a strand of�� her hair around his finger.

“One day you’ll be Mrs. Shelby,” he replied, taking her hand from his cheek and kissing the inside of her wrist.

“You’ll have to earn me.” She said it with a smile but she meant it. Just because she loved Tommy does not mean that he had her forever and without question. He’d have to prove himself every day. That he could be the man she deserved. 

Lydia pulled away and lied down on the bed, using her elbows to lift her back off the mattress so she could watch Tommy approach her hungrily. He went for the insides of her thighs first. Touching. Kissing. Biting. Lydia wasn’t one for begging but he was on the verge of bringing her to that point. “Tommy, please.”

“Almost done.” He hadn’t been kidding earlier when he mentioned needing to update his map. Every mark he left in his wake was a tether point. For the future, he knew exactly the keys to play for the melody to sing throughout the room. But the natural perfume of her was too intoxicating for him to avoid any longer. He gave into his most carnal desire and brought his lips to where she was dripping with need for him.

His hands pressing against her hips weren’t strong enough to control the writhing of her hips as he worshipped between her legs. He had wanted to watch her but the feeling was all too consuming of himself as well. Her moans and pants and gasps of his name were enveloping him in a warmth he hadn’t known existed until this moment. He drank from her like it was nectar. Lapping up every slick drop that rolled down her thighs as she crashed over the edge of pleasure into his waiting mouth. “Fuck, Thomas, why didn’t we do that last time?” Lydia had a hazy smile on her face, the one you get when in the presence of someone you’re deliciously in love with.

“I distinctly remember trying and you telling me that proper ladies weren’t to be seen down there by strange men.” Tommy clambered up to hover over her. Her cheeks were flushed and the tiny hairs around the perimeter of her face were stuck to her skin. She looked like a goddess. And she was all his. And he was all hers.

“Good thing I’ve gotten over that proper lady phrase.” Tommy dropped so he could kiss her. Lydia moaned at the new taste on his lips. It was feminine and masculine and made her feel like she was dancing among the stars. Previously all her sexual encounters had felt ritualistic. Like they were a necessary step in the progression of her evening. This felt like a puzzle finding it’s last piece. She saw the whole picture once Tommy slid inside of her. They didn’t bother themselves with trying to be quiet. It felt like they had been suppressing these feelings since they last parted. Nothing was going to stop them again. 

“Fuck, Lydia, you feel like heaven.” Tommy knew there was no place for him up there. But perhaps he could experience it down here, with her, while he had the chance. He ducked his head and sucked her nipple into his mouth, her back arching to meet his touch.

“Faster.” She could everything building up inside of her and teetering on the edge of eternal bliss. There was something about experiencing this with him that made her believe it might all actually work out. That if they had this place to retreat to at the end of the day, they’d be safe. They’d be okay. “Stay inside me, Thomas,” she whispered as his moans began to grow longer and his hips tightening with each thrust into her.

“Lydia, I-”

“Give it all to me, Tommy. I can take it.” She meant it. In every sense that it could be construed. She wanted to shoulder his burdens. His pain. The nightmares that visited and the ones that wouldn’t leave. She wanted his love. Wanted his affection, no matter how sparingly he deemed it safe enough to dish out. She wanted his future. Wanted to be his future. Forge their own path of the family tree. 

He stilled with his mouth agape, fighting every urge to keep his eyes open to gaze into hers. He would never know the words to explain what was dancing inside of him but he thinks he could show her. He thinks her heart and soul could read his without a map. In his eyes was love and promises that if he said allowed, he’d be too sad when he broke. There were secrets in his hands and on his lips as he kissed her again. There were apologies in his chest as they tangled together, sweaty and blissed out and too warm to even need a quilt. There was hope in his breath as he whispered his love and she whispered it back. And that night, there were dreams. Not a nightmare on the horizon.

@flecksphoenix​ @girl-w-a-quill​ @odetostep​ @itsilvermorny​ @shadow-of-wonder​ @lemmyjelly​

[lavenderhyrdrangea]

Blind

Hey! This is a chapter from my fallout 3 long fic.  If you prefer to read it over on Ao3 click here.  If not then enjoy!

 At the age of twelve, Viola was convinced  that the concept of The Vault was irony personified..bunkerfied? From the point of design the vault was sterile and colorless—meant  to prioritize  order--but it cradled thousands in its womb, away from the dangers of the outside world. Her father joked that they needed  the rigid structure  since it served as a  proper protection. Had it been made of  hay or sticks they would’ve crumbled. Plus, he pointed out that she was at the cusp between childhood and adolescence where everything safe seemed plain and boring. At least she  had the vault baseball games every Friday if she  ever felt starved for excitement. Now those were a welcome bursts of color. Nothing could beat two co-op teams running, sliding and shouting across the field, claiming bases.Not even that one freaky Friday when an imposter snatched up and replaced Amata could.

They waited in the girl’s locker room, preparing for the game. Viola tested the swing of  the steel bat between her palms.

“Wood’s better,” she murmured to herself.

Even a total newbie would’ve rolled their eyes at that bright observation but the quiet had to be filled somehow. Between swats, She snuck sidelong glances towards Amata who sat on a bench, baseball clutched in hand and eyes peering at it.

Finally Viola cracked, “You’re suppose to throw it.”

Reluctantly, Amata let go of her fascination with the ball. The room with all its rickety, gray lockers suddenly existed and she’d been  plopped there.

“It would help if I had a target. Any suggestions?” She asked behind a paper-thin smile.

With her bat now slung over her shoulder and leg stretched to  rest  her foot on the bench, Viola pointed.

“Good question! The right question actually. Follow me. Let me know if you get lost.” She cleared her throat. “ One hour into the future. We’re in uniform and the doors to both locker rooms are open. Mr. Botch is standing in the center of the atrium. You know putting the teams together and pouring out  rules and stuff then he asks the BIG question. Who  pitches and who bats? Who does it first anyway. Some greasy  moron with a dumb little accent goes, ‘Yo teach I think I can handle the throwing.’ You grip the ball harder and think, Oh yeah? And-”

Her bat dropped with thunk as she sprang into a  windup position.

She raised her leg, using her knee to lead the way, drove into a turn and sent the imaginary ball flying.  Adrenaline switched on, she dashed crosswise to fill the role of the ‘victim’. She pressed her fingers together and tapped them to her lips and spread them with an obnoxious pop.

“How’s that for right in the kisser?”

Amata flashed a genuine smirk now. Elation eased its way into the room. She seemed to take a step away from her previous contemplations. “You know he’ll just tear after us. Or try. Mr. Botch is fast.” She crossed her eyes and shook her head side to side. “ ‘You’re done for, Nosebleed.’ ”

“Oh, that’ll be great. He’ll run his mouth something fierce like he always does.”Viola said, settling onto the floor. “How do you think Paul deals with it?”

“ Are you kidding? He gobbles up everything that bully says. He’s not bothered.  Now if we’re talking about Wally...”

Viola was ready to list the many reasons why she felt not one iota of sorrow for Wally when an unbidden yet hilarious thought crossed her mind.

“Imagine if the world hated us and Butch was our friend?”

This earned her a nose crinkle.

“Not funny,” Amata groaned.

Viola, puffed chest and squared shoulders, drawled in Butch fashion, “ ‘What’s the matter with you? Daddy’s making you play ball like everyone else? Or can’t you take one of my jokes? You big baby.’ “

Amata shook her head. “I can’t believe he calls what he does jokes.”

Viola watched how Amata alternated from pressing her palms  together to wringing her hands. Her sanguine nature  was beginning to fade, acquiescing  to  her hidden thoughts.

Viola covered one of Amata’s wrist with a reassuring hand. “I mean it, you know? A busted lip is the least he deserves.”

“Sometimes I wish I could solve all my problems by just hitting them.” She shifted uncomfortably under Viola’s questioning eye. “Sorry, for sounding like freaking lunkhead.”

“Who or whatever this problem is must be wearing you thin.”

On the spot, she peeped, “ You peek at the  things your dad has on his private terminal every once in a while, right?”

“Whatever isn’t behind an administrator’s password.” Viola couldn’t begin to go over the number of times she goofed  around with some of her dad’s files.  Most of them were the Vault residents’ boring and if she was being honest, invasive, medical information. “Why?” Then it hit her. She rolled her eyes. “So you went to your dad’s super secret room and went through his stuff. Seriously, Amata? It happens to the best of us.”

“That not it.” Amata took a deep breath, bracing herself. Even still she faltered when she said, “ I found baseball scores.” Before Viola could cudgel her way through the rest of the conversation with her trusty club, Sarcasm, Amata  babbled on. “I thought they were the normal ones from our games but these were... copies? Duplicates? No, that’s not right. The first time I looked at them they were the same and the second--Amata sighed. “Ms. Armstrong. Her thing with cards: cups, swords, and moons or whatever. You remember, don’t you?”

Amata’s explanation for what the heck that had to do with anything was delivered on shaky breath. The way she told it these scoreboard duplicates—shadowboards she aptly called them—elaborated on the usual stats to form estimations of  people’s personalities. Amata noted  that they followed Ms. Armstrong’s tarot model.  She’d draw up a number of cards, place them side by side, and read them to read you. She’d see  a cup card  and a sword card say it meant all you’ve ever fought would go pouring down a drain.  In the same way a stat like multiple home runs would be taken into consideration alongside a players day to day antics, so the conclusion that, perhaps, they enjoyed  taking things head on or that they were one and done type of person or that they were overachievers could be made.  

Much of  what she said seemed to be hastily patched together hodgepodge but it  meshed just enough to  take off running in Viola’s mind.

“What’s it all for exactly? Ms. Armstrong does it because she wants to ‘get’ people.”

“That’s the problem. I don’t know.”

Amata became scarce the following weeks. Whatever  spaces  in-between where they would talk  was often obscured by her aloof attitude. All their conversations made Viola felt like they were speaking to each other through a tiny hole in the wall. To add to everything,  her own newfound  curiosity about what was on that terminal lead her down paths made out of paranoia. She’d go back and forth with herself. In one minute she didn’t care if the Overseer kept tabs on them. It wasn’t any different than a manager watching over an employee. Dad made sure Jonas was doing his due diligence all the time. Then, in the next, the objections would spring out. Jonas to some extent knew what dad was doing.  Amata’s uneasiness made the situation out like the Overseer’s “notes” were supposed to be a secret. Secrets weren’t always bad. An Overseer’s kept secrets however spelled trouble.

“Hey.” A grating voice called, causing her to snap to attention.”Nosebleed. I’m talking here.”

Right. Deloria. Cafeteria. Trying to pilfer her food.

“Gimme your mash,” he demanded.

“Get your own instead of trying to mooch off me.”

“Don’t give me lip. Fork them over.”

Viola sighed and shoved the bowl his way.  She couldn’t muster the appetite to finish the by then cold meal anyway or the tic for tac energy to deal with his antics.

He gave the surrendered food a suspicious look over.  “I swear if you spat in this I’m going to sock you one good.”

“I would’ve done it in front of you. What’s with the funny talk?”

“A loser like you wouldn’t understand.” He shoveled  spoonfuls of mash down his gullet. “Where’s your girlfriend?” he sneered, white chunks clinging to the corner of this mouth.

“More like where’s yours. Having another fight I see. Tell me, who started it? You or Wally?”

He gritted his teeth.  No doubt he thought that would make her flinch back in fear but with his cheeks  full and puffed up with food, he looked like a baby throwing a tantrum. Fitting. “ You're lucky the rest of the outfit isn’t here. We’d clobber you.”

“Awwwww, you guys made up then?” She smirked.

For a split second, Butch’s fist clenched then slackened.

“Nothing but trouble and not the good kind either. You and that stick in the mud. Can’t believe I got to apologize or whatever.”

“Apologize?” Viola narrowed his eyes. “What did you do this time? And got to? Tell me who’s making you apologize so I can give them a hug.”

“Who do you think?” He angled his head towards the cafeteria doorway where Officer Gomez and Officer  Hannon stood. “Dogs ma calls ‘em. The Overseer has them stuck to me over some prank. I saw Amata hanging out with out  with Old Lady Palmer. I figured since he likes hanging with old people that she’d want to fit in. Two Words: Flour bomb.”

How did he get his hands on flour to do that?

Butch grumbled on about how she went and got her father. The Overseer was livid. Butch’s punishment was to apologize to Amata everyday for two weeks and  work under Grandma Palmer for the same amount of time.

He whispered. “I still win though. Your little friend dropped something.”

Suspicion needled away at her nerves.  She glanced at security.  This was either another prank that would land them both in trouble or something that would make her want to kick his teeth in.

He grinned, all teeth, as he yanked something out from  inside his vault suit pocket.  It left her dumbfounded when  she spotted a jagged piece of paper with scribbles in his palm.  Officer Gomez seemed to watch them intently now. Butch nudged  at her shoulder with his  open hand. She  shook it.

“So, I guess you’re apologizing to me too, huh? Probably just doing it because you’re in trouble.” She said in a level tone.

Butch mumbled under his breath at the notion of an  apology to her as Viola ‘wiped her eyes’.     In the tiniest  and most familiar scribbles the paper read, “Deathclaw.”

“Password?” She mouthed.

His helpful shrug prompted her  to believe  that this wasn’t the best way to communicate. There were napkins around to write on but no pen or pencil. What to do?  The ketchup packets in the condiment bin called to her.  Better than nothing. In poor, tomatoey scrawl she made another attempt.

Password?

Idk. Maybe important.

You know, how?

Butch ripped five napkins from the dispenser.

Secret codes are always important.

Amata’s writing.

Hah! I’m right. It’s important.

As much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was right. Amata was messing around with the Overseer’s terminal and she might not have been sharing the entire truth with her. The Shadowboards had more to them, something pivotal. She needed the info. So she bargained him for it-- His codes for her mash.

Bad deal.

Will get you out of trouble.

Who? You? Amata? No you won’t.

Officer Hannon threw a sweat inducing glare their way. Definitely wasn’t a fan of them using up vault supplies. Propping her arm up like they were arm wrestling, she leaned in for clearer conversation and less waste.  

“Come on, You’re no good with computers.” She whispered.

He gripped her hand.

“Oh, like you are?”

“Better than you.”

Arm already shaking with the force, she tried shoving his hand down.

“I’ll bet.”

“What’s stopping me from running off with this code right now? I’m trying to be nice even though you don’t deserve it.  Repay the favor.”

“I’m nothing but nice so long as I get what I want, Nosebleed.”

He overtook her but  as  what little patience she had sifted between her fingers she regained  strength, bringing them to a  stalemate.

“Just let me have it.” She hissed.

“You think that I’m just some radroach that takes off running when you stomp your feet but you’ll wake up  eventually.  The Butchman is the toughest in the vault.  Either I help or no dice.”

He didn’t sound the same as  he  had seconds prior.  His voice had grown deep and edged with annoyance  and a wisenheimer touch. Familiar and foreign.

“Fine.”

[charlemange1]

Ask of the Lesser (Frankenstein/Lovecraft Works): 1 Paradise Lost

“I say to you againe, doe not call up Any that you can not put downe; by the Which I meane, Any that can in Turne call up somewhat against you, whereby your Powerfullest Devices may not be of use. Ask of the Lesser, lest the Greater shall not wish to Answer, and shall commande more than you.”

—The Case of Charles Dexter Ward

“…did I solicit thee

From darkness to promote me?”

—Paradise Lost

Some folks are born destined for greatness. Others live content in ignorant mediocrity, never knowing what could have been. Then there is me. Born into wealth, but barred from inheritance. Raised to be great, but crippled from illness. Dinning amidst kings and counselors, yet ever aware of that unseen barrier separating me from them. Was that not my first memory? My brother halfway out the door, glancing back to remind me I was too little to follow. Too weak. Left behind while he set out to make a name for himself. A name that has haunted me long after fleeing Geneva.

“But I am alive,” I whispered. Whether it was to my drink or the cockroach circling its rim, I could not say. Usually I could handle the memories, but tonight was the four-year anniversary of my brother’s death, and by God I longed to forget amidst this shabby tavern.

Taking another swig, I half listened to the men behind my lonely table clank mugs and bet on who was the lowest on Fortuna’s wheel. Their strange accents branded them fellow refugees.

“The revolutionaries ransacked the whole farm!”    

“Well, the bloody peasants welcomed Napoleon in my city! I had to flee with only the clothes on my back. You know how the French handled their own revolution. Can you top that, mates?”

My heart ached for these poor souls. Seeking connection through tragedy, I tipped my chair back to face them.

“Illness struck my mama down when I was a boy,” I said.

“Did it?” The grit on the central speaker’s face cracked beneath a mocking smile.

“Yes, and our trusted family maid strangled my little brother. Shortly afterwards a good friend was murdered abroad, and my dear cousin’s neck was snapped on her wedding night. The pain of it drove my papa to an early grave and my surviving brother insane. The servants thought our family cursed and fled, and I followed suit when the riots escalated.”

Silence fell over the already solemn tavern. A few men on the sidelines glanced up.

“I’ll be dammed,” someone called. “We can toast to that! To…”

“Ernest,” I raised my glass, holding back a cough. “Ernest Frankenstein.”

The tavern chanted my name with a bitterness only hardened refugees could master. Many of them had likely been noblemen or magistrates, all pointless titles once the fever of revolution had gripped the masses. The upper class had been blamed for every economic and social injustice, and in the fires of vengeance, not even my deceased parent’s philanthropy had saved the Frankenstein villa from rioters.

From the lakefront I had watched the flames devour my past, present, and foolishly assumed future dwelling. I would compare it to Adam and Eve’s expulsion from Paradise, but they at least had one another. What had I? A few hastily gathered heirlooms and happy memories trapped inside coffins? Wretched world! Paradise was lost to me the day Captain Walton presented my last family tie in a casket. He had found Victor half-frozen in the Arctic, chasing imagined monsters he blamed for the misfortune that plagued us. My poor, hysteric brother! I downed the rest of my drink, so much for burying bad memories. As I tried (and failed) to get that miserable captain from my mind, I pulled a few silver francs from my pocket. I would last three months, best. The only heirloom I had not bartered for bread was Victor’s pocket journal, and I doubted the ravings of a madman would fetch a high price. Taking my cane, I started toward the splintering door. A little girl dashed in front of me and I clutched the counter to steady myself. She pranced to the bartender and tugged on his pant leg with tiny hands. The patches on her dress were the same fabric as his pants—his daughter no doubt.

“My apologies,” the bartender bowed to me while shaking off the girl. “Turn away for an instant and the children wreak havoc!”

“You are fine,” I nodded. The girl held an empty bowl in her sooty fingers. William had been around her age when Elizabeth and I had first taken him to the lake to catch crawdads. The memory made me smile, and I dropped a few francs on the counter as I passed. “Feed your family.”

Two months now, but I would manage. A tall gentleman with arms crossed over his half-buttoned coat opened the door for me, and I thanked him before stepping onto the dirt road. The moonlight enveloped the surrounding forest in dancing silver. If I walked all night, I could arrive in the next town by morning, presuming my legs could carry me that far. The sooner Ingolstadt was behind me, the better.

A multitude of steps thundered after me. Biting my lip, I continued onward.

“Pardon me, Monsieur Frankenstein.”

There was venom in those words. I turned to face the group of three, recognizing the badly buttoned coat of the man in front who had held the door. I had not anticipated such a broken-down tavern housing learned readers. It seemed that in times of war even the mighty seek to forget the world.

“I presume you have read that captain’s so-called biography of my brother?” I interrupted the expected affirmative. “You should know that Victor was aliéné, completely insane.”

“Graverobbing will do that to a man,” Button Boy’s meaty fingers flexed. “As will lurking around God’s domain doing the devil’s work!”

The absence of people in the streets was not lost on me. Most people had wisely laughed Walton’s narrative off as a madman’s rambles, but others saw their deepest fears galvanized within Victor’s delusions. Thrusting their terrors of a quickly modernizing world onto who they saw as the ultimate embodiment of progression gone wrong. They had taken fiction for fact, and once they made the connection between him and I, well…

“Tell me, Ernest, are you aware of the concept of the hereditary taint?”

“Oh my, I just realized that I have important business elsewhere,” I backed away and thumped against solid muscle. Fingers gripped my boney shoulders as a hoarse voice whispered into my ear.

“It is the belief that characteristics are passed from parent to offspring.”

“Interesting. A fine theory to consider while being on my way…”

Button Boy took a bold step forward. “Characteristics like madness, for example, taint the entire family. It is only a matter of time before they all go the same way.”

Victor’s journal weighed heavy in my pocket.

“Good sirs, I fear you are mistaken,” I said, straining my neck to the man restricting me. “I have been an invalid since boyhood. These bones are incapable of mimicking my elder brother. If you hold that biography so dear, you would know that I had no say in his monster’s creation!”

“Perhaps.”

The tone was not reassuring.

“I am not my brother,” I jerked around but the hands easily held me. “Release me! Or I-”

Button Boy stuffed a rag between my teeth to stifle my pointless threats. What could I have said? That wounding me would have them tried by my high standing dead father and jailed by my dead country? You have nothing, Ernest. You are nothing now!

The exhaustion in my heart made my pitiful thrashing falter. My head fell against my attacker’s solid chest, soaking the shirt with sweat. If this was the climax to nineteen long years of suffering, why had I been born at all? What was your intent, Lord?

“This is for the good of humanity,” Button Boy leaned in close. Had William also stared into the eyes of his killer? What were his final thoughts as the maid he loved choked the life from his little body? Fingers gripped my throat and I gagged.

A shout came from somewhere, though my world had shrunk to those two murderous eyes. Out of the night, a fist punched Button Boy’s head with a force that broke his grip. I gurgled a choked gasp and collapsed on the road as the man behind me fled toward the trees. Light and dark wrestled for my vision as shouts and sounds of flesh on flesh erupted nearby. A new man whose blond curls drooped from wet sweat wrestled with Button Boy. Though Button Boy boasted a greater strength, his slim opponent easily dodged his fists and hit back with the skill of a man well-versed in human anatomy. Button Boy leaped up to strike the stranger’s face, but the taller man easily knocked his fist aside and punched his jaw with a force that sent him reeling. Button Boy clutched his mouth as he rushed off, dodging bottles the tavern hurled after him. The blond watched his escape with icy eyes before walking over to me.

“Is the boy injured?” the bartender called from the doorstep.

“Slightly stunned, but he will recover. I shall tend to him,” the stranger called back with enough confidence to convince the onlookers to file back inside the tavern. Better to avoid conflict than catch the eye of the wrong people.

“Can you walk, Monsieur?” the stranger asked with a poorly disguised American accent. He plucked my cane from the ground and handed it to me as I staggered to my feet.

“I am fine. Thank you, kind sir. Who knows what ditch I would be in now, had you not arrived,” I shuttered, extending my hand that he shook with the upmost class. A peculiar odor clung to him that I had never smelt before.

“Anything for a Frankenstein.”

Our hands dropped and I tried to cover a bad tear on my pants. “I take it you knew Papa, in better days.”

Better days. When my parents regularly welcomed renowned scholars to our villa. Justine had kept little William and I occupied while they discussed politics and theory. My throat burned from more than the aftertaste of cheap brandy. Justine. How could we have known what she was capable of?

“I never had the privilege to meet your father,” the stranger shuffled his shoe in the dirt. The moonlight reflected the fine quality of it. “Though Victor told me he was quite distinguished in your republic.”

My head lifted. “You knew my brother?”

“We shared several classes here at Ingolstadt,” the stranger explained. He looked to be in his late 20’s, what Victor would be now, had he lived. “Victor must have mentioned the name Joseph Curwen in passing? I was his chief competition.”

“I am afraid your name is new to me, Mr. Curwen,” I admitted. “From what I could gather, Victor would forget this place if he could. He guarded his secrets, I fear.”

“To a fault,” Curwen muttered. “It is a great shame. Your brother was a genius. Truly the Modern Prometheus of this age!”

“A fitting name,” I muttered. “Eagles feasting on your liver day after day would make even the greatest man go insane.”

“I heard he passed away, if this is to be believed.” Curwen pulled a book from his satchel. Even in the low light, I recognized Walton’s publication. “A great loss for humanity, to lose a mind as cultivated as his. It is quite the coincidence that I should meet you, Ernest, I was on my way to visit his grave and pay my deepest respects.”

Poor man! I owed him the truth, horrid though it was. “I am so sorry, Mr. Curwen, but Napoleon runs Geneva now. The Frankenstein tomb could be desecrated for all I know.”

“But not destroyed. It would be there in some form, correct?” Curwen’s voice fell to a whisper and I shuttered despite the warm breeze. “You would know your native land better than I. Could you take me to your brother?”

“Suicide,” I stumbled backward. Having just escaped death, I had no intent on testing my luck.

“I shall make it worth your while,” Curwen returned the book to his satchel and pulled out a piece of strange jewelry. It looked to be a tiara, though the patterns etched on its front held an unearthly splendor unlike any I had seen from Europe. The moonlight sent the golden coat sparkling, though the reflection suggested some foreign alloy.

“What metal is that?”

“One that will fetch a fine price,” Curwen winked and tossed me the tiara. I scrambled to catch it in time. “Us merchants have our secrets too.”

I tipped the headpiece back and forth, ever aware of the loose change rattling in my pocket.

“Please Ernest, merchantry may be my occupation, but respect for the dead is my duty,” Curwen gave a dramatic bow, perhaps an American attempt at being cordial? The habits of foreigners were largely unknown to me, when they visited our villa, Victor’s company was understandably preferred to mine. Yet hearing this stranger speak of my infamous brother so fondly was a gift in and of itself, and, I reminded myself, he had saved my life.

“I cannot promise you results, Mr. Curwen, but for the sake of my brother I will assist you as best I can.”

Curwen shook my hand again, how I missed such kind contact! “It would be much appreciated, Monsieur. We shall embark tomorrow. Until then, you must rest at my residence.”

“Really?” It was as though I were a human and not an assumed madman’s relative or corrupt aristocrat!

“For Victor’s brother, it is the least I can do,” Curwen turned from the tavern. “Come now, the university is nearby.”

“University?” my cane plunked in the dirt. “You cannot mean Ingolstadt University?”

“Where else?”

“But they closed earlier this year! From financial troubles, if I recall?”

“Which makes it the perfect abode to rest in peace,” Curwen chuckled, as though the last bit were humorous. “I assure you it is safe. The few remaining stragglers fled when the French invaded.”

Break in? Did this man consider me a criminal? Closing my eyes, I reminded myself that I was not much anymore, us invalids had to take what we could. Without Papa’s cushion of wealth, the sooner I accepted that reality the better.

“Alright, as long as no one will mind.”

**

Curwen and I made quick work of sneaking past the dark neighborhoods and French watchposts to the university’s outer gates. The night enveloped the massive buildings within to leave them warped pillars of shadow. I had kept away from this place for good reason. On this very campus those shadows had sprung and consumed my brother, spitting out the shaking husk that arrived home for William’s funeral. Curwen opened the unlocked gates effortlessly. There was no creaking, as though dark forces meant to fool us. The air weighed thick in my lungs.

“Come along, Ernest. Thankfully, I took the initiative to drag a few sofas into the library for my leisure. You may rest there.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. I stayed close to Curwen as he led me by torchlight inside one of the buildings and down several stone corridors that seemed to stretch forever. Finally, he stopped by a warped wooden door that opened to reveal shelves upon shelves of books lining the cobbled walls. Several piles of tossed volumes lay scattered from the hastily abandoned move.

Curwen chuckled as he stepped inside and began lighting the mounted torches.

“Does something humor you, Mr. Curwen?”

“I was thinking of your brother,” he said. “This library would close after dark, but Victor was never the type to grovel at authority. We would alternate between causing distractions so the other could sneak in and study! I presume he roped you into similar mischief, did he not?”

Curwen stopped by a cluttered desk and quickly placed several of the open books into his satchel. I seized the moment and blotted my runny nose with my coat-sleeve.

“No, I was Victor’s junior by seven years. I am afraid he never did much with me at all.” I could still see Victor’s sneer as he left for university so soon after Mama’s death. Free from his weak, invalid baby brother. “Did he mention me much?”

Curwen continued lighting torches with his back to me. “Victor kept his home and work life in private corridors. You likely noticed that in his letters!”

“He never wrote home,” my shoulders fell. “Not once.”

“Do not take it personally. Men of Victor’s caliber often find themselves so caught up in their work that the real-world slips by.”

“What sort of work?” I questioned, watching Curwen place another book in his satchel before buttoning it shut. “Mr. Curwen, surely you do not believe Walton’s lies?”

Curwen paused, choosing what to say. Victor had done that too. Shifting through information, pulling out the choice details.

“He worked in the sciences. Victor was a genius, as you know,” Curwen walked out the door with a nod. “Now rest, Ernest. We shall start for Geneva tomorrow.”

The door shut and I was left alone in the disorganized room. I picked up a badly bent copy of A Vindication on the Rights of Women and returned it to the shelf. Reading had never come easy to me like with Victor. I was still a child when my parents had abandoned their academic aspirations for me and left me to my own devices. A fine thing for a young boy, perhaps that was why I had found Victor’s insistence of making a scholar out of me so tiresome. He had appointed himself as my principal instructor, and not even Elizabeth’s sweet voice pointing out the obvious had swayed him…

“Ernest lacks the constitution for these theorems and formulas, cousin. He ought to strive for a more peaceful occupation, such as a farmer,” she said, almost pleading.

“Nonsense,” Victor muttered. He pushed another book in front of me, as though my confusion would be overpowered by his desire alone. “He is more than capable of being a lawyer, or a judge like Father. If he would just apply himself!”

“Victor,” her voice grew quiet. I still heard her. “You know his mind is incapable of severe application.”

“Well, I do not care for boring books,” I jumped up and Victor’s handwritten lessons scattered. “Or being a boring farmer! I will be a great soldier, fighting off vicious invaders and going on adventures!”

Victor and Elizabeth had shared a look. I did not understand at the time, but even back then they knew my limits. My weak frame could never survive the grueling life of a soldier. The trappings of my flesh outweighed my dream. I abandoned such fantasies soon enough. Probably for the best, there was no longer a Geneva to fight for anyways.

“But you are sleeping on silk tonight,” I lectured my inner demons while brushing dust from an old sofa. “And fate has been kind enough to gift you a companion! I am no longer alone, there is much to be thankful for tonight.”

Warmth spread through me as I sunk into the cushions. Curwen needed me, and as the torchlight shadows danced on the ceiling my thoughts left the past to focus on how I might aid the generous American in the future. My mind was at peace, though sleep eluded me as I slipped in and out of consciousness. It must have, for the shapes within those swaying shadows had no place in the waking world! A ball of sprawling tentacles flickered forward and back in some wicked séance while very human shapes danced around it to an unheard beat before crumbling to dust. Those horrible shadow tentacles licked up the dancers’ remains with an eagerness that paralyzed my limbs from silent terror. Then the tentacles leaked down the library walls to consume me just as the knowledge stored here had devoured Victor.

**

The next morning, a voice speaking in an unknown tongue shattered the nightmare. Curwen stood over me expectantly, speaking that same foreign language again with raised eyebrows.

“I take it you do not speak English?”

“No,” I yawned, rubbing my eyes to hide growing shame.

“I apologize, your brother was fluent—”

“I am not my brother,” I curled my trembling fingers around my cane. We could talk after leaving these cursed grounds behind! “But I can take you to him.”

NOTES:

Of all the characters in Frankenstein, few have been slighted as much as Ernest. He switches from sickly invalid farmer in the 1818 version to aspiring soldier in 1831, but despite losing just as much as Victor, he gets brushed to the sidelines by the end. The aftermath of the insignificant sole survivor of the Frankenstein house is just too good to not explore, and who better encapsulates the insignificance of us lonely humans more than the works of H. P. Lovecraft? Or amplifies it more than the disastrous French Revolution sweeping across Europe around the same time the events of Frankenstein take place? Considering Joseph Curwen spent nine years abroad in Europe studying dark arts, including necromancy and graverobbing, it didn’t seem like much of a stretch to write this crossover.

Scholars typically place the events of Frankenstein’s in the 1790’s, so for this adaptation I have Victor dying in 1798 and Ernest fleeing shortly after when the peasant riots in Geneva were escalating in want of reform. Since Curwen was stated to be killed in 1771, I have bumped up the events of Dexter Ward to overlap with the timeline of Frankenstein. This crossover serves as a prequal to Dexter Ward and sequel to Frankenstein, taking place in 1801, after Ingolstadt closed in the real world amidst financial troubles/French Revolution as well as near the tail end of Curwen’s nine years abroad in Europe, as stated in Dexter Ward.

Please comment and let me know what you think! ^^

[lilith-lovett]

Found Families - Home is Where the Hart is - Chapter Fourteen

Finally this chapter is here. I am sorry it took so long, I have recently returned back to school and I already have school work, so the next few chapter may take a little longer. I usually don’t post a new chapter until I have finished the following one but I really wanted to get this one out. So, I really hope you enjoy this chapter and thank you for all of the lovely comments and asks.

Masterlist

Summary: Logan is in hospital and Patton reunites with an childhood friend.

Word Count: 5719

Warnings: Child Abuse, description of injuries (bruises), police mention, Hospitals, needle mention, scars, past child abuse, self-description, implied homophobic parents, past injuries, panic attack, flashback, falling mention, starvation mention, malnutrition, disordered eating, death mention. (If their is anything I have missed please let me know).

Patton managed to catch Logan before he hit the ground but was out cold as he cradled him close to his chest. He looked so tiny, wrapped in Patton’s arms, trembling like a leaf as Patton sobbed at the sight of him. Covered his deep purple bruises, his skin awash with colours dark purples and blue, sickly yellows and browns  each one a reminder that this was his fault. He stroked his thumb across a slowly developing bruise on Logan’s cheekbone, a stark contrast to the frightening paleness of his skin. Patton didn’t want to think about the range of severe injuries which presumably lay hidden beneath Logan’s shirt, clinging to his feeble figure with sweat and rain water, his breaths came out in short, raspy pants and Patton had to bit his lip in order to prevent his wails from waking Logan.

How could anyone do this to a child as incredible, intelligent and brilliant as Logan, to any child for that matter. How long had Logan suffered in silence, masking pain, hiding his injuries. Was he hurting when Patton had taken him out for the day? During their meetings? Concealing more and more bruises, more and more being added each day Patton was not there. Patton had always imagined what Logan would look like deep in slumber, dreaming pleasant dreams, his furrowed brow disappearing completed and gentle smile stretched across his lips. But that was not the case. Harsh lines were etched into Logan’s forehead, his lips were down-turned, pulled tight, resembling a wince as he curled further in oh himself, pressing his body closer to Patton’s for warmth but his trembling only intensified.

“O-oh…Logan,” Patton whimpered brushing his cool, quivering fingertips through Logan’s sweaty fringe, running his nail across his scalp as Logan unconsciously leaned into the simple touch.

“Patton…Patton!” Maggie called out as she sprinted over to where Patton was knelt with Logan, not caring about the growing wetness staining his trousers. Her phone pressed to one ear as she spoke quickly into it, presumably to the Police. “H-how is he?”.

“Not...not good,” Patton stuttered tightening his hold on Logan, careful not to aggravate any of his injuries. Patton raked his eyes over Logan’s frame, searching for any obvious injuries, his left ankle was swollen, dark rings encircled both wrists and his right shoulder jutted out at an awkward angle but that only included what Patton could see. Logan needed serious medical attention.

“Get him to the hospital now!” Maggie demanded before continuing to talk into her phone. “I’ll deal with the Police. You just make sure he is safe,”.

“I will…I will,” Patton repeated. He would never leave Logan alone ever again. Patton stood, careful not to disturb Logan, one arm underneath his knees, the other secured around his waist. He was scarily light. Logan had always appeared thin, all sharp line and pointed edges - much like his personality - but now he was alarmingly skinny. Patton loathed to think of the sorts of punishments…that woman had inflicted onto him.

Patton carried Logan, cradling him close to his chest, to his car where he laid him down in the back seat, bundling him in warm blankets as he heard sirens in the distance. Madame Claire was going to get what was coming to her. Nobody messed with Patton’s family and got away with it. Nobody. Patton drove as carefully as humanly possible - now was not the time to get into an accident - given the circumstances, frequently glancing back to confirm Logan was still alive and breathing.

The drive to the hospital was the most frightening experience Patton had ever gone through in his life, listening intently to ever sound, every breath, every movement Logan made in his sleep. Time seemed to speed up when they arrived at the hospital. As Patton exited his car with Logan cradled in his arms, a medical team immediately surrounded him - he presumed Maggie had informed them of the situation - promptly took him somewhere Patton couldn’t follow. He waited anxiously in the general waiting room, pacing, back and forth, back and forth. He felt his phone buzz in his pocket, Emile most likely. He didn’t answer. Back and forth. Back and forth. Rubbing him hands up and down his arms, in attempt to rid them of the icy chill. He should be there with Logan. Waking up in a hospital he will be terrified. Logan needed him…He needed Logan. Just as Patton was preparing to go in search for Logan a nurse appeared.

“Patton Hart, Logan is stable now. Would you like to see him?” The nurse said with a comforting smile, Patton almost smiled back but the anxiety seized a hold again. Would Logan even want to see him? He left him alone there, in that horrible place. He allowed to get hurt for so long. He knew and he did nothing.

Patton trailed behind the nurse as she lead him through the winding corridors. Everything was so…white. The walls were white, the floor was white, the smell of disinfectant was potent in the air. Patton wasn’t fond of hospital. He had only ever been admitted a few times for…reasons but the uncomfortable pit of dread in his stomach only intensified when surrounded by the suffering contained within the white walls of the hospital. A pained cry snapped him out of his spiral as the wailing grew louder and louder, his heart clenching in pain as he forced his to walk past despite his desire to console whoever had received such heartbreaking news but Logan was his priority now.

Patton shoes squeaked with every steps as nurses and doctors rushed around him, answering calls, tending to patients, communicating in a secret dialect Patton could never hope to decipher. He used to want to be a doctor, he wanted to safe lives and ease some of the suffering in the world. His parents were so proud to have a future doctor as a son but things changed. His test scores didn’t match his level of effort and he fell short. He wasn’t smart enough, exams and test were a living nightmares and he was told to lower his expectations. ‘Aim lower’. ‘Strive for something more attainable’. ‘Isn’t there anything you want to do?’. Of course, his parents twisted their feedback into criticism. Berating him for his failings, certain he simply wasn’t trying hard enough, instead of praising him for his successes and encouraging him to better himself. During his final year, he finally gave up on his aspirations of becoming doctor, setting his sights on a much more manageable goal. Teaching. Patton’s parents made their disapproval of his chosen career path known but then he was all too quickly thrown out onto the streets for who he was as a person and the rest was history.

They eventually stopped outside a private room, void of any nurses or doctors, but Patton couldn’t find the courage to open the door. He stretched out a shaking hand towards the handle but retracted instantly as if the metal had burned him, fisting both hands into his shirt in order to conceal his internal turmoil but the nurse who stood by noticed his hesitation.

“It is alright, you can go be with him” She said opening the door for Patton, ushering him inside. “Doctor Hastings will be with you soon,”.

She disappeared down the corridor leaving Patton alone with Logan. He stood by the  door frozen in shock at the sight of Logan, dressed in a navy blue hospital robe, far too big for his thin frame, hooked up to an IV, supplying fluids into his malnourished body. He lay, peaceful in slumber, his chest rising and falling slowly with each breath, slowly returning to a correct rhythm. His bare arms were exposed, revealing a variety of new and old injuries, the display of bruises evidently more recent than the array of faint white scars and cigar burns amongst his sparse freckles. His wrists were bound in bandages and his left ankle poked out from beneath his blanket, elevated on a cushion, wrapped in similar dressings. Logan’s skin was still pale but whatever substances were being sent through his IV drip had returned some of the colour to his cheeks, which was good, but the bruises scattered across his skin stood out stark against his skin. Patches of fresh bruises crawling up his arms, peeking out from beneath his bandages, scattering across his collar bone. Splodges of purple and blue, yellow, green and brown. Both new and old, staining his skin. But when Patton glanced towards Logan’s chest, his hospital gown had slipped down to reveal a large scar stretching across his chest, it was raised and jagged, but when he approached for a better visual Patton felt his heart stop.

A word was carved into his chest.

Worthless.  

Patton froze at the foot of Logan’s bed, eyes fixated on the ugly scar branded on his mutilated skin. It hadn’t healed well, like the others. Faint, white lines, easily going unnoticed by an untrained eye. But this one screamed for attention. Discoloured, violating his body, its purpose was to be noticed. It was a brand. Marking Logan as his parents possession, training him to know his place, to know what he was. Worthless. Patton quickly banished the thought. Logan’s parents…those horrible people weren’t here any more. They couldn’t hurt him any longer, neither could Madame Claire. She would be justly punished for her actions and Logan would be free from her also. But Patton wasn’t stupid, he knew this wasn’t the end. Logan had face eight years of his parents abuse and spent four years tossed around the care system. Patton knew the signs and Logan exhibited all of them.

“Oh Logan,” Patton sighed leaning against the foot of Logan’s bed, not trusting himself to move any closer without completely falling apart.

“It’s horrible isn’t it?” A voice asked from behind him. Patton jolted at the sudden intrusion, he quickly turned to meet the gaze of a young man, sitting a few inches above himself. An air of familiarity surrounded him as Patton attempted to place hos soft expression, surrounded by a clean, well-kept head of dirty blonde curls, he recognised from…somewhere. He was dressed in a crisp white coat, not unlike the many he had seen on his journey through the many wings of the hospital to Logan’s room, suggesting he was Logan’s doctor. “I had hoped to never see him here again,”.

Patton was momentarily confused, both by the doctors statement and his familiarity. Had Patton perhaps met him before? He must have, sometime in his past.The gentle, comforting smile, perfect for such a profession. Previous memories flickered through his head, memories of a simpler time, a time when their only problems were pre-calculus or who you were going to ask to the Homecoming dance and the hottest scandal was the latest relationship which would promptly fizzle out within a few weeks. Patton thought of the majority of his childhood experiences as fond memories as they built the person he was today, despite the hardships he faced, he had made some of his greatest and most treasured friends during his time at school, including Emile. Patton met the amber eyes of the doctor once again and the wonderful realisation finally dawned upon him.

“Dane McKinnon, from school” Patton exclaimed as the name of his former classmate and friend throughout middle school and high school but Patton lost contact with many of his childhood friends after he was kicked out but the time he spent with his friends still remained cherished memories.

Dane was brilliant, he always had been. Striving for medical school since their Freshman year, Patton shared his aspirations in the beginning but where he failed Dane prospered with near perfect grades and a bright future ahead of him and clearly had reached his goal of becoming a doctor, white coat and everything.

“Patton Hart, though I have to say I am surprised you remember me,” Dane admitted with a grin which hadn’t changed from when they were children. “And it’s Hastings now,”. Dane lifted his left hand, to reveal a simple gold wedding band on his ring finger.

“Oh, you’re married. Congratulations, how long?” Patton asked barely containing his excitement. He couldn’t recall Dane ever having much of an interest in dating in high school, much to concerned with his studies and busy schedule for romance.

“Thank you Patton and it has almost been a year now,” Dane replied thumbing over his ring with a fond smile, “We actually meet through Logan, though I wish it could have been under better circumstances,”.

“You did mention you knew him,” Patton said the smile disappeared from his face as he recalled the severity of their situation and returned to the present.

“Yes, I was working as a resident here when Logan was brought in four years ago. It was a difficult night for everyone and because it was a high profile case police were everywhere. I was called in to help but Logan was so distraught, he would scream when anyone came close to him to try and help him. I came in then, my little sister used to have really horrible panic attacks so I knew how to deal with one, it took a while but he eventually calmed down enough to treat to his injuries. But there was so many of them and…that…scar, we tried to fix it so it wouldn’t scar as badly but I see that wasn’t the case,” Dane explained running a hand through his curls as his face shifted to a pained expression, upon recalling he unpleasant memory.

“I wasn’t aware of that. I do know a little of the case, though I’m not sure I want to know any more,” Patton admitted, glancing once again towards Logan. Watching every twitch, shift and breath as he slept, hopefully soundly.

“Yes, the police will be here soon. I am sure they will have some questions for you as well as for Logan,” Dane said regaining Patton’s attention but as he went to speak a moan interrupted him. Both swiftly turned to Logan, Dane approached his bedside as Logan slowly regained consciousness. “We’ll have to continue our catch-up later,”.

Logan woke slowly, eyes blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the change in light, but as they focused he jolted upwards, fear and panic evident on his face. A pained wince cut off his action as he had put pressure on his injured wrists in attempt to sit up and begrudgingly sank back into his pillows, but his eyes continued to move. Scanning his surroundings, searching for an indication of his location before his attention was directed onto Dane who stood by his bedside. Dane altered the position of the pillows, allowing Logan to sit up with ease.

“W-where am I?” Logan asked his voice hoarse from lack of use.

“You’re in hospital Logan. I am Doctor Hastings, we have met before though I’m sure you don’t remember me,” Dane said with a comforting smile as Patton simply watched, unsure of whether or not to speak up.

“I do remember you, You were there…on…that night,” Logan said averting his eyes to his lap where his hands tightly gripped his sheets, his knuckles growing white. Patton’s own hands itched to reach out, to wrap Logan into his arms where he could protect and watch over him, never allowing another bad thing to ever hurt him again but he remained routed in his position at the end of Logan’s bed.

“Yes I was. Now do remember anything that happened before you fell unconscious?” Dane asked taking out a small notebook and pen from the pocket of his coat.

“Some, it is hazy but I do believe I can recall some. I was trapped. I was trapped there. She wouldn’t let me out, I had to get out, so they logical explanation was to climb out of the window. I don’t remember much after that. Did I make it to the ground?” Logan inquired Patton and presumably Dane notice Logan purposely skipped over much of what happened, particularly the sections involving Madame Claire and what she did to him before he attempted to escape out of a second storey window.

“No you didn’t, to my knowledge I believe you slipped and passed out as you fell. You are lucky Patton was there to catch you or you could have suffered some serious injuries,” Dane explained pocketing the notebook seemingly finished with his questioning and for the first time since awakening Logan finally met Patton’s gaze. “You did though in fact suffer a fractured ankle, two badly sprained wrists, a couple of cracked ribs and severe bruising across your entire body which will all heal primarily on their own with enough rest but I will allow you to discuss those injuries with the police when they arrive,”.

“Alright,” Logan said refusing to look at anyone, instead staring at the IV injected into the crook of his elbow, following the tube with his eyes to the fluid bags hanging above him. Gently running his fingers over the area where the needle entered his skin, wincing when he pressed to hard. “What is this for?”.

“You are quite malnourished and severely dehydrated, it is probably why you collapsed. So, we are using fluids to treat that,” Dane said as Patton’s heart seized again. Malnourished. Dehydrated. They hadn’t been feeding him. Denying him food and water as a punishment which explained his rather frightening skinniness.

“That is understandable. I remember it has been a short while since I last ate,” Logan said nonchalantly and as if on cue his stomach emitted a large growl.

“I’ll have someone bring you…both of you something to eat and I’ll let you talk. I will returned when the Police arrive,” Dane said before patting Patton sympathetically on the shoulder and disappearing down the corridor, leaving Patton alone with Logan.    

Their food arrived a short while later, two packaged sandwiches - tuna salad for himself and a cheese and ham for Logan -, a portion of fruit, two jelly pots and two cartons to apple juice. They ate in silence. Patton didn’t have the courage to voice any of his speeches he had rehearsed in his head and Logan refused to meet his eye. Patton polished of his meal relatively quickly, he hadn’t realised how hungry he was until the food was placed in front of him and his stomach growled with such ferocity to shocked even himself but then he remember he hadn’t had dinner. Neither had his kids, Patton hoped Emile had prepared them something remotely healthy but Emile was hopeless in the kitchen and would most likely be having crofters on toast. Once Patton had finished his own food, he watched as Logan dissected his sandwich, methodically tearing it into several identical smaller pieces. Logan frowned as pieces of of cheese and ham touched his fingers and once the sandwich had been properly taken apart he began to eat, agonisingly slow in between long sips of juice and a few timid spoonfuls of jelly. When Logan pushed the plate away an perfect half of the sandwich still remained.

“Please Logan, can you eat just a little bit more?” Patton pleaded holding the plate out towards him, praying Logan would realise how severely starved for nutrients his body was and finish the remainder of the simple sandwich but Logan shook his head.

“I am full Patton, though I will be sure to eat another meal soon if it please you. Please do not worry,” Logan said. And Patton broke.

“Of course I am going to worry, do you have any idea how scary It was to see you like that passed out in my arms. I was terrified you were sick or worse…,” Patton exploded before cutting himself off, flushing, embarrassed by his outburst but Logan’s expression didn’t change. “I apologise for shouting,”.

“Where were you?” Logan demanded his gaze burning into Patton’s. He knew exactly what Logan was referring to. Their session. They were supposed to meet this morning like they had done regularly for the past month and a half. But Patton cancelled, Virgil needed him, he left Logan a message apologising and immediately made an appointed to visit the following day. The message never reached Logan’s ears. He believed Patton had betrayed his trust, broken his promise and left him like so many others. He had a right to be mad.

“I had an emergency at home, I know there is no excuse but I do not want to lie to you,” Patton said hanging his head, tracing his fingertips over the soft fabric of his cardigan.

“I was under the impression you did not want to see me again,” Logan said after an elongated pause, his voice soft and barely audible over the general sounds of the hospital.

“Oh Logan, did she tell you that?” Patton asked Madame Claire had put those nasty, self-deprecating thoughts in his head, reprogramming his mind like a machine into believing he did not deserve love or kindness. “I’m so sorry Logan,”.

“It is alright,” Logan said but Patton wouldn’t allow it.

“No, it isn’t alright. You are allowed to be mad Logan. You should be mad at me. All of this happened because of me!” Patton exclaimed it was his fault and he should be held accountable.

“No! Patton I will not have you lying to yourself. This happened because Madame Claire is a malicious and vindictive woman, who abused her authority and took a wicked sense of pleasure in the suffering of those she deemed beneath her. This is in no way your fault!” Logan shouted his expression instantly changed from unreadable indifference to explosive fury in a matter of seconds, shocking Patton into submission.

“Okay,” Patton whispered as the silence returned once again, settling heavily over the pair for a short while before Logan decided to break it.

“Why are you wearing you cardigan today instead of tying it around your shoulders?” Logan asked the blaring redness finally settling down as he changed the subject in a very Logan manner.

“I needed the extra comfort today,” Patton admitted he had, had the cardigan for so long and worn it through many difficult times within his life, he couldn’t imagine going through his day without it.

“I’m sorry,” Logan said glancing down towards his hands

“Why are your apologising?” Patton asked.

“You are sad because of me,” Logan replied.

“No, I am sad because this happened to you,” Patton said reaching out tentatively, placing a hand a top Logan, allowing his hands to warm Logan’s cold ones.

“Oh,” And they were both silent once again, unlike the previous awkward, heavy silence this one was comfortable, nothing needed to be said and they simply enjoyed each others presence.

Though they were interrupted a short while later by Dane’s return with another man Patton assumed to be the detective working on Logan’s case. He was shorter than Dane, perhaps only a inch taller than Patton himself. He casually ran a hand through his mop of dark brown hair, sweeping it out of his eyes, which were hidden behind a pair of square framed glasses. He was dressed professionally in a shirt and dress pants combination, matched with a long black trench-coat, badges hanging from his pockets. He appeared to be a lot younger than Patton initially expected, with a surprisingly youthful demeanour as he smiled brightly as he spoke to Dane who returned the grin.

“Patton, Logan. This is Detective Simon Hastings,” Dane announced with a knowing grin and suddenly their familiarity made much more sense. Patton snuck a glance towards Simon’s hand and his theory was proven to be correct, they shared the same ring. Simon Hastings was the mysterious husband. “He also worked on Logan’s case four years ago,”.

“Hey Logan, he have got to stop meeting like this. It is nice to meet you too Mr Hart,” Simon said with a wide, toothy grin as he approached where he and Logan sat as Dane left, promising to returned shortly, but Patton noted the barely visible strain to Simon’s smile and the slight tremble of his hands. He was nervous but why? “Logan, I’ll need you to answer some questions for me. Do you want Patton to stay?”.

“He can stay,” Logan said Patton gave Logan’s hand a light squeeze in response and refused to move his hand, allowing it to remain for emotional support as Logan would be asked to recall the abuse he suffered.

The questions came and Patton wanted to cry as Logan retold every account of abuse he faced within the walls of the Orphanage, at the hands of Madame Claire. Physical beatings, emotional torture, starvation. Her wickedness truly knew no bounds. Starting two years ago when she first sunk her claws into Logan, claiming him as her victim, continuing throughout his time at the Orphanage. He retold every encounter in frightening detail, reacting as if he were reliving the memories. Shuddering as he spoke of the punishments. Physically wincing as he remembered the pain, the injuries, the aftermath, Every hateful word she spoke to him. And he faced all of it alone. At first Logan answered Simon’s questions with ease, answering each one precisely so too be useful to the investigation but as time progressed and as the questions became more and more personal Logan grew quieter, going into less detail, curling in his on himself, tightening his grip on Patton’s hand, to the point of pain. Patton noticed the change immediately, the tremble present in his hands were they gripped Patton’s, a shuddered shot through his shoulders as he recounted yet another painful memories, his breathing grew laboured as he struggled through the next round of questioning but refused to stop despite his evident distress.

“Now Logan I understand this may be a difficult question but I need you to tell me what happened last night before you tried to Spiderman your way out of a second storey window,” Simon asked adding a little humour to lighten the mood, Patton gave a half-hearted chuckle but Logan didn’t react.

“She…she…I was trapped…I was…trapped trapped…I was there again…I couldn’t get out…she wouldn’t let me out…I had to get out,” Logan stammered his breathing now sporadic, his hands flew to his hair, tugging on his curls, pressing his palms into his eyes like he was attempting to force back tears. Logan sank his teeth into his bottom lip, cutting off his breathless rambling, biting back a sob but Patton saw right through his facade. Logan was having a panic attack.

“Logan, Logan I need you to look at me please,” Patton said softly as Logan shook his head, keeping his hands placed firmly over his eyes. Emile’s advice repeating in his head, talking him through each step. First. Allow him to come to you. Second. If they are okay with contact move him into a position where he can’t hurt himself. Third. Initiate the breathing technique. “Can I touch you?”.

Logan emitted a high-pitched whine and jerked his head into an action resembling a nod so Patton took that as his answer, he reached out coaxing Logan’s hands out of his hair and into his own. Logan eyes were still firmly squeezed shut but he hadn’t pulled away and his breathing had even slowed a bit but not nearly enough.

“Good, now Logan I am going to walk you through a breathing routine. Okay, I am going to move your hands now. Just follow my breathing,” Patton explained taking Logan’s hands pressing them against his chest, before extending his own hand towards Logan, resting on his chest, able to feel the frantic pounding of his heart beneath his hands. “I am going to count for you okay, follow the pattern. You are safe here,”.

Patton counted aloud the 4-7-8 breathing pattern Emile had taught him for dealing with Virgil’s panic attacks, following along, encouraging Logan to the same. He started off shaky at first but after a seven or eight rounds of the exercise his breathing eventually evened out, in sync with Patton’s, he slumped against the pillows clearly exhausted by the attack withdrawing his hands. Patton dropped his from Logan’s chest, instead resting it on Logan’s thigh, rubbing comforting circles into the muscle as Logan struggled to remain conscious.

“I realise this is difficult more you Logan but I swear to you she will not get away with this and will be punished for what she did to you,” Simon promised before pocketing his notebook and standing. “I’ll let you get some rest, but I do have some questions for you too Mr Hart,”.

Patton nodded, preparing to leave with Simon. Logan had already drifted off for some much needed rest, Patton adjusted the blanket, tucking it beneath his chin. Silently promising to return as soon as possible before leaving with Simon. Then came the question. How long had he known Logan? What did he know about Madame Claire? Did he know about the abuse beforehand? It was exhausting, retelling all of the signs Logan showed that Patton didn’t notice until was to late. Was this what Logan felt reliving all of his abuse? Thankfully, Simon’s questioning didn’t take long and once he had exhausted his list of questions, they merely stood outside of Logan’s hospital room in silence but Patton couldn’t help but notice Simon’s quivering fingertips which seemed to have intensified since listening to Logan’s story.

“Are you alright, Detective Hastings?” Patton asked with a warm smile, hoping to coax Simon out of his shell, Patton had been told on numerous occasions he was good at that sort of thing.

“Just call me Simon and I’m fine,” Simon replied hiding his hands behind his back and averting his gaze to the floor, clear indicators that he was not in fact fine.

“It is okay if you aren’t, you appeared nervous when talking to Logan,” Patton stated moving slowly to place a hand on Simon’s forearm, who flinched at first before leaning in, allowing the contact.

“You are quite perceptive,” Simon said.

“I get that a lot, you can talk to me if you like,” Patton suggested rubbing circles into Simon’s forearm.

“I hate cases like this,” Simon sighed burying his face into his hand. Patton could tell he was purposely being vague but it was a start. Patton guessed in Simon’s profession emotions weren’t commonly discussed.

“Simon, Patton!” A voice called out from behind them, both turned to see Dane walking towards, next to him Simon released a sigh of relief as he met Dane half-way, dropping his forehead to rest on Dane’s shoulder. “Are you okay?”.

“I am now you’re here,” Simon murmured into Dane chest and the pieces of puzzle clicked together in Patton’s mind as he watched their interaction with fond eyes. A small smile crept onto Patton’s face as Dane buried his face into Simon’s unruly curls, pressing soft kisses into his hair.

“You are okay, you are safe. I love you so much,” Dane said into hair, giggling at the blush which appeared across Simon’s face. Patton suddenly felt like he was intruding on a private moment, so crept away, returning to Logan’s bedside. Watching over him as he slept peacefully and that was where he remained until Logan woke the following morning.

In that time, Patton made himself a promise. He would never leave Logan alone again.    

Notes: Can you tell I don’t know anything about hospitals?

Also Dane and Simon are my OCs and I would love to talk about them, if you would like to listen. So please let me know if you would like some headcanons for them.

Tag List: @poems-art-darkness-n-more @i-do-not-dislike-fudge @alex-cain @darkrainbow333 @amber1594 @falseh0od @lovingcreatorstrawberry @mason-does-a-thing @callboxkat @tacohippy56900 @anxiousangel121 @comicsimpson @harrypotternerdprincess @cobythinks @whatschooldoesntteachyou @fandomkitty8 @coloursintheblur @read-write-inspire-repeat @clinicalawesomeness @deceit-sanders-deserved-better @scared-ghosthunter

If you would like to be added to the tag list or have a question about the series please do not hesitate to ask.

[sadpoemsandsteverogers]

thinking about you ↬ tommy shelby

A/N: this one’s a bit of a downer, but it has a happy ending. not a song fic, but loosely based on the song “thinking about you” by ariana grande. the song has dual meanings, and i’m gonna be using the sadder meaning of the song. flashbacks are in italics. i don’t know how i feel about this imagine, but i fell in love with this song and it’s such a good song. if you want to listen to it, you can find it here. hope you enjoy. Warnings: kind sad, talk of sickness, heartbreak, language. Word Count: 2.8k+

~

The lightning outside cracked just like your voice: loud and shaky. The thunder rolled afterwards and it shook the house, similar in the way your sobs wracked your body. You were scared, but not of the storm that was outside. Your heart felt heavy like the rain, and it made you go insane. The physical pain that you felt, all caused by emotion, shocked you. 

Arguments are normal in marriage. They don’t happen often, and just because you have one doesn’t mean divorce is in your future. But this time, you really messed it up. 

Tommy is as stubborn as a wild mustang. He runs by his own rules and rears his head when reins are attempted to be put on him. He never listened to anyone, only heading wisdom from the other wild mustangs he called family. So when he stormed out of the house, you weren’t surprised, as that’s what he normally did when you fought. He didn’t want to hurt you or do something irrational, so he ran. 

You were more surprised at yourself. You’d said some things that you weren’t proud of, they were words that you never even considered saying. Words that if said to you, would crush your soul. So how could you assume they wouldn’t hurt Tommy?

Ten minutes after he left, the storm started. And it didn’t stop. It didn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop. It had been going on for seven hours, and it was well into the early hours of the morning. You brought your legs closer to your chest, tears pouring and never ceasing. You had tried your best to stop crying, and for a short time, you did. You had decided to come downstairs and get a glass of water, your throat was dry and you couldn’t sleep. His words and yours replayed in your head. If there was one thing you had trouble doing, it was forgiving yourself. You knew you weren’t gonna let this go, you couldn’t. Not as long as things were up in the air like this. All you could think about was Tommy, and the fact that you missed him. You longed for him. Where the hell was he? It began to worry you, as he’d been gone for quite some time. It was two a.m., and the storm was showing no signs of stopping.

So that’s how you ended up clutching your knees to your chest, crying next to the stairs. You didn’t have the energy to make it up them. All you could think about was how much you needed Tommy. You could hear his calming voice in your ear, the way his tone was low but how it rose the tiniest bit when he laughed. The ways he smiled: the smile he got when he was with his family, the way he smiled before he was about to hurt someone, and the way he smiled when he looked at you.

It made your stomach and your heart ache. 

You just wanted him home, but a part of you knew that you couldn’t wait until then. You tried your hardest to calm down and stop crying, just like you had multiple times over the past few hours. You just couldn’t. To most, it looked weak, seeing a woman in such a distraught state over a man. But you grew out of that phase in your life. You loved him, and you’d be damned if you didn’t let the world know. You knew you were strong, and Tommy made you stronger. But without him, a small part of that strength left you. 

You had tried to make it through the night without crying, but it was impossible to control your mind, which whirled in a frenzy. All you could think about was the way the skin around Tommy’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and the way his eyes held everything he felt, the way he would admire the sunrise, never telling anyone how much he adored those silent times in the morning. The way his hand curled around a whiskey tumbler, the way his jaw would set when he saw something he didn’t like, the feel of his calloused hands against the small of your back, and how you felt when he looked at you.

There was nobody like him, there was nobody who knew you like he did. He was the only man you loved, and knew you loved. Not because you felt pressured to court him or marry him, but because you wanted to. Even if it had been a business transaction (something you both enjoy joking about among yourselves), you wanted to. You loved him, and you weren’t ashamed of it. 

No man knew the curves of your body like he did, no man knew about the tiny injuries that left fading scars. No one knew about the way you liked it when his thumb stroked your hip as he held you. No one knew about the things that made you break down into tears, the things that made you laugh until you were crying. No one knew them like he did. He knew it all, and he remembered it all. He knew just how to make your eyes roll and your back arch. Tommy just knew. 

He was like an ocean, and ocean you’d submerged yourself into. The water was cold at first, but the father down you swam, the more comfortable the waters became and the more treasures you discovered. Sometimes you had to come back up for air, but you would just tread water as you took in the fresh air.The air smelled like Tommy, and it was all you needed. He was the trouble waters and the calm waters. He made waves, some small and some large.

You just wanted him back. You craved the sound of his voice and the feeling of his arms around you. It was like torture, but you couldn’t stop it. Every second he was gone was another second you couldn’t admit that you were wrong. Another second you couldn’t apologize. 

Another wave of tears crashed past your waterline as you thought about the words you’d said to him.

“You act like I’m property, Tommy. And I’m not. You act like you’re this perfect man, when you’re not. You’re broken. You’re broken and you’re insecure. You have an ugly heart. There are plenty of men out there who are better than you in every single way, and yet I’m stuck here with you.”

A strangled sob left your mouth. You’d driven him away with your selfish words. Of course he was broken, but he didn’t have an ugly heart. You weren’t stuck with him, you consciously chose to love him every single day, and you didn’t plan on stopping. But the awful words you’d said made it sound the exact opposite of your intentions.

You didn’t want any other man, and you knew that. You knew that as well as you knew your address and as well as you knew that the earth was round. You wanted one man, and his name was Thomas Shelby.

Your thoughts began to overwhelm you. What if he was leaving you? For good? What if you drove him away? What if that was the last time you’d see him? He certainly hated you for your words, but how much? Was he going to come back? Did he find someone new already? Was this it? 

You could barely breathe. You pushed yourself off the ground, doing your best to stay quiet so you wouldn’t wake the maids as you sneaked through the house. You opened the back door quietly, slipping out of it and shutting it behind you. The storm outside was as angry as you were heartbroken. The wind was whipping this way and that, causing your red evening gown (which you hadn’t bothered to change out of) to change direction every few seconds. The lightning was far off over the tree line, but striking dangerously close to the trees. It would only move closer. 

Your bare feet hit the ground as you stepped off the small porch. You headed towards the small hill that was home to a giant oak tree, which had a swing hanging up off of it. Whenever you needed time to think, time to breathe and clear your mind, you went up and sat on the swing and thought.

Granted, it was a crazy rainstorm and the lightening was only travelling closer and closer to where you were, but you didn’t care. It was a reckless move, but you felt alone and just needed to be alone. 

Your hair stuck to your skin and so did your dress. The bottom was covered in mud, and you were sure the makeup had run down your face, but that was probably from your crying. The rain hit your face harshly, but you didn’t care. It was cool, a stark contrast to the heat of your tears and your body temperature. 

As you sat on the swing, the rain began to pour harder. The thunder rolled louder and the lightening cracked even harsher. And just like the storm that surrounded you, the storm inside of you became even more intense. Tears welled up behind your eyes again, and you let them run free. Your chest was heaving from the worrisome thoughts that swelled in your head. Your heart began to physically hurt, from all the emotion. Your cries of anguish were lost in the storm, the storm which was so loud that you couldn’t hear the sound of the car pulling towards the mansion. 

“I’ve lost him.” you whispered to yourself. “I lost him.”

Tommy took his hat off, throwing it on a nearby table. The rain made it extremely dangerous to drive in, but he didn’t care. He needed to get back to you. As he made his way up the stairs, he could barely restrain himself from calling out your name. As badly as you hurt him, he’d said some things to you that surely left a mark. He wanted nothing more than to apologize and hold you again. 

“You were flirting with him!” Tommy fumed.

“I was engaging in conversation with him!” you defended yourself, but it didn’t work. Just like it hadn’t worked for the past half an hour.

“Oh, please. You were acting like a whore. You always are. All you do is talk to other men and throw yourself at them, just like a whore.” 

His head hung in shame as he reached your bedroom door. It was slightly ajar, and Tommy expected to find you inside of it. So you could imagine his surprise when you weren’t there. 

Did you leave? Had you left him? His mind began to race just as quickly as his heart. 

He noticed movement outside the bedroom window, which caused him to move towards it. He had to squint to see through the borderline torrential rain, and his eyes quickly widened once he realized the movement. It was you.

“Bloody hell.” he mumbled, racing back down the stairs. He headed towards the back door, ripping off his jacket and tossing it on a chair in the kitchen. The back door was opened and left opened carelessly, Tommy running through it. 

Your back was to him, and you had no idea he was even home. You were watching the lightning travel and closer and closer, it was at least fifty feet away. It hadn’t helped your tears stop, instead just brought even more on. It grew to a point where you felt ridiculous with how much you’d been crying, but you couldn’t help it. 

Tommy stood at the bottom of the small hill for a few seconds, watching the way your shoulders shook. You were still in the evening dress that you’d been wearing hours before, which broke Tommy’s heart even more. You hadn’t changed, which meant you hadn’t slept, which meant you hadn’t stopped thinking about it. About what he said. The harsh, untrue words he spit in his fit of jealousy and insecurity. 

“Y/N!”

His voice made your rapidly beating heart slow for a few seconds. You looked over your shoulder, and your heartbeat sped up again. He was making his way up the muddy hill, rain soaking his hair and his clothes. 

“Y/N,” he began, kneeling so he was able to look up at you, “what are you doing out here? Are you crazy? You could get hypothermia or consumption!” his voice was raised, but only in concern. He’d already lost Grace, and Greta... he couldn’t lose you, too. His eyes searched yours, and he noticed how they were rimmed with red. Looking back at him, you noticed his were just the same. The lightening was nearing and crackling louder and louder. 

“I’m sorry.” you mumbled. Tommy could barely hear you speak over the sound, but he noticed the tears that formed in your eyes, and his heart was about ready to split into two. “I’m so sorry, Tommy.” 

He stood up, pulling you into his arms. “It’s okay, love. We’ll talk about it when we get inside.” 

He wrapped his arm around you, leading you down the hill. The silence wasn’t toxic and heated, but comforting and loving. 

He’d led you up to your room, shutting the door behind you. He watched as you sat on the end of the bed, a somber look in your eyes. Tommy unbuttoned his dress shirt, taking it off. He watched you carefully, looking for signs of sickness. 

“I’m sorry.” you said again, your eyes drifting up to meet his.

Tommy continued removing his wet clothes, casting them onto the chair of your vanity. He took your hand, pulling you to your feet. He began to unbutton your dress, his eyes focused on the work his hands were doing. “I’m sorry, too.” his voice was quiet. “I shouldn’t have called you a whore. You are not a whore, and I know that. I was jealous and...” he paused, getting ready to admit that you were right, “insecure.” He let your dress fall to the ground, and you stepped out of it, turning to face him.

“I shouldn’t have said those horrible things to you, Thomas.” your eyes met, your words sincere. “Your heart is not ugly. It’s scarred and cracked, but it’s not ugly. It’s big, Thomas. It’s truly beautiful how much you love me and how you never fail to show it. I shouldn’t have said that there are men out there that are better than you. You’re the only man that I love, only man I have loved, and the only man I will continue to love until I’m dead.”

Your words almost made him cry. His voice was shaky as he spoke, “But you were right. I am broken. I treat you like property, and it’s because I’m insecure. I’m worried you’re going to leave me and I don’t want that to happen. There are many men better than me and I can’t deny that.”

His words were making you cry, again. You could see the contempt that he had for himself. “Thomas, you’re broken, and that’s okay. It’s my job as your wife to help you pick up those pieces, and watch you glue them back together.” his eyes looked away from yours, and you took his face it your hands. “Hey, hey. I’m not going to leave you, Tommy. I will never leave you.”

He placed his hands on your hips, his thumbs gently stroking the naked skin. “I’m not going to leave you either, darling. I’m so sorry. I’m so grateful that you’re here, and that you’re my wife.” 

The confessions you spoke were the kind that only happened when two people bared their souls to one another. It was raw and honest, it was admitting when they were wrong and not shoving it in one another’s faces. As the two of you stood, naked, in each other’s arms, you both knew it would be okay. You had bared your souls and yourselves, a bond that you couldn’t break even if you tried.

“I love you so much, Tommy.” you whispered.

He smiled, leaning his forehead to touch hers. “I love you more, Y/N.” He backed you towards the edge of the bed, your bodies falling back onto the mattress. Your lips grazed one another’s, smiles on both your faces. “You know, you could’ve gotten sick.” Tommy pointed out.

“I just... needed a place to think. I couldn’t stop thinking about you.” you admitted. 

“You still seem cold.” Tommy pointed out.

“I am.” 

A small smirk crossed his face. “The only thing that could help that is body heat, or so I’ve heard.” 

You let out a small giggle, rolling your eyes. “Well then get under the covers and hold me, Mr. Shelby.” 

He obeyed your orders, smiling as he did so. His arms wrapped around your waist and yours wrapped around his neck. “Is this to your liking, Mrs. Shelby?”

You nodded, biting your lip. It was silence for a few more moments, until you spoke. “Thomas, what did you do while you were gone?”

“I went and had a few drinks, and then I sat in the car and cried.” he fell silent again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, either. I never stop thinking about you.”

[greysfanpage388]

Elevator Hug ( repost)

As requested by @ameliashepherdgoeshunting , I’m reposting the Elevator Hug series.  I think some of you have mentioned before that this series is your favorite. So enjoy reading/ re-reading! <3 :D 

 Prompt: Can you write a little fic where Owen takes Amelia home after that Elevator scene, and she lets him? Love your writing!

 P.s. So in this fic of mine- Owen doesn’t walk away from her like he did on the show.

Amelia Shepherd blinked back tears as she stood outside the hospital nursery with Arizona Robbins. The scene playing out in front of them was just too painful to watch. Alex, being the good colleague he was, and claiming that he was the first one among them to have met Veronica- had offered to break the news to Jeremy. Amelia would have helped to deliver the bad news- but she didn’t think she would be able to keep herself together to deliver the news. Muttering an excuse to Arizona, she strode towards the elevator, with the intention of getting to the attending lounge without running into any familiar faces on the way. Her shift was thankfully over, and she just really wanted to go home.  

 As soon as she stepped into the elevator and found herself alone, Amelia broke down. She had been holding back tears as she didn’t want to cry in front of her colleagues. No, she was a tough, strong woman, she would never show any signs of weakness in front of others.

 She mourned for Veronica and Jeremy- the couple who should have had it all. They both were suppose to raise their son together. And now, Jeremy had to raise their son alone. Life wasn’t fair indeed. Veronica should have been alive to experience motherhood. She had been cruelly taken away from Jeremy and their son.

She cried over the fact that she couldn’t save Veronica. Even though she knew that there was nothing that she could have possibly done- she hated this feeling - of not being in control of things, of being powerless and unable to save a life.

She grieved over the fact that the baby, the tiny, perfect, adorable little baby boy, would grow up without a mother. How cruel the universe was- to make an innocent little baby motherless on his first day of life.

Most of all, she cried with fear over the fact that the baby that she was carrying, her and Owen’s baby which was conceived just shortly before her fear got in between them, might not turn out to be healthy.

Her mind began to play the ‘if only’ game. If only Veronica hadn’t gotten cancer, she and Jeremy would be happily staring down at their son and admiring his perfect features in the postnatal room right now.

If only her firstborn son was still alive. He’d be 5 years old now, running around, maybe kicking a ball or getting dirty somewhere, giving her a hard time catching up with his constant energy. And maybe Owen would teach him how to fish and how to play soccer.

If only she could be certain that the baby she was carrying now- her and Owen’s baby- was healthy.

Owen. Although she hated to admit it- he was another reason that contributed to her emotional breakdown today. He obviously loved her and cared for her so much, and yet she kept on pushing him away. She knew it wasn’t fair for him. He was so kind, caring, loving and thoughtful towards her. He didn’t deserve this. But she couldn’t help it.

The truth was- she was scared. She was afraid that if she bared her entire soul to him and exposed the deepest secrets and scars of her past to him, he would leave her. She was carrying with her an excess amount of baggage from her past, and the last thing she wanted was to impose it on him too. No, she was Amelia Shepherd, she was a strong woman and she could handle it alone.

Except now she couldn’t. As she continued sobbing in the elevator, she couldn’t help but think of the fact that she had made the wrong decision to distance herself and her baby from Owen. Veronica and Jeremy had waited for too long to declare their love for each other, and now it was too late. Veronica was gone forever, and nothing could bring her back. Had they both discovered that they actually loved each other earlier- they could have shared many beautiful years together before Veronica’s death. And now, she was wasting precious time by running away from Owen when he could experience this pregnancy with her. It wasn’t right, she realized - to keep a baby away from their father.

 As her thought drifted back to Owen, she suddenly realized something. It might be too late for Jeremy and Veronica, but it wasn’t too late for her and Owen. They both were still alive and well, and they both had an entire future ahead of them. The one thing she learnt from seeing patients die everyday was the fact that life was too short. If time was so precious, then why was she wasting it running away from a man who obviously loved her?

 Maybe, just maybe she should go and talk to Owen and apologize to him for running away like that. The problem was, she was a naturally stubborn person and didn’t like to admit her own shortcomings. It would take a lot of courage for her to do that. As tears continued rolling down her cheeks- she wondered what she should do. She had never felt this small and helpless before.

The elevator dinged and stopped, signalling that the door was about to open and someone was about to step into the elevator. Amelia quickly tried to regain her composure, wiping the tears from her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to be caught by a colleague or even a nurse crying in the hospital elevator. She knew that gossip travelled fast in the hospital , and she didn’t want to be the central topic.

As if on cue- like he knew she had been thinking about him, the elevator door opened to reveal Owen Hunt.

Realizing that there was no one else with him, Amelia couldn’t hold up her strong facade anymore as her face scrunched. Owen….just the person she needed at the moment.

There were no words that needed to be exchanged between them.

Owen just needed one glance at Amelia to know that she wasn’t ok and was on the verge of breaking down. Without any hesitation, as if acting on reflex, Owen rushed over to Amelia and engulfed her in a warm, comforting embrace. He didn’t know exactly what was going through her mind and the exact emotions that she was feeling at that moment. He didn’t even know what to say to her. But what he did know was that she was hurting and needed his support at that moment. So he held her, holding her close to his chest. Gosh how he missed her so! As he pulled her closer so that there was no gap in between them- he thought he felt a soft buldge of her belly. Her belly was usually flat, so this was unusual. Maybe she had put on some weight since the last time he held her.. Knowing that this was not the right time to be asking these sort of questions - he remained silent , hugging her tight instead.

Feeling the warmth and comfort of Owen’s hug- Amelia finally let her guard down and sobbed in his arms, releasing the wave of emotions she had kept pented up inside her for so long. She wept and wept in his arms, sobbing for Veronica and Jeremy and their baby, sobbing for her unicorn baby, for this baby she was currently carrying, for Owen, for herself. She sobbed over the fact that the universe wasn’t fair and always snatched people away from their loved ones. But most of all, she cried over the fact that she felt so guilty for walking away from a man who loved her and didn’t deserve her cold shoulder.

Owen pressed the emergency stop button of the elevator and the elevator came to a complete stop. He continued holding Amelia in his arms as she sobbed and sobbed, wetting his labcoat in the process. He didn’t care. All he knew was that he had to be there for his wife, to comfort and support her. Owen just held Amelia wordlessly as her sobs gradually reduced into sniffles.

Finally, as he realized she had calmed down, he lifted her head up so their eyes met. Her watery eyes showed fear and sorrow in them.

‘Feeling better now?’ he asked gently.

She nodded wordlessly in reply.

‘ You need a moment to recollect yourself before you continue work?�� he asked. ‘I’ll bring you to on call room where you can rest. I’ll inform Kepner and my residents to page Nelson instead.’he offered.

‘ I’m fine. I’m going home, actually. My shift just ended. I need to change to my street clothes first.’ she replied in a shaky voice.

‘ Do you need a lift home?’ Owen asked.

Amelia nodded. ‘ Yes please.’ she replied in a small voice.

She had followed Meredith to the hospital in the morning and she was not in the mood to wait for either of her sisters. Neither of them were finishing their shifts anytime soon and all she wanted to do was to go home.

 ______________________________________________________________

They drove home in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. Amelia looked out of the window- trying to avoid eye contact with Owen. It had been an exhausting day, losing a patient was mentally and emotionally exhausting. Also, she just didn’t have the energy left apologize to her husband and explain to him why she left. That would have to wait because all she could think of at the moment was a warm shower and her comfortable bed. The crying was therapeutic though, she was feeling surprisingly better after the good cry she had in the elevator.

As they reached a traffic light- Owen stole a glance at his wife. She looked pale and crestfallen, which broke his heart. He had no idea what caused her grief, and he really wished he could help her. If only she would open up to him and let him help.

As his eyes inadvertly travelled downwards, he thought he could see a slight buldge of her lower abdomen beneath the leather jacket she was wearing. It could be due to the fact that the jacket was bulky though- he wasn’t sure.

In that instant- Owen knew what to do. As the traffic light turned green- he turned left instead of turning right to Meredith’s house.

‘ Owen- where are you going? I said I wanted to go home.’Amelia asked alarmed.

‘ You are going home, Amelia. Home with me.’ Owen said softly but firmly. He had enough of her running away from him. She was coming home with him, whether she liked it or not.

‘ But….all my belongings are in Meredith’s house!’ she protested weakly.

The truth was- it was just an excuse as she was afraid of going back home to face him. She did have some clothes left at her and Owen’s place and they both knew it.

‘ I’ll ask Meredith to bring your belongings over later.’Owen said matter of factly.

Amelia leaned back against the passenger car seat, defeated. She was too tired to argue with him. Besides, the prospect of a long warm shower in the privacy of her own bedroom and sleeping on her own big comfortable bed seemed so appealing at that moment.

She stared out of the car window, watching the other cars, pedestriansand shops pass by.

‘ Amelia’ Owen demanded, as soon as they reached another traffic light‘ Look at me.’

She finally looked at him and their eyes met.

‘ Just talk to me.’ he said. ‘ You’ve been running from me and avoiding me. I just want to know why. I know there’s something bothering you lately- if you would just tell me exactly what it is I can help you. I can’t help you if you don’t let me in.’

‘ I lost a patient today.’ Amelia said softly. ‘ She had cancer and she died shortly after giving birth.’

‘ Oh I’m so sorry Amelia.’ Owen said sincerely. He knew how invested in her job Amelia was and how much she cared for her patients. Of course this would affect her deeply.

‘ Wanna talk about it?’ he offered.

‘ No.’Amelia answered. ‘ I’m sorry Owen- I’m so tired. All I want to do now is to take a shower and go to bed.’

‘ Well ok then.’ Owen nodded. He understood. There were times when he felt super exhausted after a shift as well. He would let her rest first. And then when she woke up refreshed, they would talk.

They continued the rest of the journey in silence until they reached their home.

________________________________________________________________

As Amelia walked into her own house for the first time in 3 months- she looked around and realized that everything was just the same as it had been. Owen had not moved a single thing from its original position. It was as if she never left. As she shrugged off her jacket, she suddenly realized how much she missed home.

Owen watched his wife as she removed her jacket to reveal a tiny bump in her midsection. He could swear that it wasn’t there before- but then again she had always been wearing labcoats at work lately and that covered it up. Furthermore, maybe she had put on some weight lately. He still wasn’t sure.

Amelia trodded directly upstairs to their bedroom without a word, leaving Owen alone in the sitting room.

He flipped through the TV channels distractedly, unable to find a suitable TV program to watch.

After an hour or so, he realized that Amelia wasn’t going to come back downstairs.

Sighing, he turned off the TV and headed upstairs to their bedroom, where he found her fast asleep, curled up under the covers of their comfortable bed.

He shook his head as he slid under the covers of his side of the bed. He had to admit he was really annoyed by her behavior, of her totally shutting herself away from him. At the same time he knew that something was really bothering her and she was afraid to talk about it. He really hoped that they would be able to talk about it the next day.

 ____________________________________________________________

 The next morning, Owen was awakened by the sound of retching coming from their bathroom.

He rushed to the bathroom to find Amelia hunched over the toilet bowl, throwing her gut contents out. Instinctively, he pulled her hair to the back and rubbed her back gently in smooth circular motions, until she had nothing left to throw up.

Amelia groaned weakly as she flushed the toilet and rinsed her mouth in the sink, certain that Owen now knew her secret.

Owen lifted her up and carried her, gently placing her on the bed.

‘ You ok?’ he asked concerned as he made her lie down and placed the blankets over her. She nodded meekly.

‘ How long have you been ill?’ he asked. Maybe she had caught a strong bug from a patient. He would have to call Bailey and inform her that Amelia wouldn’t be coming in that morning.

‘ For 2 months, every morning.’ she answered, hoping that he would get the hint.

Owen’s eyes widened as he connected the dots. The tiny bump wasn’t due to his imagination or her weight gain after all.

His first instinct was to jump for joy. This was what he wanted, a family. And now his dream was about to come true. But seeing Amelia’s expression, he contained himself, knowing she didn’t exactly share his sentiments. She had fear showing in her eyes.

Amelia sat upright now, feeling much better after having thrown up. She looked at Owen in the eye, knowing that now is the time to be totally open to him and to tell him every single thing. It was now or never.

‘How far along are you?’he asked cautiously- trying to hide his emotions for her sake.

‘ 4 months.’she answered, her heart pounding.. ‘ 18 weeks. It must have happened not too long before I .. left. I took the test too early. I took another test a few weeks later when my period still hadn’t come and it was positive.’

Owen struggled to find the exact words to say to her. Under normal circumstances, had they still been happily married- he would’ve sported a wide grin on his face as he hugged her joyfully. But judging from the terrified look on her face and the fact that she had just returned home after staying away from him for a few months, he knew that it wasn’t the appropriate response.

‘ And I’m due for my next ultrasound tomorrow. Arizona is going to perform a detailed scan, and I’m scared.’she added, when Owen remained silent.

‘ Why are you scared?’Owen asked as he looked at her, hoping that this question would pave the way for Amelia to open up to him.

Amelia took a deep breath as she gathered the courage to finally tell Owen everything she had been hiding from him all this while.

‘ I’m scared that this baby would be anencephalic too.’ she answered as she looked at him in the eye, waiting for his reaction.

Too. Owen heard the word loud and clear.

‘ You mean you had an anencephalic baby before?’he asked as he held her hands in his as a gesture of support.

She nodded, feeling the tears pool in her eyes at the mention of her unicorn baby.

‘ Remember I told you once long ago while we were sitting in the hospital chapel, about how my baby lived for 43 minutes? Well what I didn’t tell you was that he had anencephaly.’

‘ I’m so sorry to hear that Amelia.’ Owen whispered as he pulled her in for a comforting hug. He couldn’t imagine how it must have been like for her. He knew  how it was like to lose a baby- he had felt a deep sense of loss after Cristina aborted his baby, which was one of the factors leading to their divorce. However, what Amelia went through was an entirely different thing altogether. Her baby had been born alive but died shortly after.

Just that simple gesture of his was enough to bring tears to her eyes again, but she maintained her composure as she knew it was important for her to finish telling him her story now.

‘ He was Ryan’s.’ she said quietly.

He nodded. He remembered her telling him about Ryan, their drug addiction together and how she woke up one day to find Ryan lying dead beside her. It was a horrible tragedy and he felt so sorry that she had to go through that terrible loss.

‘ After Ryan’s death- I went to rehab.’ she continued.

‘ A few months after I returned from rehab, I discovered that I was pregnant. ‘ she added. ‘ With his baby. I was happy at first, I thought that he had left a piece of him behind with me. Then I had my first ultrasound and Addison had to crush all my hopes to the ground by informing me that the baby was anencephalic.’

Owen remained silent, rubbing soothing circles on her back, quietly urging her to continue.

‘ They gave me the option of terminating the pregnancy, but I chose to carry the pregnancy to term because I wanted to donate his organs. I wanted him to save the lives of many other children and make a difference in his short life.’ she said, wiping away a stray tear from her cheek, feeling tears forming in her eyes again at the mention of her unicorn baby.

‘That’s a very noble thing to do, Amelia.’ said Owen earnestly as he pulled her closer to him. He knew that not many parents, after finding out that their baby had an anomaly incompatible with life, would voluntarily carry the baby to term just to donate their baby’s organs. He really respected her for this.

‘ And when I held him in my arms and looked at him, he was so beautiful.’ she said, her voice quivering and tears pooling in her eyes again as she recalled looking at her unicorn baby as she held him in her arms. He was the most beautiful baby she had ever seen. ‘ So you see- like I said that day, I am already a mom.’

That statement of Amelia’s hit Owen hard. He finally realized how much impact the birth and loss of her previous baby had on her. She never really got over her loss, he realized.

‘ I’m so sorry….’ Owen whispered as he held her close to his chest, wanting to take away all her pain.

‘ When they had to take him away from me because he developed respiratory distress, it was like they took a part of me with him.’ she admitted. ‘Part of me died inside. I still think of him sometimes and wonder whether he’s happy in heaven. And at other times I wonder what life would be like if he were still alive.

‘ I’m sorry for not realizing it earlier- that you were already a mom.’ Owen admitted guiltily.

‘ Well to be fair- I only mentioned it in passing that day in the chapel and I never mentioned it again after that. Of course it would have slipped your mind.’ said Amelia as she looked up at Owen. ‘ And we weren’t so close yet at that time.’she added.

‘ So this is why you are afraid. You do not want our baby to meet the same fate.’ Owen voiced out Amelia’s fear.

Amelia nodded, relieved that finally Owen seemed to understand.

‘ Yes. Arizona mentioned during the first ultrasound that there is a less than 5% chance of recurrence in a subsequent pregnancy.’ she said. ‘ Small but it’s there. What if I’m the less than 5%?’

For a moment, Owen felt upset that he wasn’t there for the first ultrasound appointment. He would’ve loved to see their baby. Why did she leave him out of all this?

But he knew that Amelia needed his support.

‘ You don’t know that, Amelia. There’s  more than 95% chance that we’ll have a healthy baby. Why don’t we focus on that instead?’ he asked as he gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

‘ I wish I share your optimism.’ Amelia said, softly. ‘ But after what I’ve been through- I just can’t.…’ her voiced trailed off.

She shook her head, a sad expression on her face. ‘ I just can’t go through that anymore, Owen. The pain of losing a child. I just can’t hold another anencephalic baby in my arms and watch as they carry the baby away from me forever and rip another piece of my heart from me.’

‘ You wouldn’t be going through this alone. I’ll be there by your side, every step of the way this time.’ said Owen firmly but gently, still not letting go of her.

Amelia looked up at him, studying his face and seeing only honesty. Sometimes she wondered what had she done to deserve such an amazing guy in her life.

‘ You don’t get it, Owen.’she said exasperatedly. ‘ I know you want a family so much. But what if I can’t give it to you? What if I can only bear anencephalic babies? Or babies with whatever other deformities? Would you leave me then? Tell me Owen. Would you?’ she asked, scanning his face again , waiting for his reaction.

Owen knew right away that she was putting him through the ultimate test of their relationship, and he was determined to ace it.

‘ No.’ he said firmly in a confident tone. ‘ I’ll never leave you, Amelia, no matter what happens.’

He meant every word. He loved his wife too much to ever leave her should she bear him anencephalic babies. If only she knew how deep his love was for her.

‘ So you promise to stay with me through it all? Through this pregnancy and beyond? For the rest of our lives?’ Amelia asked, again looking at him for confirmation.

Owen nodded affirmatively. ‘ I’ll be with you every step of the way..’ he said earnestly.

‘Will you come with me to my next ultrasound appointment tomorrow then?’ she invited. ‘ Tomorrow Arizona would be performing a detailed scan on me, and we would find out whether the baby has any abnormalities or not. I’m kind of scared.’ she admitted.

‘ Amelia, of course I’ll come. I would love to see our baby.’Owen answered, finally allowing himself to smile with joy.

Finally being reassured that Owen would indeed be with her every step of the way and would never leave her, Amelia allowed herself to lean back on his chest and relax in his arms, relishing in the comforting and safe feeling his warm embrace gave her.

She took his right hand and slowly guided it to her tiny but now visible baby bump, letting it rest there as she rested her hand on top of his.

Owen’s face broke into a wide smile as he finally allowed himself to enjoy the feel of their baby- part him and part Amelia, safety nestled inside her stomach. He knew that no matter the outcome of the ultrasound the following day- he was already in love with this baby.

The couple lay quietly on the bed, Owen savoring the feel of the baby under his touch and Amelia feeling the baby moving inside her. They knew that no matter what- they would be able to face the future together.

And face the future together they did, when Charlotte was born healthy 5 months later, followed by Noah less than 2 years later and Olivia 3 years after that.

Ok guys, this is it- any comments, reviews, reblogs and messages are very much appreciated. I would really love to hear from you and know what you think! <3

[feathersxdreams]

You’re not a bad boy [l.mh] au

Pairing: Lee Minhyuk [Monsta X] x Reader  Genre: Fluff, a tiny, tiny bit angst

Inspired by Derrick Glossner from The Middle

In almost every neighborhood there is this one house everyone tries to avoid at all costs. With that one family living in it, that no one wanted to be associated with. In your street, it was the Lees’. Parents that were absent most of the time and bunch of children that behaved like wild animals. Even though you went to school with at least three of them you had never really talked to any of them. Besides screaming something rude when they knocked over your mailbox once more. But other than that, you were afraid of them most of the time.

“You really need to give me the recipe for these.” Your best friend happily devoured the cupcake you just gave her. “Or just bury me in a mass of these. That would be okay with me too.” A laugh left your lips. She never failed to amuse you. Even when she was just eating like right now. And you knew exactly that she would never make the cupcakes herself. “Yoo, [y.l.n]! Throw me one of those muffins!” A loud voice interrupted your thoughts. Slightly dirty clothing and an arrogant, sly expression. Lee Minhyuk. His whole appearance was a mess. Like always. Your best friend turned her head and glared at him. “It’s a cupcake you troll.” She growled. You were close to freaking out now. Messing with this family even just slightly was dangerous. And since he didn’t know where your friend lived you would have to pay the price for that. “[y.f.n]!” Your voice was quiet and pleading. Their family was not up to anything good and he could come up with. And his expression right now was unreadable. Before your friend could say anything more you got up from your blanket. There was no way you would voluntarily get on his bad side. “Here you go.” You gave him the cupcake. Up close his appearance didn’t get that much better. He had a light cut on his cheekbone and also something weird on his army green vest. Before you really thought about it, you had pulled your tissue out, spit into it and started to wipe the blood from his cheek. “I’m…I’m sorry!” As soon as you realized what exactly you had been doing, you jerked back. Looking at him fearfully, you waited for what would happen next. He grinned as your reaction, stepping closer towards you, making you flinch. “Nothing to worry, sweetie.” His expression softened a bit. “That was kind of nice, you know.” And with that he pressed his lips against your cheek, before leaving you. What the hell just happened? Who was that person? For a short moment, you really started thinking that Minhyuk could behave like any other person. But then you saw him pushing on of the school’s football players into a garbage container, reminding you of who he was again. A Lee. A mess. No one who could really change. “Did Lee Minhyuk just kissed your cheek?” Your best friend appeared next to you, the cupcake still in her hands. “I think he might be sick.” You shrugged your shoulders, before collecting your stuff form the grass. That had to be the reason. There was no way he would actually be nice to someone. You saw how he and his siblings behaved towards each other. Why would they be nice to someone they weren’t even related to if they behaved like idiots towards each other. “Has to be that. I saw him pissing into his sister’s shoes once.” That sounded more like him. And going to school sick also was something they would do. All though they didn’t come here too often there was no way they would miss an opportunity to sneeze into someone’s food. “Oh god, that’s gross.” You shivered. “Are you going to literature class later?” What she just said was one of the reasons for you to not let your shoes standing around outside of your house. Nor any other item you really liked.

 During your last period, you got a text from your parents, telling you that they had an urgent appointment and couldn’t pick you up. That meant you would have to walk home since you did not like taking the bus at all. It freaked you out. Also, you always got up way to early and ended up falling into a stranger’s lap. So, you preferred walking. “You know, I could take you home too.” Your friend suggested, but you shook your head. “I’m okay walking.” You smiled at her. “Plus, you take me home way too often. I don’t want to waste your diesel and your money.” Her home was in the opposite direction of yours so it wasn’t that practical for her. Also, you could use some time alone to think about a few things. Including that incident earlier today. “Okay.” She hugged you before walking towards her war. “Take care and stay safe!” You waved and turned around to walk home. Her last words were kind of unnecessary because there was nothing much that could happen anyway. “Yoo! Need a ride?” You didn’t even get to leave the schools car park, before a motorbike pulled up next to you. Minhyuk. The second time today. A new record. You had never talked this much to him. All though this wasn’t too much either. “Why would you do that?” You had asked that before thinking about it. It was just so unusual for him to offer something like that. Maybe he wanted you to do something for him. Oh god, hopefully it wouldn’t be something gross. “Why not?” He took of his helmet and held it towards you. “You live in the same street. Plus, you did something nice for me today.” That’s it? He though he owes me something? Which honestly, he didn’t. It was enough that he didn’t break your wrist when you touched his face earlier today. “You don’t need to do that.” You wanted to give him his helmet back but he didn’t take it. “Hop on.” He gave you a smile. Not the usual Lee-Smile, it was sincere. In a way. “Stop looking like I’m offering you a deal with the devil. I swear that I have no bad intentions and now come on.” You were probably going to regret this, but still you took a seat behind him. “Hold on tight.” That was all you heard, before he started the motor. Instinctively your body jolted forwards. You wrapped your arms around his waist and pressed your head into his back. Your eyes were shut tightly. Riding a motorbike for the first time was a pretty scary experience. For different reasons. First, because Lee Minhyuk was driving. Second, because he drove a bit too fast and too risky for your liking. And third, because you were so much more exposed in case you would get into an accident. Maybe you would have felt saver if you were driving in a car with him. But this was Lee Minhyuk. And people like him didn’t drive cars. Because it didn’t give them the same bad boy feeling as a motorbike did. “We’re here.” His voice pulled you out of your thoughts and back into reality. You had spent the whole ride, thinking with your eyes closed. And didn’t pay attention to where he was going at all. “This is not our street.” This was the moment you knew was coming up. Now he would do something absolutely terrible to prove that he was not soft or something like that. “Nope.” He grinned and started walking further into the meadow. “I wanted to show you this. Felt like you might be one to appreciate all of this.” Saying those words, he turned back towards you and opened his arms. It was a slightly absurd picture. Lee Minhyuk in ripped and a bit dirty clothing, with messy hair and bruises on his arms in the middle of a colorful flower field. But it was also really beautiful. There was a contrast between him and everything around him. Just like in school. On days that he showed up of course. The blossoms were so vibrant. Reds, pinks, oranges, purples, yellows and blues. And then there was Minhyuk. In an old olive-green jacket, a black hoodie underneath that probably his older brothers wore before and torn jeans. Some of the kids in school wore something like this because they thought it looked cool and stylish. But he didn’t. He had to, because his family couldn’t afford something better. “You’re not a bad boy.” You stated, looking him into the eye. “Sweetie, we both know I am.” His answer seemed cold. “I’m not exactly the guy parents want their children to date, I think that falls under that category.” With that he turned his back towards you again and started walking away. “You’re different.” You tried explaining. “These other kids, they pretend as if they had a hard live and stuff that makes them seem cooler. But you don’t. Because you know how it really feels. You do this, because you don’t want life get to you.” It was something you realized after seeing him in that happy state just seconds ago. You had never seen him really happy before. All this time you thought he was this angry, scary person, which in reality he wasn’t. “Thanks for reminding me, that I don’t have a perspective in live.” The blond let himself fall into the grass, so you couldn’t see him anymore. But you were pretty sure he was not smiling anymore. His tone was upset. And so was he. Which meant that what you said was true. “You have one. You aren’t dumb, Minhyuk.” You made your way over to where he was laying and sat down next to him. “And your good at sports. You could get a scholarship and all that stuff. You’re not completely fucked up. You could do it. And have a chance.” This was still surreal. Having an actual conversation with him. About an important topic. He always seemed like this person who didn’t care about his future too much. Might be because of what he just told you. “I am fucked up. Don’t try to tell me anything different.” He had laid his arms over his face, which made it harder to understand what he said. “We both know I am going to end up like my father.” You didn’t know his father. Or didn’t know if you know him. But judging by his tone it wasn’t too good if he would become like him. “I mean look at me. Here I am, talking to someone like you, pretending that you could feel the same way about me as I do about you.” These words left you shook. How did he feel about you? Till today it felt like he might be hating you. His behavior today tough made you question that assumption. “How do you feel about me?” You wanted to find out what he meant. And the easiest way would be to just ask him. Obviously. Plus, you had no idea how else you would be able to do so. Everything that happened before didn’t matter that much anymore. At least for now. Minhyuk suddenly sat up. It happened so fast, that you jerked back. Your neighbor stared at you for a while, before grabbing your arms, so he could pull you into his lap. “There is nothing you need to be afraid of. At least not, when it comes to me.” One of his arms moved around your waist, while his other hand found its way into your neck. You couldn’t deny that it felt really, really good to be held like this by him. It should be making you nervous, but it didn’t. Instead it felt safe. You felt protected. Even if there was nothing that threatened you right now. “I really like you!” He whispered before pressing his lips onto yours. The moment was pure and gentle and raw. One of those movie moments that you expected to never have. But life didn’t go as you expected. Because you definitely didn’t expect this to happen. Or that you would enjoy something like this.With him.  “Listen, I don’t expect you to feel the same, but I want you to know.” He didn’t let you go. Instead he pulled you closer, laying his head onto your shoulder. “But I promise you, that if your willing to give me this chance, I am going to do everything to prove you, that I am worthy of you.” Now his tone had become pleading. Which is unnecessary, because you already made your decision before he even asked. In a way, the moment you didn’t struggle against his grip. Or maybe already when you took his offer and climbed onto that motorbike.   “I will.” You pressed a kiss into his hair. Gently. Just as gentle as he held you. It might have been unrealistic this morning, but things could change. And so could people or opinions. Like yours when it came to this boy called Lee Minhyuk.              

Masterlist

[quanticlub]

Chinese Mythology

The Creation of the Zodiac:

The Great Race

When the calendar was still being made, the Jade Emperor decided that each part of it would be awarded to one animal guardian. There were thirteen animals in the Emperor’s court when he began partitioning the calendar. However, the Four Pillars of hours, days, months, and years were split into only twelve ( this is also the same length as Jupiter’s orbit, which is relevant in Chinese astrology ). Because there would be a defined order of succession, the Jade Emperor decided to hold a Great Race so the order of titles would be based on merit. The last and most challenging portion of the Great Race involved crossing a wide, treacherous river with strong currents.

The Cat and the Rat realized that despite being able to swim in some capacity, they were too small and would be swept away by the current. Putting their differences aside, the two asked the Ox to carry them across, telling him that because they were very light and he was very strong they would not slow him. The Ox agreed and let the two climb on his back as he treaded through the water.

The shrewd Rat, however, had no intention of accepting a lower place and he knew if both he and the Cat made it across then the Cat would beat him. So halfway through the river, the Rat swiped his long tail under the Cat and caused the latter to fall off the Ox’s back. In an attempt to hang on the Cat lashed out with his claws and gripped the Rat’s tail, but the current was too strong and the Cat washed away. The Cat’s strong hold on the Rat’s tail tore off the fur and this is why rats now have naked tails.

With how light the cat was and how loud the river rumbled near his face, the Ox noticed none of this as he made his way across. When the Ox reached the other side and began to climb out onto the shore, the quick-witted Rat scampered over him and leapt across the finish line just before the Ox had stepped over it. The Emperor was pleased with the Rat’s astute plan to safely cross the river and the Ox’s unyielding resolve in the face of the river’s wrath. As such, he awarded the Rat and the Ox first and second place respectively. When questioned on the Cat’s whereabouts, the Rat simply shrugged.

Next arrived the Tiger, whose powerful legs had allowed him to cross. Not being as bulky as the Ox, the Tiger had been hindered by the currents and thus came after. The Emperor was impressed with the Tiger’s confidence in his own might and the courage the Tiger had displayed in swimming despite the natural aversion to water possessed by cats, both big and small. The Tiger was given third place.

Then came the Rabbit, who had hopped from stone to stone across the river until a passing log knocked him off. The Rabbit had seen it in time to prepare and was able to get onto the log despite being pushed from the stones. A fortuitous gust of wind had forced the log to shore and the Rabbit was able to speedily race to the finish land. The Emperor commended the his good judgment and vigilance, granting the Rabbit fourth place; by refusing to swim through the strong currents the Rabbit had demonstrated an awareness of his own limitations and his constant alertness as he crossed had allowed him to foresee danger.

Moments later landed the great Dragon in a shroud of mist. The Emperor was disappointed and questioned the Dragon as to why it had taken him so long to arrive when he had such mighty wings. The Dragon explained that when he had taken flight, he saw the rising smoke of a woodland fire that was quickly spreading to a nearby village on a dry hill. The Dragon knew that if the fire reached the village, the people would be helpless to stop it and would lose their livelihoods if not their lives. Because the Dragon could command the weather, he knew he could put out the fire if he summoned rain. Believing it was his duty to help those he could, the Dragon flew off towards the fire and brought forth a great storm to quench the flames. When he returned, he was ready to dive down and compete with the Tiger for third place. However, he saw the small Rabbit being carried off by the currents and decided to backtrack and send the wind to help his tiny rival before the river swallowed him up – the loss of a race was a much smaller price to pay than the loss of a life. Pleased with the Dragon’s honorable explanation, the Emperor noted his approval and gave the Dragon the fifth place.

Looking to the river’s edge, it seemed the Horse would arrive next. Just as he was about to arrive, though, the cunning Snake uncoiled from the Horse’s leg and gave it an awful fright. As the Horse reared back in fear, the Snake slithered across the finish line. The Snake, too low to be heard by the helpful Ox and too small to pass the currents had instead climbed an apple tree and knocked down some of the ripe fruits, knowing that the Horse would be too tempted by the apples to pass them by. As the Horse stopped, entranced by the sweet red morsels, the Snake wrapped himself around the Horse’s ankle.Though he did not generally endorse deceit, the Emperor recognized the value of the his strategy and granted the Snake sixth place. The Horse, whose fiery passion had fueled him across the currents despite his limited aquatic experience, was given seventh place.

After the Horse came a group of three: the Goat, the Monkey, and the Rooster. They all crossed finish line with no evidence of having entered the water - or even been near enough to have been splashed by it. At the Emperor’s confusion the three explained that they had built a raft to carry them across. First, the imaginative Goat had mentioned wistfully that their passage would be much easier if they too could be carried over but by something bigger than the Horse or Ox so the Goat would fit, steadier so the Rooster would keep his balance, and higher so the Monkey would stay dry. The clever Monkey considered this and suggested that they build a raft as that would be wide, flat, and completely above the water. Agreeing, the Rooster quickly found the materials they needed and kept everyone on track as otherwise the Goat would drift into daydreams and the Monkey would get distracted while exploring the possible uses for the supplies. The Emperor nodded proudly at the display of cooperation and awarded the Goat, Monkey, and Rooster the eighth, ninth, and tenth spots in the order in which they had contributed to the formation of the plan.

After a long period with no other arrivals, the Dog came bounding through. When the Emperor asked why he had taken so long despite being one of the strongest swimmers, the loyal Dog explained that he had crossed the river multiple times but couldn’t bring himself to leave the shore and run to the finish line until all the other animals had made it across as well. Having seen the Cat washed away, the Dog worried others would suffer a similar fate. The Emperor thought this over and felt torn; the Dog’s devotion to the other animals of the court and decision to leave no one alone was praiseworthy... but it also defeated the point of the race. Pondering what to do about the situation, the Jade Emperor asked if this was the only reason the Dog had been so slow. With a bit of embarrassment, the Dog admitted that although he had initially turned back to check on the rest of the group, he’d been having so much fun swimming back and forth in the river that he'd forgotten about his ambitions to win the race. By the time he remembered, the early spots had been lost and the Dog thought it better to focus on guarding the others. The Jade Emperor admired the Dog for telling the truth despite the social pressure to give only the first, more noble answer. For his honesty with the Emperor and fidelity to the group, the Dog was given the eleventh place.

A while later, the Pig finally joined the others at the finish line. The Emperor demanded to know why the Pig had kept them waiting so long when the honest Dog had already told them that he didn’t run to the finish line until after he had watched the Pig cross the river. The Pig told the emperor that he had no desire for conflict with the others and thus did not bother trying to beat them. The Pig, who had been tamed into a far more gentle disposition than his temperamental Boar ancestors, sought friendship over fights. After deciding to let the Great Race conclude without him, the Pig had dedicated his time to befriending the creatures of the woods to harbor good relationships so that in the future if the Emperor or any of the members of his court were in need, the animals of this region would be willing to help. The Emperor was aware that through his “peacemaking process” the Pig had taken many naps and shared in many dinners, clearly as interested with tending to his present comfort as with nurturing any future allegiances for the Emperor’s court. However, the Jade Emperor concluded that the spread of goodwill in the region made up for such self-indulgence. Just after the Emperor had decreed that the Pig would receive the twelfth and final position, the half-drowned Cat emerged from the shadows.

The Cat had managed to escape the river’s hold much farther downstream and then made his way back as fast as he could. Unfortunately for the Cat, he was too late. The Emperor told him that the Great Race was over and the twelve titles had already been awarded. Filled with both disappointment at the current news and rage at the prior betrayal, the Cat vowed to get vengeance on the Rat; from that moment an animosity was borne by all cats that drove them to hunt down any rats they encountered.

[bpdbiscuitblog-blog]

How Many Did You Take? How Many, My Angel? ***TRIGGER WARNING***

Woohoo is one of my oldest friends. She’s an ordained Wiccan priestess and performed the marriage ceremony for my second husband and me. She’s been my spiritual advisor and counselor since before I was old enough to drink, and I’m 34 now.

Before I was diagnosed with BPD, back when I hit the Big Red Button (the one that says - DO NOT TOUCH because the consequences are catastrophic) on my life, Woohoo was still there for me. I was obviously going insane, up and leaving my 13-year marriage with my then 35-year-old husband and my 14-year-old daughter, Moon, and my house and my entire existence to move in with Gypsy, a 33-year-old failed musician-turned-gamer who lived with his mother and had no job, education, hope for his future, or even basic social skills, where I immediately began a life of weird, unsatisfying, and infrequent sex, binge drinking, and running from past and present trauma-drama. On a positive note, I became a teacher again, a fulfilling experience speaking to my soul, as I am a teacher in more than just career, but completely mentally incapable of taking care of myself, much less a group of 17 8-year-olds, and became overworked, exhausted, and an emotional hurricane in a matter of months.

But between the Big Red Button and the hurricane was a time of destruction and devastation where I used the fires of my own personal hell to burn every possible bridge to my old life that I could, many of them badly in need of burning, as I would never return to walk them again, but others, like the Bridge to Woohoo, one of the few structures still anchoring my rapidly deteriorating mind in reality. Woohoo never traumatized me. She never hurt me. She never sought to control me. But the night I lost my daughter Moon and what remained of my ability to cope with the pain I was experiencing, in my grief and despair, she became just another representation of that trauma, and in the days that followed surviving my suicide attempt (notice I did not say my first suicide attempt) she became one of several targets of my BPD-strengthened rage at that long-buried trauma, a casualty of Hurricane Biscuit, although I was still more of a Tropical Storm back then.

Woohoo is a force of nature herself at times. Just as crazy, just as sarcastic, just as devastating a wit as myself, Woohoo brings with her a kind of controlled chaos, a tornado-in-a-bottle personality, ready to let loose a barrage of her own hellfire if the mood strikes her, but mostly just fun, easy-going, patient, a breeze that could whip up into a frenzied tornado if the mood strikes, but content at the moment just to enjoy the current. Voluptuous, sex-driven, raven-haired, loud-mouthed, and profane could all be used to describe her accurately, as accurately as kind, generous, soulful, and motherly.

I no longer believe in soulmates, but I do believe we have, say, connected souls, and as much as anyone I’ve ever met, she is one of my connected souls. And yet, when she stepped up to do what needed to be done to save my life, I turned my back on her.

She warned me about Gypsy. Told me there was something “not right ‘bout that boy,” in her Oklahoma twang. They had an immediate dislike of each other, Gypsy and Woohoo. Gypsy called her a man-hating feminist. Woohoo called him a lazy, worthless piece of shit, among other things. Neither of them were wrong.

My response to her warnings, over and over again, like a love-struck teenager fawning over a, well, a worthless piece of shit, was a protesting, “But, I love him, Woohoo! He’s my one and only.” (I am now picturing myself striking a dramatic pose, forearm to my forehead, turning away and looking plaintively out the window into a setting sun, while declaring that she just wouldn’t understand.)

I blatantly ignored the mounting evidence that this pairing would only leave me broken and broke, and continued blissfully unaware along my journey of self-destruction, orchestrating a series of events that would leave me running from my home, my marriage, my family. I’m not saying I should have been leaving these things, at least the marriage and the home, but I shouldn’t have been running towards Gypsy, of all people. Woohoo would have been a better choice. She did offer me a place to live, a chance to “get my shit together” in a relatively peaceful environment, free for a few months at least from financial worry, a safe haven to start anew. Meanwhile, I waved merrily from my car window as I drove away, hollering, “Nah, I got this!” as I hauled ass down her driveway, blaring Gypsy’s music at full blast and heading back to the city, to his mother’s house and the tiny 10x10 room that was to be my new prison of my own making for the next several months.

Meanwhile, still unable to communicate the massive amount of emotional stress and pain I was under to anyone, my mind began bringing all my fears and the traumas of my past to bear, forcing me to deal with them however I could. Financially, I was surviving, barely, in no small part to Woohoo herself, who kept my business running mostly smoothly as the day-to-day operations manager, supplying me with a steady income even when I wasn’t actively working.

My ex-husband meanwhile had no intention of patiently waiting out my midlife crisis, immediately replacing the vacated space in our marriage bed with the first woman who would tumble into it. He convinced Moon that my mental state was due to the fact that I was a bad person who did not love her, and therefore she had no need to further associate herself with me.

The day I received that smug text message from him, superior in his position as head of a new family to control, I gave up. Oh, not without setting a few more fires of course, screaming and stamping my foot and using whatever means I could to manipulate my ex-husband into returning my daughter to me, letting me hear her voice, even if it meant terrifying a complete stranger, his new bed buddy, into thinking I was going to share photos of her in lingerie with the world. And where did I get these photos? Oh, Mr. Manipulation himself had provided those just days before when he was so very interested in seeing if I would join them for a threesome. But, that’s another story for another day.

After several hours of realizing that torturing Mr. M and and the future Mrs. M was not going to get me my daughter, my emotions spiraled me into a well of despair that I was not capable of pulling myself out of. I seized upon a bottle of pills, a prescription Mr. M procured from his doctor that I had been told was for helping me with anxiety from my ADHD, but in fact were mood-altering antidepressants that, when prescribed incorrectly, could lead to suicidal ideation.

Google is a useful source for immediate access to the LD50 of literally anything. LD50 is the amount of a medication that will, when consumed, lead to death in 50% of the population of those who take it. The LD50 for this particular medication was 15 pills. I had 30. While texting Woohoo, Mr. M, and the future Mrs. M., telling them my intentions unless they returned my daughter to me, I began counting out 15 pills. I continued the threats as I used the Everclear under Gypsy's bed (where he was currently snoring after taking a dose of Benadryl after a long weekend of my emotional drama), to swallow them one by one. At eight pills, Woohoo warned me that she was calling the police. Hours away from my location, she would never arrive in time herself to stop me. She did the only the she could to prevent my death at my own hands - she narced on me.

At ten pills, for some reason, Gypsy stirred in his allergy-med-induced coma, and seeing me swallow the tenth, realized what was happening. He took the pills away as I screamed at him, “Just five more, please, just five more!” while he screamed back at me, “How many did you take? How many, my Angel?” (Gypsy didn’t call me Biscuit. No one did at this time, actually.) After counting and recounting, doing his own internet search, and counting once more, he sighed with relief, realizing I’d only taken enough to give myself a stomach ache.

My sobs had subsided at this point, and I sat in stony silence as Gypsy stared at me, seemingly in shock at how close I had come to leaving his life, and my own, at my own hand. Then one of those loud knocks that apparently policemen are trained in, one that can echo through a house to the back of a bedroom and enter into even the fevered dreams of a hallucinating woman who just wanted to be happy, smoke weed, and eat a chocolate bar in peace, sounded through the house, setting Gypsy's mom’s chocolate labs off in a frenzied bark as well as my wails of panic.

“Tell them I’m okay, Gypsy. Please, tell them I’m okay. Tell them she lied. Tell them they lied. Can I stay here? I’m so scared, Gypsy.” With an irritated sigh, he put his khaki shorts on over his boxers, pulled me gently to my feet, and guided me to the door. “No, you’ve got to talk to them. They’re going to want to see you.”

As if I was a frightened toddler meeting Santa for the first time, he guided me to the front door. In my head, I was psyching myself up. “You can do this, Biscuit. Just act normal. Act normal. Be angry. If you’re angry, you can’t be sad. If you’re angry, you won’t cry.”

After a heated discussion between me and the cops, a worried discussion between the cops and Gypsy, and phone calls and screenshots of my texts to Woohoo and Mr. and Mrs. M. between the cops and Woohoo, it was decided that it would be in my best interest if I was detained involuntarily at a mental institution for a three-day psych hold.

In the front yard of a house I had only recently moved into, in front of people I barely knew, in front of my beloved Gypsy, I was handcuffed, crying and scared. As the cuffs clicked into place, I could see Gypsy at the front door, watching behind the glass, mouthing, “I love you,” across the void separating me from the only vaguely familiar thing left in my life. Physically, I was being kept safe, but I was being traumatized all over again, my hands behind my back all over again, forced to do something I didn’t want to do all over again.

But what else could Woohoo do? Physical safety trumped mental safety. I could never be mentally safe again unless I was kept physically safe now. At the time, I couldn’t see that. At the time, all I felt was fear and anger. For someone with BPD, fear and anger are terror and rage.

By the time I was released from my prison 48 hours later (instead of 72, as apparently I wasn’t that crazy), my mind had been fueled by this terror and rage for days, consuming my thoughts completely. Unable to turn that rage onto the people who had hurt me, I instead hurled it at Woohoo, now the sole symbol remaining of that night. I stripped her from the business, allowing Gypsy to spew venom through social media as the new voice of the company, coming to my defense as Woohoo tried to warn our contractors that there was something seriously wrong with my mental stability now.

In my gathering momentum of destruction, I decided to strike one more blow against my former friend, business partner, and soul sister: I refused to pay her. I kept her final paycheck, using it instead to shower Gypsy with books and games, gifts for his loyalty perhaps. Meanwhile, Woohoo, still in shock over my behavior thus far, now had to figure out how to make ends meet without the money she was owed, how to provide for my own godchildren, her sweet son and daughter, now just that much shorter of being able to cover expenses.

The only wise decision I made in those days was enrolling in counseling. But of course, showing up to the first session did not instantly make me see what I had done and was continuing to do. That would take time, more self-destruction, more mistakes, more trauma, and finally, finally -- partly due to that first step and the hard work of a southern Biscuit, partly due to the luck of finding her Gravy -- peace.

[allyinthekeyofx]

GENESIS - Chapters 3 & 4

CHAPTER THREE

San Diego International Airport. 5:15 a.m.

Despite the early morning hour, the airport was packed with people intent on reaching their respective destinations as quickly and easily as possible.

Mulder and Scully had arrived at the airport at the worst time, a time when early morning commuters joined the throngs of tourists either on their way to, or departing the famous city, and Mulder knew that it would be some time before they escaped the stuffy confines of the building.

Their FBI status would hurry things up somewhat, but he suspected as he gazed around the bustling concourse, that they would be here for some considerable time.

They headed for the security check point, nodded at the two heavy set security guards, and briefly displayed their badges. In doing so they bypassed the metal detector, knowing that should they pass through it, the weapons they carried would provoke the kind of high pitched scream from the machine of which Mulder was acutely conscious would cause his headache to swell to mammoth proportions, swiftly rendering him unable to think straight.

He was not usually prone to headaches, in fact he was rarely sick at all, but a combination of a lack of sleep and the concern he felt for his partner had taken their toll on him.

Scully had been silent and uncommunicative during the six hour flight, responding to his questions and comments with a monosyllabic terseness that was quite unlike her, and Mulder had eventually admitted defeat, turning away from her and staring out of the window at the black nothingness which surrounded the plane.

He had remained painfully aware of her though, as she unsuccessfully feigned sleep next to him, and now as he regarded her before him, it was clear that she was still having a tough time handling the news he had brought her, that whatever resources she had draw on to get her through the last few hours were now stretched to the point of breaking.

Wearily, Mulder brought his hand up to his face briefly, and rubbed his temple, trying to dispel the pounding in his skull as he glanced around the concourse, attempting to get his bearings.

He felt a hand touch his arm.

“Are you OK, Mulder?”

He nodded slowly, careful to limit the movement.

“I’m fine. Just a headache that’s all.” He slung his overnight bag over his shoulder and smiled reassuringly down at her.

They began to walk through the concourse corridor which led to the arrivals lounge, fighting their way through the crowds, and when Mulder was elbowed sharply by a small unassuming looking man with wire rimmed glasses who was obviously not looking where he was going, he thought nothing of it, just nodded slightly at the man’s mumbled apology and carried on his way.

The man though, didn’t proceed, he simply remained standing, staring at the departing Agents, a small smile playing around his face. When he was sure they were out of sight he raised his hand to his mouth, a gesture which from a distance resembled a simple covering of a cough or a sneeze. On closer inspection however, it would become obvious that his reasons were of a much more sinister nature, for hidden inside the opening of his shirt cuff, a tiny radio transmitter was pinned.

State of the art in its design, it could be neither monitored nor detected with any of the current systems in use amongst the security or law enforcement agencies. The man spoke in to the receiver, his voice barely above a whisper.

“They’re here, and the cargo has been delivered.”

He did not wait for a response, he didn’t need to. His job was done, at least for now, and with an ease that made him so adept at what he did, he walked back in to the crowds, immediately becoming just another face amongst the many. No different from any other small time businessman in a suit on his way to work, the kind of man people looked through rather than directly at, forgotten in an instant. It was exactly that kind of ordinariness which served him more completely than any disguise could ever hope to.

The man kept his smile as his thoughts settled on to the assignment in hand, his most intriguing to date, and one which could secure his future within the consortium.

Oh yeah, this was going to some fun he decided.

XXXX

It was past seven when the two Agents finally checked in to their respective motel rooms, and as Mulder had feared, his headache had swelled in magnitude with every passing second, so much so that he had insisted Scully drive the rental car the short distance from the Airport, provoking a worried glance from his partner, but she had not questioned him, recognising that in his current state driving would be both dangerous and foolhardy.

Mulder had spent the journey with his eyes closed, head resting back as he fought the feeling of nausea brought on by the car’s movement and when they had reached the motel Scully had suggested he rest for a while. He had checked his watch, and almost argued with her, wanting to proceed with the investigation, not wanting to waste any more time.

He had eventually concluded though that to proceed to the FBI field office would be pointless. At such an early hour it was doubtful whether there would be anyone there who was qualified to answer their questions, and despite himself he had had to admit that he needed some sleep if only to clear the headache.

He had eyed the bed in his room, considering and rejecting thoughts of unpacking, and after drawing the curtains to block out the early morning sun, had fallen on to it fully clothed, sleep coming mercifully rapidly, dispelling the incessant hammering inside his head.

Scully on the other hand, had not slept at all. She had intended to, but a hot shower had put paid to that, driving away her exhaustion and causing her to come fully awake once more.

Despite the feelings of urgency she had toward getting to the bottom of this case she also appreciated that her partner needed to rest, that she needed him on this to temper her own emotions which would surely come to the fore. She had eyed the laptop computer which accompanied her on every case, like an extension of herself, and briefly considered attempting some work.

She had shelved the idea though, when she found herself staring blankly at it’s muted grey screen, re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time as she struggled to take in the words in front of her. Eventually she gave up in disgust, and crossed to the bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, but somehow she needed to empty her mind, so she lay, staring at the white ceiling of the motel room, waiting for the images of her daughter to stop haunting her, attempting to relax her mind so that instead, she thought of nothing at all, and in doing so she felt the tension leave her body. At least for the moment.

XXXX

The sound of a fist knocking on wood drove through Mulders consciousness like a blade, and initially he squeezed his eyes shut tighter in an attempt to block it out. The familiar voice that accompanied it though caused him to sit up, dropping his head down quickly, as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. His throat felt gritty and raw, and he suddenly realised how cold he felt in the air conditioned room.

“Mulder? It’s me.”

The sound of Scully’s voice prompted Mulder to rise from his position on the bed, and he groggily made his way to the door, knowing that he probably looked every bit as bad as he felt. His partner’s expression as he swung the door open to face her affirmed his fears.

She took in his flushed, sweating face, and immediately propelled him back inside the room, gesturing to a chair. Mulder didn’t need asking twice and he sat down heavily.

“I’m OK,” he said weakly. “It’s just a headache.”

He flinched as Scully rested the back of her hand on his forehead.

“Mulder, you’re burning up,” she exclaimed, “You should be in bed.”

Mulder held up a hand.

“I’ll be fine. Just give me time to get a shower and change my clothes OK?”

“Mulder …”

Mulder recognised the concerned ‘I’m a Doctor’ tone that Scully had adopted, but this was no time to get sick, or worse to succumb to it. He suspected that a lack of sleep was making the symptoms worse, and that once he actually got himself moving, they would abate sufficiently to allow him to function enough to do his job. Shakily, he got to his feet, stepping carefully around Scully lest he betray just how badly he was feeling.

“Give me twenty minutes. I’ll meet you in the car.”

In actuality, Mulder slid in to the passenger seat next to Scully in just under fifteen. She scrutinised him carefully and was relieved to see, that on the surface at least he appeared to look much better. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the recent shower and Scully resisted the urge to point out that walking around with wet hair wasn’t exactly going to serve his cause health- wise. He was freshly shaven and dressed in a clean shirt and jacket, his impeccable professional facade firmly in place once more, and she relaxed slightly.

Mulder, aware of his partner’s swift medical evaluation with regard to him grinned crookedly at her.

“Are you planning on pondering my state of health for the remainder of the day or do I pass muster?”

He was cut off as Scully abruptly gunned the motor, shifting the car in to gear and pulling smoothly away from the motel. At the end of the drive she turned left on to the highway, heading for the city and the San Diego field office, where hopefully John Wickham would be waiting for them with some answers.

Scully had put in the call to him as she waited for Mulder to emerge from his room, feeling gratified by the easy warmth which had crept in to his voice when she had identified herself, and he had assured her that all the current information regarding the case would be made available to her on their arrival.

Finally, it was time to get to work.

XXXXX

CHAPTER FOUR

FBI Field office, San Diego. 9:41a.m.

Special Agent in Charge John Wickham turned out to be every bit as helpful as Scully had hoped he would be. An imposing figure he stood a couple of inches taller than Mulders six feet, and absolutely towered over her small frame.

The stern expression he habitually wore had transformed in to a wide grin the minute they had stepped through the door to his office though, and Scully immediately recognised the obvious respect he had for Mulder as he shook his old friends hand warmly.

“Hey Fox, it’s good to see you, even if I had to entice you with the promise of a case.”

Mulder smiled noncommittally and shrugged by way of apology.

“You know how it is, work gets in the way.”

“Save it, man. Things can get kinda crazy around here too.”

His eyes flittered across to where Scully stood off to one side and Mulder gestured toward her.

“John Wickham. My partner, Dana Scully.”

Wickham smiled appreciatively across at her and extended his hand which she shook briefly.

“Pleased to meet you, Dana. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Oh, have you indeed.”

She quirked an eyebrow at Mulder who reddened slightly.

“Relax, Scully. I only enlightened him as to the more praetorian aspects of your personality.”

Before she could respond, Wickham punched her partner lightly on the shoulder.

“If she’s corrupt, Buddy, it only stems from working alongside you for so long. This man . . ,” he informed Scully, “could corrupt anybody. Even back at the Academy I can remember him being…”

He got no further as Mulder, who didn’t like the conversational turn, jumped in abruptly.

“About this case,” he ventured.

Wickham nodded, but refused to let Mulder off so easily. He winked at Scully.

“We’ll talk later,” he promised.

Despite herself, Scully couldn’t help a grin. She had warmed immediately to his easy nature and the way he had welcomed them effortlessly in to his domain. She got the sense that she was going to like him, that he would become a welcome ally to them both, and it was evident that Mulder held him in a high regard.

It was something she rarely saw in him, mostly due to his in built suspicion of those he didn’t know well, respect from Mulder took a long time to earn. She herself had discovered that the hard way.

Her thoughts turned to the job in hand as Wickham handed them each a folder, very similar in content to the one she had seen back in Washington. She forced herself to remain professionally detached as she turned the pages.

“Basically, what you see there is what you get,” explained Wickham. “As far as we can tell, there’s no motive for a kidnapping, no estranged husbands or partners, no disgruntled neighbours or delivery men. The Mother had no enemies as far as we can tell, and we’ve got no witnesses except her and she hasn’t been much use to us. It’s obvious though that the kid didn’t just wander off because aside from the Mother’s injuries at the scene, she would have turned up by now. We’ve checked with family services and they don’t have the family listed on the at-risk register so it’s unlikely that there was any abuse involved. All reports suggest that this kid was well loved and well cared for. It’s like she just disappeared off the face of the earth, and the Attorney General has got my butt in a sling.”

Mulder raised his eyes from the file.

“News coverage?” he queried.

“Yep. Regional and national. Papers too. No response. Aside from your usual variety of cranks who insist they’ve seen the kid playing with fairies at the bottom of their gardens or being carried away by little green men. No offence, Fox.”

Mulder waved his hand casually, none taken.

“You said you’d interviewed the mother?”

“Extensively. I’m not sure whether it was the bump on the head she received or whether losing the kid has tipped her over the edge, but she talks as if she’s a walking testament to the corruption in our fair land. Raving about conspiracies and how she’s known that they would find her. How she should have left town before it happened.”

He paused and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I tell you, Buddy, it’s got me chasing my tail. Normally I would’ve chalked it down to experience, but I got kids of my own, y'know?. I can’t just give up on it. Someone knows where this child is and I’m afraid that if we don’t find her soon they’ll be nothing to find … except maybe a body, and I seen enough of those to last me a lifetime.”

“They won’t kill her,” mumbled Mulder, almost to himself. “They need her.”

“What do you mean?”

Wickham’s keen hearing had picked up the words and Scully silently sent her partner a warning not to divulge too much to this man, because friend or no friend, if they voiced their suspicions they would find themselves on the next plane back to Washington. She needn’t have worried though. Realising his mistake, her partner covered himself adeptly.

“C'mon John. How many profiles have you written on kidnappers, huh? There’s no such thing as a motiveless kidnapping, the crime occurs to serve some sort of agenda in the perpetrators mind, monetary gain, revenge, whatever, and until that need is filled he must keep his victim alive, because if he were to kill them, then the bargaining tool is lost, as is the reason for the crime. What we need to do is to get in to the mind of the kidnapper, because only by understanding him can we begin to understand his motives, and by comprehending them we can begin to look for a suspect.”

Wickham shook his head.

“OK, consider me put firmly back in my place. Once a profiler always a profiler huh, Fox?”

“Yeah, well,” Mulder countered easily, “when I’m not chasing after little green men toting ray guns, it’s what I do best.”

“So you’re gonna draw up a profile on this guy?”

Mulder shook his head.

“Not yet. I think Scully and I need to take a little side trip to see the girl’s Mother. She’s still in the hospital, I take it?”

Wickham scratched his head.

“Yeah, and I can’t see her leaving any time soon. She’s pretty drugged up, you’ll be lucky to get anything coherent out of her, I know I didn’t have much success.”

“I’ll take my chances,” Mulder declared with a small smile. “you never know what effect my boyish charm will have on her.”

Wickham grimaced in disgust.

“Yeah well, I wouldn’t hold out much hope of that. I’ll get you some directions to the place, but I’ll warn you, this woman didn’t exactly keep up her medical insurance premiums. It ain’t exactly what you could call The Ritz.”

XXXX

Little Sisters of Mercy State Sanatorium. San Diego. 10:45a.m.

“My God, Mulder, just look at this place.”

Scully wrinkled her nose in disgust at the dank depressing surroundings she found herself in, turning in a slow circle as she took in the crumbling walls and the peeling wallpaper.

Everything was painted a dirty institutional grey, and it was painfully obvious by the bubbled texture from the damp underneath that it had been years since it had seen a paintbrush. The building was old and decrepit and the air held an unpleasant smell of stale urine that no amount of disinfectant could mask.

Some attempts had been made to brighten the place up and small pots of flowers rested on every available surface, but even they seemed to be wilting under the oppressive atmosphere and they appeared drab and forlorn.

The inadequate strip lighting cast flickering yellowish shadows over everything and when Scully raised her head to look above her, she observed that out of the five lights, only three were actually working.

Government cut-backs were one thing, but squalor was something else entirely. It offended Scully, as a doctor, that such places existed. She questioned the level of medical care which was transferred on to the patients who resided here, and was smart enough to realise that such care did not really exist.

This was the kind of place where society sent its misfits. To remain forever locked in a cycle of neglect and drug induced haze. It was a place to be forgotten in.

She turned questioningly to Mulder.

“Why would they put Mrs. Stevens here?” she queried, “I understood that she was mentally unsound, not dangerous.”

Mulder’s mouth had set in a grim line as he surveyed the bars on the windows and the panic buttons on the wall, noting sourly that they appeared to be the token gesture with regards to the present day.

He was feeling pretty ropy still despite regular intakes of Tylenol and what he saw only served to worsen his already disagreeable mood.

“I don’t know, Scully,” he admitted and then gestured to where the receiving desk stood, seemingly unmanned. “Let’s find out, huh?”

It took almost twenty minutes for anyone to respond to Mulder and Scully’s presence, despite the repeated ringing of the service bell which was located to the left of the desk. They could hear its sound echoing around the deserted corridors, bouncing off the bare concrete floors and Mulders patience was rapidly running short.

Eventually though, faint footsteps could be heard hurrying toward them and suddenly a door behind the desk opened and they found themselves facing a short middle aged woman in a white nurse’s outfit. She appeared flustered and harried, her dark hair escaping the confines of its French knot and hanging messily around her face.

She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of apology.

“Sorry. Staff cutbacks, y'know.”

Mulder however was in no mood to exchange pleasantries. He pulled out his badge and displayed it unceremoniously to the woman.

“Special Agents Mulder and Scully. We’re here to interview a patient of yours.”

The nurse scrutinised their FBI credentials and hurriedly tucked the errant hair back up under her white cap.

“I see. And the name would be?” she inquired.

“Mrs. Christine Stevens.”

Scully observed a subtle difference in the nurse’s demeanour as Mulder informed her of who they had come to see and she swore that just for a second something akin to blind panic crossed her face.

“Is there a problem with that?” she ventured.

Instantly the nurse smoothed out her expression, smiling apologetically at the two Agents.

“I’m sorry, but that would be quite impossible at the present time. The patient is heavily sedated and is not able to see anyone. Her mental state is extremely tenuous and any outside contact would be quite damaging to her. I have orders from her Doctor that she be kept absolutely quiet and undisturbed. I’m sorry. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”

Mulder glanced uneasily at Scully.

Something was wrong here, he was sure of it, and judging by his partners obvious scepticism, she was experiencing similar suspicions.

“We work for the Federal Government,” he pointed out, “and it is imperative we be granted access to Mrs. Stevens. We believe she can furnish us with information which is critical to the ongoing investigation regarding the disappearance of her daughter.”

The nurse however was not moved by his plea. Again she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I have my orders. The patient is not to be disturbed.”

Seeing her partner suddenly become rigid with tension, Scully laid a warning hand on his arm.

“Look,” she cajoled, “I’m a medical doctor. Fully trained, and I can assure you we will do nothing which will compromise the health of your patient. I understand your need to shield her, but you also have to understand that the life of a four year old child is at stake here and every minute we waste is compromising her well being. We only need five minutes. Don’t make us get a court order. It just wastes everyone’s time, including yours, because we will be back.”

The nurse shifted her eyes around guiltily, as if she were afraid of being seen, and then swiftly unlocked the door which led through to the receiving area.

“You can have five minutes with her and that’s it, but I’m warning you she’s not in very good shape.”

Mulder pushed past the nurse quite unable to disguise his dislike of the woman.

He inclined his head, bestowing a smile on the woman that was anything but friendly.

“After you.”

Continued chapter five

[tsukkibito]

The Moon over the Turtle’s Back

Several shafts of firelight pierced the bamboo walls of my heavily decorated room. Alerted by urgent footsteps and restless flickering of torches carried by several men, my eyes flew open while keeping still as I could manage. I may not be allowed to participate in defending our kingdom but I can still listen to the sentries and gather what information I can from their hushed voices.

Then came fear. An unwanted feeling that I am extremely familiar with. Wars amongst tribes was the only constant occurrence as I was growing up that it instilled in me this fear I know too well.

After listening for a while, loud footsteps overwhelmed the violent current from the nearby river. The voice of my father giving my servants stern instructions somehow calms me down. Although I’ve never seen his face, I know his voice too well. Our conversations were always formal and professional, between a Datu and a binukot, strictly done with a partition separating us. That definite rule, a law that only my kin dared to implement, made me the most valuable treasure in the kingdom and among the tribes.

What I look like, only Mother knows. I was immediately hidden from everyone after I was born; even my father and my brothers hadn’t laid eyes on me even once. Other kingdoms give their priests special permissions to correspond with their living scribes but ours do not. Performing my predestined obligation granted my noble family the highest honor and prestige. Even the citizens are willing to fight on my command. It’s a pleasure, knowing the significance of my existence.

“Mother, last night. . .”

Mother lifted her head and her eyes confirmed that what I heard, Father’s urgent voice and the angry clash of metal against metal, was indeed real. The Sultan’s troops took advantage of the storm last night and many more lives were sacrificed to protect the kingdom.

“Kinnara, have you ever dreamt of watching the sea?” she asked, refocusing on her weaving. Her slender fingers expertly tackled the stubborn threads. Loneliness seemed to grip her voice and I understand because we share the same fate. She too was a Binukot but Father granted her the warmth of the sun and the freedom to see the world until sixteen years ago when she had to stay with me and raise me by herself. I wonder if she ever regretted giving birth me.

“Mother, I am contented with this life I know. I do not wish to be anyone I am not and I do not want anything that is not meant for me.”

If she’s testing me, I’m confident that I passed. I wish my answer makes her happy. Happy, contented, loneliness; I knew all these words but really, I’m not too sure I understood what they actually meant. And although I knew what curiosity is supposed to be like, I am not interested. Knowing nothing about the normal world except from my mother’s stories is not a problem a problem in my standpoint. Weaving and doing my duty as a living scribe by memorizing epics and songs certainly would not be a burden to me.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Banog,” I call one of my servants, my eldest brother, who was standing guard outside my room. “Summon the Datu.”

Without a word, Banog leaves and Bukaw took over his post. I watched their shadows move and disappear. Mother silently continued her weaving and maybe, her prayers, because I am praying too. Desperately. We’re in the middle of a crisis after all.

After a while, Banog returned to inform me that Father was currently negotiating with the hostile tribe. There was a hint of worry in his voice but his concerns to me were insignificant.

“Do you know that the sea is salty?” Mother asked me again. Something was definitely troubling her and it's affecting me in a way that is both disturbing and upsetting. I stared at her intently.

“Do you hate me, Mother?” I asked her those things but inside my chest was a tangled ball of white threads. “I do not appreciate you messing with my resolve.”

Hate. These words spilling from my mouth were ideas borrowed from those epic tales that I’d memorized. The realization that I might never had an emotion of my own relieved me.

She shook her head crying but I couldn't sympathize with her. I’ve never cried. I have nothing to cry about. Maybe those tears were the evidence of her hate because that emotion was believed to weigh heavily on the heart. She must have been suffering.

She embraced me and whispered to my ear the most terrifying fate that awaited me. My mind went blank and all I heard was the creaking of the bamboo floor and the murmurs of the nearby river. The boiled bananas I ate for snack almost escaped me.

“I am too late after all,” I whispered but it sounded more like a croak. I was aware of the possibility but I could never believe my father went ahead for the final resort. He severed the thread and sacrificed me.

He sold me. He betrayed me.

I heaved a sigh to rid myself of the unfamiliar dark-colored emotions entangling with the plain white threads that I believed was my heart. Then I smiled, carefully wiping away my mother’s tears with the hem of my skirt.

Fearing for my own is an act of selfishness. I was not raised so I could live for my sake. The Heavens blessed me with this beauty for the benefit of our kingdom. My only option was to save the lives of my people.

“I will submit to the Sultan. It is the right thing to do,” I declared. I shivered at the thought but decided that from now on, I must talk of the Sultan in the most respectable manner. My future depends on him and to adore my future husband is going to become my sole duty.

Mother violently shakes her head with her fingers digging on my shoulders and her eyes so wide with unsung pleas. It’s strange, as if she’s a different person. She was supposed to be the most sophisticated woman in the tribe but I don't see a trace of that right now. Only the eyes of a frightened woman unable to say the things she wanted to say, silenced by her own upbringing.

“You are the treasure of our tribe, Kinnara. I cannot allow that monster to taint and enslave you!”

“He’s going to wipe us out. A farming tribe cannot stand for too long against a tribe that breathes war.”

I am the objective all along, anyway. Father chose to keep the reason hidden but I eventually realized the truth. I am privileged with the abundance of time to think and ponder things over.

The Sultan's warriors killed our people and burned down their houses. Even the domesticated animals were not spared. There was no looting involved, only a clear message left for us to consider. The wars existed because the Sultan wants the most valuable Binukot among the kingdoms. Obtaining me meant their kingdom's illegibility to be granted the greatest political power in all of Kalupaan. The remaining kingdoms will surrender and kneel under one supreme ruler.

It spells the worst possible future for the kingdoms, but who am I to challenge the inevitable? 

“Mother, I am afraid too, but I will cast it aside. I will let you bear these fears for both of us.”

I hoped it was the end of my mother’s protests. I know she’s worried because of what I am but the Sultan recognizes that fact and still wants me. That gives me hope. 

*

Strange noises –

I realize I fell asleep. I found myself inside my largest palanquin and Mother was nowhere near. I called for her and I called Bukaw’s name. Only the cicadas replied.

I’m not naturally curious of what lies beyond the walls the confine me. Every time I am transported, peeking doesn’t even occur to me. People could be executed just by looking at me so I figured I’d also discipline myself by completely accepting my seclusion. It is only fair.

But the strangeness of those sounds prompted me to take a little look.

I gasped.

I see the moon! And it’s better than the one I saw during the harvest ritual. Is it a different one? A bigger, brighter and prettier moon? A mother moon, maybe?

I wish Mother could give me answers.

“Where am I?” I whispered. Normally, I would just sit and wait but my common sense tells me that there is no one around to do my bidding. I gingerly touch the wall of my palanquin and my hand immediately retracted. The sighs and shivers startling me so much that I ended up speechless.

The walls were breathing and shivering. Really shivering, like a living being that is soft and warm to the touch.

“Get out,” says a deep, rusty voice that conjured in my mind images of a no good vagrant, or maybe a drunkard. Right then the walls collapsed and rippled beneath me that I bolt upright, almost touching the earth with my bare feet.

“I can’t!” I shout, repulsed by the thought of losing my status to mere dirt.

“Get out or I’ll kick you, brat!” the voice rumbled and the wood beneath my feet rippled again, more violently this time, and tossed me out off its wooden floor. While I struggled to get up, the palanquin reassembles itself, but not before slamming on my back and knocking me off-balance. It ran off toward the dark forest, laughing madly.

I stared at the darkness for a long time. It dawned on me that my worth just disintegrated along with my status and my whole life has been such a pitiful waste. Just because I stepped on the ground with my own two feet.

And I am all alone. I’m on the ground, barefooted, and for some reason; my palanquin is alive and shamelessly kicked me out. If I’m not dreaming then maybe the gods or the jealous diwatas are playing a trick on me. No wonder none of them answered my prayers.

They were jealous of the beauty that drove kingdoms into years of violent wars, I thought, feeling dark threads wrapped tightly around my throat.

Almost cursing out loud, I paused upon remembering the beautiful moon. I looked up once again, appreciating the fact that no trees obscured my view. The strange sounds came from the direction of the moon, so maybe mortals can hear the moon when it’s that close and big. I took one careful step, and then another, wincing as tiny sharp rocks cut the soles of my soft feet. 

“I can never be who I was,” occupied my mind as I struggled forward. Walking is awfully exhausting, especially since the path was sloping and the rocks were getting sharper. I stopped to tie my hair on my back and then gathered up my flowy garb to avoid tripping on them accidentally.

The moon kept on getting farther away whenever I believed that I’m getting really close. I ran uphill where a single boulder carved it's silhouette right in front of the moon. I might catch it if I go a little bit faster. 

“One can never run fast enough to catch the moon.” It’s a man’s voice. “Especially one as clumsy and slow as you.”

I panicked.

Someone, a person, saw me!

I cocked my head to the direction where the voice came from. I can’t believe I didn’t notice him. I thought he was a boulder from down the hill but now that I'm standing next to him, he’s a man with a huge stone bilao covering the entirety of his hunched back. His view was fixed on the faraway void so he looked kind of sleepy.

He took my breath away, just like how the moon did earlier.

“What are you?” I asked, breathless. I am not ignorant, I know that there are different kinds of people. But I haven’t heard of a person with a large stone stuck on his back. It looked bumpy, with flowering crystal spikes in the middle, but the edges were rounded, smooth and shiny.

“You’re a rude fellow,” the man points out, his voice sounded sleepy too. He didn’t even glance in my direction. Was he afraid of the consequences of looking at a binukot?

“I’m sorry,” I say because I really was. It might be an illness that I’m not aware of. I puffed my cheeks. Can't he see that I'm barefoot? Nothing will happen even if he stares at me because I am no longer pure.

But he was still fussing over the thin bamboo stick he’s holding, pulling it up and dropping the line again.

The cold wind blew and I shivered. The air smelled tangy but not unpleasant, like fish broth. “What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Fishing,” he answered, pointing at the vast rice field below our hill that expanded far beyond, reflecting the brightest moon I have ever seen.

“Fishing?! In a rice field?”

He laughed, his eyes closed and wrinkled at the sides. I found myself smiling too, because he made it seem so easy.

Beneath us, the strange booming sounded clearer than when I heard it from afar. What I believed to be a rice field was in fact something else,  mirroring the light of the moon like the inside of a clamshell.

“So it’s the first time you’ve seen the sea?”

I nodded but realizing that he isn’t paying attention, I said, “Yes.”

 “No wonder he's dancing more beautifully than usual.”

“It was the sea calling out to me.” I breathe. It was the strange noise, her song, that beckoned me to her.

“Sometimes, the sea wants an audience, especially when the moon dances on her surface. Then, a wish is born.”

I listened to his bizarre stories. My throat itched because of the cold and his sleepy voice made me drowsy but the tales he told me were so fun and mesmerizing. The people in it and the places he described were unlike the images I saw in the epic chants that I memorized.

Strong winds blew right past us that I worried I might topple over and plunge to my death but the man seemed unaffected by the elements and continued talking in his own pace. He would occasionally pull his fishing line and then throw it back downagain.

He’s a peculiar man, although I don’t know the extent of his peculiarity because I didn’t have anybody to compare him with. Unlike my mother, he talks like everything around us is alive and familiar. 

In the end, he didn’t catch any fish. Instead, he easily hauled the largest clam I have ever seen, filled with shiny pearls of assorted sizes that looked like eggs of different birds. He tossed the largest one to me and I catched it with both hands.

“Thank you,” I told him. The pearl was surprisingly warm that I pressed it to my cold cheek. At last, he stood up, leaving the thin bamboo pole on the rough ground. He staggered and seemed surprised by it.

“Oops, it’s gotten heavier,” he says.

"What is?"

"My shell," he answered, slowly turning to show me his back and I waited patiently for him to face me again.

“What happens if it gets too heavy for you to carry?”

He stared at me for the first time and shrugged. His eyes were black and shining, like the surface of the calm sea.

“I will probably turn into a rock. Or maybe I will turn into nothing.”

Something stirred inside my chest, like a tug and the threads started moving and recoiling. It made me queasy.

“Why would you like that?” I asked him. It was late when I noticed the accusatory tone in my voice.

“I don’t like it. But I can’t help caring for people, so I can’t escape my fate. We are the same, bound to our curses.” He walked away, like an upright, lazy turtle. I remember I saw a turtle once.

[eirian-houpe]

The Library Beneath the Clock Tower - Chapter 26

Fandom: Once Upon a Time (TV)

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Belle/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Belle/Gaston (Once Upon a Time)

Characters: Belle (Once Upon a Time), Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Red Riding Hood | Ruby, Widow Lucas | Granny, Grumpy | Leroy, Maurice | Moe French, Evil Queen | Regina Mills, Merida (Once Upon a Time), Jiminy Cricket | Archie Hopper, Gaston (Once Upon a Time), Le Fou, Mad Hatter | Jefferson, Prince Charming | David Nolan, Gus | Billy, Huntsman | Sheriff Graham

Additional Tags: Bookshop On the Corner, slightly AU, Cursed Storybrooke (Once Upon a Time), Alternate Universe - In Storybrooke | Cursed (Once Upon a Time), Eventual Smut

Summary: Storybrooke has no library, and neither does Belle, not since the library where she worked in Boston discovered her past as an inpatient at a mental hospital. Taking her future into her own hands, Belle travels to Storybrooke where her intention is to open up the town library, but all does not go according to her plan. Obstacles and false starts, and diversion along very wrong pathways interrupt her journey toward fulfilling her dream, as well as taking her rightful place and becoming a part of the Storybrooke community.

Read previous chapters on AO3

Chapter 26 - Rivers, Mountains and Flowers

After Ruby left, the apartment suddenly seemed too quiet and empty, ridiculous as that sounded to Belle since she hadn’t been in the apartment all day long. Normally when she felt this way, she would go down to the library and do an extra bit of tidying, but thanks to Paige, there really was nothing to do. She wandered through to the kitchen. She hadn’t been making it up when she spoke of the new recipe she had found, that she wanted to try, but she wasn’t sure she was in the mood for baking either.  She was restless, and really didn’t know what she wanted to do. In the end, she put on some sturdy walking shoes, grabbed her coat against the evening chill, and took herself out for a walk.

She hadn’t intended to end up at the tree by The Bend. Nor had she intended to to pick up the book of poetry that she had been looking at on the day the library opened, and had thought it would be good to give the book to Hunter, nor to slip a note inside. In fact after the bath that Ruby had suggested she take and actually think about what she wanted, she had assured Ruby that she wouldn’t act until she was sure… and she still wasn’t.

The two girls had argued earlier, when Belle had run up from the library to grab a quick lunch and Belle had told Ruby about the other books that she had secured from another local library.

Ruby looked at Belle as though she had just proposed the more heinous crime in the history of crimes.

“You can’t ask Hunter. For one thing if he gets caught it will get him into trouble.  He could lose his job. Do you want that?”

“Of course I don’t, just—”

“And second of all, even if he doesn’t get caught, don’t you think that it’s exploiting him just a little bit?” Ruby asked, and Belle could see that she was trying to be gentle about it, but, the following words still hurt. “Belle, the two of you aren’t together, and you don’t even know what you want from the man.  Asking him something like this is the kind of favor you ask… well… you know.”

“Well, it’s all right for you!” Belle snapped. She didn’t usually get so defensive, but - and it was hard enough to admit it to herself, let alone out aloud to anyone else - she was jealous of Ruby.  Jealous and lonely… well, not lonely exactly, but…”

She sighed and leaned against the tree for a moment, remembering; reflecting, “Yes, Belle. Lonely,” she whispered aloud.  She settled down on her haunches, wrapping her arms around her bent knees.  It was a strange kind of loneliness though; the kind of loneliness that she knew she shouldn’t feel, because there was someone she should be with; would be with. She felt right there in Storybrooke, right and at home, but there was still something missing. She felt as though, if she were just to reach out, everything would fall into place. The only problem was that she didn’t know what was the right direction to reach. What if she’d already seen that person, and now it was up to her to do the reaching.

Decision made, she slipped Rivers and Mountains, by John Ashbery into the clear zip-lock bag that she’d brought with her, and moved to slip it onto the side of the tree that had the nail in. Then, she gasped. Hanging from the nail was a large clear plastic bag, and inside the bag where flowers of every type she could imagine. Even in the dying light of the evening she could see the myriad colors and types of wildflowers, and when she put her nose near to the bag, the sweet scent of them surrounded her. They were beautiful.  It was so romantic a gesture for Hunter to have gathered them as he drove between Boston and Storybrooke. He must have been waiting for her to spot them, and wondering what she would leave for him, in their place. She had been right about him all along, and she would prove it.

With a renewed spring in her step she turned down the pathway that would ultimately take her back to town the long way, by way of the forest, and perhaps dusk, rapidly coming on night time was not exactly the best of times to be walking an unfamiliar path through thick woodlands, it was just a part of her adventurous nature to go and do things the hard way. She had a flashlight in her bag, after all.

As she walked, a little way in on the other side of the creek, she saw a little clearing that she hadn’t noticed before, when she’d ridden to the lamb with Mister Gold in his car. Then, she’d been more focused on the idea of going to help the sheep than she was, as now, learning the lie of the land. There was a smattering of tiny bluebells in the clearing, and Belle clutched the bag of wildflowers more tightly for a moment, her imagination paining pictures of Hunter, seeing such flowers along his route, stopping the truck and taking care to collect them for her. The thought made her smile.

She moved on after a little while, finding she had to turn on the flashlight as night fell as she followed the track. Without thinking about it, as she reached the gap in the trees that led into the open field, she shone her flashlight that way, and was surprised to see Mister Gold’s Cadillac parked almost exactly where they had stopped the night of the lambing. Curiosity got the better of her, and she turned her footsteps that way.

She had barely walked for a minute or so when, out of the darkness came the panting, black and white shape of Aspen, hurrying towards her. His manner was alert, for the barest of moments as though he would attack, but just when the dog got close enough for her to properly make out his markings, she saw that his manner had already relaxed, and he came to a stop, sitting, with his tail thumping the damp earth behind him.

“Hello, boy,” she said to him. “What are you doing out here all by yourself?”

As if in answer, the dog leaped up to his feet and ran of into the field, in a direction slightly at an angle to the way they had walked before. She followed Aspen, and before too long, heard the quiet burr of Mister Gold’s voice speaking gently to someone, before addressing the dog, which she could hear far more clearly than his previous, soft tones.

As she got closer still, she could see, in the faint light of the lantern that sat at his feet, that Mister Gold was perched on a low stool outside of a small stone built shelter. In his hand he held a bottle, from which a small lamb was drinking hungrily.

“Miss Marchland?” There was a note of surprise in his voice.

“Yes,” she answered and stepped into the circle of light, looking alternately between the lamb and Mister Gold, “What are you doing?”

“I would have thought that self evident,” he answered.

“Well, I mean, yes, but… why?” she asked. “Is that one of the twins?”

Gold shook his head. “The twins weren’t the only lambs born this season,” he said. “And this one…” he sighed, “Well, his mother didn’t want him.”

“What?” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice. “Why?”

He sighed again, and looking at the lamb as it pulled hungrily at the bottle, and stroking its little head with his free hand said, “He wasn’t wanted by his mother.” His tone full of regret, and quieter yet as he added, “It happens sometimes.”

Everything inside of Belle screamed at her that he was talking about more than just the lamb, and she itched to ask, even though she knew it was none of her business, and even if it were, she didn’t enjoy the kind of relationship with Gold where they could talk about such things.

“I’m sorry,” she said, her voice full of kindness, and Gold looked up. In the dim light, his eyes were dark reflecting pools, full of meaning, and the unknown both at the same time, and for a moment she imagined she had seen into their darker depths somewhere before. Impossible, of course, but it made her shiver with a sense of longing, and she fought the urge to reach out and place a hand onto his shoulder.  She doubted such a touch would be welcome.

“It’s hardly your fault,” he said, breaking the spell as she snapped back to the moment.

“I know, but…” she began. “Does it mean you have to come here every day?”

He shook his head. “Mostly Dove takes care of them,” he said, “But he’s… away on an errand for me currently, so to cover for him is the least I can do.”

“Right,” she said shifting, suddenly self consciously, from one foot to the other.

“And you, Miss Marchland,” he said, and nodded toward the bag she carried. “Were you out gathering wild flowers?”

She clutched the bag to herself, suddenly defensive and wanting to tell him it was none of his damn business what she’d been doing, but instead she just shook her head.

“An admirer then?” he asked.

Again, she shook her head in denial, though her thoughts turned to Hunter, and the imagined journey of many stops to fill the bag with wild flowers to leave for her to find.

“I just… I had nothing to do at home so I thought I’d take a walk,” she said.

“And yet,” he gestured with his free hand toward the bag she cradled, “flowers.”

Before she could think of a suitable retort, the lamb finished the bottle and Gold set it down, and scooped up the lamb, carrying it over to a small pen nearby, and set it into a hay-lined kennel of sorts, letting Aspen into the pen along with the lamb. The dog went right inside with the lamb and curled up around it, to keep it warm.

“Good dog,” Gold crooned, making Belle smile in spite of her irritation at Gold’s prying.

“You’re just going to… leave him here?” she asked, as she watched Gold packing up, taking the stool he’d been sitting on back into the small stone shelter.

“Yes,” he said, as though it were obvious.

“Alone?” she pressed.

“Dove will be back soon,” he said, “He won’t be alone for long, and besides, this is his job. He knows what to do.”

“And he lives here, does he?” Belle asked, “Mister Dove?”

Gold blinked at her and frowned. “Of course not,” he said. “Dove has a house in Storybrooke, but during lambing season, he often stays here to keep an eye on the animals.”  He nodded toward the shelter, and for the first time, Belle poked her head inside. In the building was a low cot, and a small, wood burning, pot bellied stove, presumably for warmth, with a stack of wood beside it.

“I… see,” she said slowly.

“And are you quite satisfied that I am not mistreating my employees now?” Mister Gold asked, sardonic, but for a hint of a teasing tone behind his words.

Belle blushed, glad of the darkness in which to hide her scarlet face.

“Mister Gold,” she said, with as much indignation as she could muster. “I think you’re quite impossible.”

Gold chuckled. “Indeed, Miss Marchland, I am a difficult man to love.” Belle blushed even more, wondering who in the hell had said anything about love, she wasn’t sure she even liked the man. “I do, however, endeavor to be a gentleman wherever possible,” Gold went on, “In the spirit of which, may I offer you a ride home?”

She wanted to refuse, but if truth be told, she was getting tired, and the prospect of the long walk home to Storybrooke so late at night was no longer as appealing as it had been.

“Thank you,” she said, “That would be very… gentlemanly.”

Gold smiled, and offered her a tiny bow, before he finished clearing away what was left of the feeding session, and then led the way to his car. Belle followed, her mind replaying the contents of their short conversation, her thoughts returning to his comment about the abandonment of the lamb, and the assessment of himself as being a difficult man… and in her thoughts she could not bring herself to complete the phrase he’d used, but she could not refute his assertion that he was, where possible, a gentleman, as he opened the door for her, and saw her safely seated inside before he got into the car himself.

The drive back to Storybrooke was made in relative silence, and Belle thought that Gold seemed as preoccupied with his own thoughts as she was with hers.  When they pulled up outside of the library, and Gold got out of the car to come and open up her door for her, Belle couldn’t help but smile, and before she could censor herself, she asked, “Would you like to come up for a cup of tea?”

“Very kind of you,” he said as he walked her toward the door, “But not for me, thank you. I must take myself home to bed.”  He waited with her, however, while she unlocked and opened the door, then as she stepped though, added, “Good night, Miss Marchland. Enjoy your flowers.”