#to take me to a damn doctor about it despite repeating over and over that they will

[blighted-lights]

unsure how active im going to be for a bit. back problems have suddenly gotten worse (again) and my spine is Clicking Now. so yeah. going to be taking some time to try and figure that out

[khuzena]

Just a coworker

Dr ratio x g/n!reader (i tried)

Part 1, Part 2

cw. angst, super slow burn, they eventually get tgt, hurf/comfort, jealousy brr, reader is unhinged, mentions of drugs, kinda cringe but who cares I've written worse, not proofread, dr ratio is a pussy

a/n: I HATE LIFE SJNAANAN

A week passed and you got the jist of it, you were already done with the basics but everytime that man always found a reason to keep tutoring you.

You were grading some papers until you felt someone looming over you and snooping around your laptop.

“Hey!”

“Do you really need to shout?”

You hid your laptop away from him as he pried for any more info, causing you to kick his leg.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“Why the hell would you care? Plus im grading some papers, you asshole”

You typed away as he didn't leave your side, just watching you input some values— damn one of your students got a 2/100? Might as well make them repeat a grade.

“Which idiot fails literature? More or less just essay writing?”

“Uh…”, you paused, your other hand getting your coffee and sipping on it, “An illiterate person?”

No other words were shared as you two just sat in silence, him staring at the grading sheet and you typing away on your keyboard.

…

It was a quiet day, peaceful even. If it weren't for a fight that broke out at the food court. You should mind your business, but your favourite student had been gravely injured; worry comes easy.

You ran to the student, one hand rested on his leg as it bled, “Hey, stay with me— breathe.”

Your student, Mike, had been buying some coke from some guy in your coworker’s class, turns out Mike got scammed and well, you did not know the full story to take any full action but the blood shed was enough to panic.

“Mike, Mike!”

You held him, you were not an expert at cpr or had any training on how to deal with that much bleeding or anything about dealing with concussions.

Shit, shit.

“We need a doctor!”

Despite your desperate yelling, none were brave to come forth to help, the others just recording or covering their eyes.

What were you supposed to do?

You held onto mike as the others tried to restrain the guy that hurt him, this was bad.

Until you saw Veritas buying some coffee at the new coffee shop from weeks ago.

“Hey you!”

Veritas does not flinch, he does not respond.

“DOCTOR VERITAS RA—”

He groaned, about to run away yet you yelling his full name was enough to make him regret not buying earplugs prior to this incident.

He walked up to you and your student as he kneeled at the both of you’s level.

“What exactly happened?”

No matter how much he hates you and your guts, he still has a duty as a doctor.

“Some asshole beat him up, fuckin’ hell”

He doesn't say anything, before laying Mike down in a more comfortable position and getting a pill from his pocket.

“What's that?”

“Tylenol”

He forced open Mike's mouth and shoving down a pill.

“Isn't that a tad bit aggressive?” Mike was near choking as you patted his back and elevated his seating position.

“So it's better to airplane the pill in his mouth like he's 2 and let him die then?”

“That's not what I meant.” you sneered before some guys from the medical department ran to your side and took care of it.

Now you two were just standing behind the infirmary door and waiting for any update.

“I'm going to miss my class because of you.”

You laughed, the audacity of this man?

“Then go, I didn't ask you to stay.”

It's so hard to read this man when he has his alabaster head on, you can't even tell what he's thinking.

“You talk too much”

“You started it!”

“Just stop talking”

“Whatever.”

You peaked through the window and saw Mike unconscious on his bed, even though it wasn't your fault, it feels like it is…

You sighed as the nurse left the room, standing still before she spoke, “He's fine. It's good that you and Dr. Ratio was there.”

“Uhh yeah…”

You really didn't do much…

Veritas stayed silent as the nurse left, he's not one to like small talk.

“huff… huff… finally.”

You raised an eyebrow, before registering whose voice it was, your eyes lighting up.

“Amir!”

“Whew… I had to end class early, I learned about what happened too late.”

“It's not your fault”

Amir sighed while leaning so ungodly close to you, before Veritas had some audacity left in him to make a comment, “Actually, it is.”, he really has no shame does he?

“I apologise.”

“Now you're just being rude.”

Veritas turned away, can't that man just leave you both alone?

“I don't care. It was both your student's that got into this mess.”

“I have over a hundred students, how could I monitor all of them?”

“Yet you still have to take responsibility for it. I can't believe you let it get to that level.”

“Then leave, if you're just gonna be rude then shut up.”

Amir's jaw hung when he heard you literally tell the Dr. Ratio himself to shut it, not even the people from the IPC would have this level of audacity. It was your last straw, you've already dealt with enough bullshit for the day.

Usually, he would have some snarky reply up in his sleeves but what's crazy is that he just walked away.

“Did you just—”

“I did.”

“Wow.”

—

You were already about to go home as it was getting late, who knew having to shoulder the aftermath of that fight would be that tiring? No shit sherlock.

Peace and quiet, no one to bother you—

“You there.” that familiar voice echoing in the hallways as loud stomps were nearing your direction.

You spoke too soon. Why him of all people?

“You didn't come to today's tutoring session.”

You crossed your arms, looking up at him. Wow. He wasn't wearing his alabaster head? Can't say that it's new but the opportunity to stare at his face was a rare occurrence. But, he infuriates you too much that you'd rather kiss mud than oogle at him.

“And?”

“What do you mean ‘and’? I was waiting for you.”

You eyed him up and down, he did look upset. But did he really think you'd have the energy to confront him, much less see him after what happened today?

“I told you I wouldn't be able to attend tutoring lessons as I have someone to tutor too”

“When did you say that?”

“Two days ago?”

He was baffled, utterly baffled. When did you say that? You must be lying. Despite his stone head obstructing you from any chance to see him right now, by his voice, he was fuming.

He crossed his arms, his right foot tapping aggressively, “I do not recall you saying that.”

“But I did.”, his eyebrows furrowed as you spoke with clear conviction, what do you mean you did?

“You should've told me.”

“I did.”

“Then— why are you being so difficult?”

“It's not me who's being difficult, why are you even mad?”

Like that, the words at the tip of his tongue vanished. Exactly, why was he so worked up?

“You're just using this as an excuse to not deal with the issue.”

You had enough of his bullshit. You started to walk the other way but he just couldn't leave you alone.

“And what if I am? Get lost.”

“We need to talk.”

You turned your heel and faced him, face red and hot then you pointed at him,

“About what? About how sure it's absolutely my fault about what happened today, I'm an idiot, I don't know anything!”

“Now you're just blowing the issue up into something completely different.”

“What else is there to say?”

“You—”

He got silent, biting his lip under that stone head as his temper got the best of him.

“You really are an idiot.”

��

“Just leave me alone.”

There were no other words exchanged as you walked away, your footsteps getting more faint as a second, another one and another pass.

He shook his head at your outburst, you really were an idiot, incompetent and… whatever. At least now that blabbermouth always peering over his shoulder is gone.

…

As you walked home, you couldn't help but cry. There was nothing to cry over but it was too much. The heads berating you for not paying attention to your students, that a scandal like that could ruin the university— to hell with that shit, to hell with that university.

At least you felt safe, at home, with the company of your cats.

“Meow?”

Ah.

You hugged your cat, its fur getting wet as tears dripped, you were starting to taste the saline tears as it creeped into the corners of your lips.

Your phone rang with notifications from the doctor, Wait— how'd he even get your number? shit. But god won't he just leave you alone?

With a click, the notifications died down leaving only your quiet sniffles and your cat’s purr to be heard in the living room.

You didn't have any energy to eat, to hell with your health.

You turned off the lights and plopped into your bed, your cat joining you (yay) as the soft glow of the lamp illuminated the room.

You let out a yawn, turning the lights off but there was a call notification.

‘From Unknown Number’

You felt the urge to swipe and listen to what he had to say, but it's probably bullshit.

You fell asleep.

[From Unknown Number.]

:hey.

:answer me.

:stop being so difficult and just give me 3 minutes.

:Are you there?

:idiot.

:hey.

[99 more unread messages]

…

Time flies, three days flew by already yet it still feels like yesterday. You feel like shit, yeah the issue has been resolved, everything's fine but why did something just feel so wrong?

It was a good rest though, bless that lady who allowed you to have a few days off.

[From Unknown Number]

:I know you're seeing this.

:Stop acting like a child.

:Come on.

:You moron.

[231 more unread messages]

…

Phew, when you entered the faculty room, there was no Veritas in sight. Good, good.

You laid down your satchel on your desk and readied some stuff before heading out, making sure to check all hallways before you make a move; don't want to see the Doctor so early in the morning. (checking every hallway 24/7? What is this? Fnaf?!?)

Things were uncannily peaceful today, did he not come to work today? Or… Maybe you just got really lucky that you both did not cross paths for today.

“And,” you wrote diligently on the whiteboard, “That ends our discussion for today.”

The time ticked to 4:58 pm, you could already see some of your students pack their things.

“Any questions?”

They all shook their heads no as you finally dismissed them, oh how you missed being in your classroom despite being away for merely 3 days.

Today's a lucky day, no issues, no Veritas Ratio in sight.

“Hey __”

You jolted at the sudden call of your name, your head turning from the sound as you see Amir with a worried expression.

“Oh, Amir?”

So suddenly, he pulled you into a hug.

“What're you doin—”

“I was worried.”

“About?”

“You were no contact with everyone for three days, we were all worried.”

You awkwardly laughed, Amir was a fine man, definitely not your type though. You squirmed away from his hold.

“Yeah, just needed a break”

“Oh, I see.”

He paused, “You good now?”, his tone laced with concern.

“Yeah, at least I think so.”

“That's good.”

Your best friend, he was not stupid. He was intuitive too, he eyed you like you were some sort of experiment and like with any experiment, he's made his hypothesis.

“You don't sound ‘good’”

“What do you mean?”

“Is this about Dr. Ratio?”

Bingo, right on the money. There was no use trying to lie to him, especially not after chuckling awkwardly when you got caught.

You nodded, confirming his guess, “Knew it.”

He was in deep thought as he tried to think of any and every possibility why.

“Are you guys dating or something?”

You choked on your own spit— him of all people? Is he out of his mind? At this point, the idea of getting with that socially inept man sounds like an insult.

“Are you trying to piss me off?”

“Calm down sponge bob squarepants, geez”

You groaned as he handed you a juice box. “Thanks,” you quietly muttered out.

…

It was 5 pm, by now, everyone's probably clocked out by now.

It's weird, a 5 pm where you don't get tutor lessons from him.

Whatever, food for thought.

As you left the faculty room, a small part in you wanted to catch a glimpse of him despite you trying to avoid him. Did you miss him? or was just not being alone at these hours too comforting?

He wasn't there. As expected.

…

The next day, you see Veritas, you two walk past each other, he did not spare you a glance.

“Doctor…”

Wind breezes through the both of you but you stood still as he kept walking to his class. How cold.

It was no use trying to confront him, atleast, not here.

For a second, your gaze softened but you quickly got back to your senses. This feeling was strange.

…

The bell rang and, as usual, everyone left. What a fulfilling job.

This week has been really quiet. Peaceful but something was missing. Your life was fun, not this mundane even before Veritas but a part of you looks for him. No no, you were just being insane or something.

The faculty room door slid open, then, just as you wished would never happen (oh really?) Veritas was at you guys’ usual tutoring spot.

You wanted to run but your bag was there. Mustering up the courage, you tiptoed and grabbed your satchel, it felt like playing a horror game with how stealthy you were trying to be.

Shit.

Your pen fell, hopefully it didn't catch his attention.

Just as you were about to go grab it, he took it and handed it to you.

You gulped and took the pen, wanting to run but you froze on the spot.

“You look stupid trying to act stealthy.”

You didn't reply, only gulping nervously as you stayed still.

“What? Say something.”

Truth is, you had nothing to say.

“Sigh, you really like making things so difficult, don't you?”

He doesn't stop you from leaving, but maybe it was you stopping yourself from leaving.

An awkward silence ensued, it was getting annoying, for him, atleast.

“Aren't you going to leave?”

You don't say anything, just standing still, again.

“Answer me.”

Why did you enter the room?

“...” Veritas walked up to you, his codex not in hand as leaned closer.

“Give me 3 minutes.”

He raised your chin with a finger, face unreadable despite his alabaster head gone. It's the third or fourth? You've lost count how many times you saw his real face. Your memory was shit.

“I just want to talk about how…”

He bit his lip, yet his eyes remained fixed on your blank expression.

“That I want to apologise for my behaviour last week.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

That same old silence, he couldn't find the right words, he doesn't know how to say sorry.

“Well…”

“Well?”

Did he stutter? That's odd; very.

“I…” His eyes leave yours, he's practised saying it but it's the hardest thing he'll ever have to do, “I'm…”

Curious eyes gaze into his conflicted ones. Can he even say it?

“So…” sorry.

“I'm sorry.”

You stare at him with shock, did he just apologise?

“Did I hear that right?”

“God damn it.”

He pulled away and walked away to his desk but you followed him, “Hey, did you mean it?”

“Why wouldn't I?”

He knew you'd react like this, he expected you to laugh, mock him or anything but you just look at him with a look of shock—

“I see.”

—And somewhat relieved of what he said.

“I'm sorry too.” He was envious of how easily you spoke those words, you were no genius, yet you were better than him at apologising.

“I shouldn't uh—”

“I just want to say that—”

You cleared your throat, licking your lips in anxiety, “You go first”

“No you—”

“No, you.”

He hung his head low, before looking in your direction.

“It was uncalled for me to treat you and that man that way.”

“I'm listening.”

“I didn't take into account that you both were probably stressed from the situation and…”

He couldn't find the words, nothing was new to him. Complex maths? Easy. Medicine? Easy. Philosophy? Done. History? Is this a joke? He knows everything!

Other than one thing.

“I'm sorry.”

Apologising.

His words brought you immense relief, it was your turn to speak. For the first time, you can read his face. He looked pitiful. Did he not get enough sleep lately?

“I'm sorry too. I shouldn't have lashed out on you.”

How could you just have the knack to be so… Human? That, he couldn't understand. Being genuine, felt new.

“I understand.”

…

“What now?”

He fixed his books on the shelf, the ones he wanted to share with you.

“I dont know.”

“I thought you knew everything?”

He rolled his eyes as you teased him for it, he shouldn't have apologised.

“Stop talking, and also.”

He handed you some wipes, what was it for?

“Your hand,” you looked down at your dominant hand, seeing whiteboard marker creases, “Clean it up.”

“Oh okay.”

You wiped the stains off, but you wondered how perceptive he was. You didn't even notice it yourself.

“How's the tutor lesson with your student?”

Ah, that guy. It's been long since you've finished tutoring him with the basics.

“Went smoothly, he passed his exam”

He hummed, he finished tidying up his desk, good that you listened to his lectures.

“What did you teach him?”

“Until just page 25”

“Huh?”

But you studied the entire book with him, if you just needed help with just page 25, the tutor session would've only taken a week.

“Did you just keep going to the tutor sessions to see me?”

“Maybe, maybe not”

A soft smile creeped up in your face as you saw him short circuit for a bit before regaining his senses.

“You jest”

“I do not.”

…

“So… When's the next session?”

“At my place, tonight. It's getting late.”

Oh? At his place? What a bold offer—

“Just reviewing?”

“Just reviewing.”

You laughed as he rolled his eyes, the two of you leaving the faculty room.

“Under one condition.”

You raised an eyebrow, what was he asking for now?

“A date.”

“Pardon?”

“Do I have to repeat myself?”

You choked on your spit, that's absurd— god.

“No, I heard you. Fine.”

“Agreeing that easily?”

“Do you want me to refuse?” He was starting to get cocky, might as well drag him back down to earth.

“No, you still need to learn more about Quantum Mechanics.”

“Fine.”

…

Veritas pulled you close to him as you both walked the sidewalk, isn't he such a gentleman?

“The tab's on you?” no way were you paying the tab, he better pay it.

He scoffed, he could feel you hold onto his arm as he made sure you were on the right side of the lane to protect you of some sort.

“Whatever, you moron. Hurry up, we still have so much to review.”

A/N: its so bad wtf😭😭😭😢

[musings-of-miss-j]

no rest for the wicked (nor the foolish)

part nine: in which the Doctor calls in sick and Her Ladyship graces your doorstep

a harbingers x gn reader series!! (includes dottore, childe, arlecchino and pantalone x reader. the rest of the harbingers will not be romantic interests)

notes: slowburn, uh idek what to describe this as anymore!! introspection-heavy chapter, signora and dottore centric this time, Menaces Think About Feeling and Give Themselves a Headache

series masterlist

author's notes: *bleeding from an array of stab wounds varying in depth and size* h..hey everyone... sent in my college applications the other day and i've been feeling sick to my damn stomach every since. also graduated haha! salutatorian..! kill me! at least i got to give a speech and make my mum proud ig. anyway enjoy this chapter!

word count: 4902

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

Despite how dazzled Childe might have been by your passable archery, Dottore was decidedly unimpressed when your return to the lab was so overdue.

“And just where have you been?”

“I could ask you the same, Doctor,” you replied pointedly when you recovered from your start at his sudden question. He clicked his tongue, impatient.

“My dear student, this is far from a suitable day to challenge the status quo. Tell me where you were.”                                                                                                               

The Doctor was hardly one to wear his heart on his sleeve, and the barely-there edge to his voice would’ve escaped you if you weren’t so familiar with the careless tenor he usually adopted; paired with the slight raspiness it almost made it sound as if he was… sick?

“Have you fallen ill?” You asked with a frown, stepping forward and scrutinising what was visible of his face for any observable changes. He always looked deathly pale, though, so it was difficult to ascertain any physical symptoms.

“I don’t fall ill,” he hissed, turning away from you with a scowl. “Answer my question.”

Oh, well. Might as well let him interrogate you.

“The archery range.”

“The archery range,” he repeated, tone dripping with contempt. “Rather than contributing to scientific advancement, you chose to play with bows and arrows. Extraordinary.”

“Whoever usually spits in your coffee supplied extra effort today, I see,” you mused under your breath, heading back to your work station and tightening your gloves as you walked.

“The sheer cheek-”

“And there’s my proof that something’s amiss,” you smoothly interrupted, looking through the row of test tubes on your work bench. “I implicitly called you an imbecile earlier this week and you didn’t bat an eye, but now a little throwaway comment is so easily setting off your volatile temper?” You shot him a pointed look over the rim of your glasses. “No point in continuing yesterday’s experiment if you’re sick, Doctor. You’ll contaminate the Petri dishes beyond salvation.”

Dottore pinched the bridge of his nose with a long-suffering sigh, pivoting on his heel and preventing you from taking a peek at what the rest of his face looked like with the mask slightly tilted up. You were insufferable, with your overly astute observations and your deceptively mild tone with the hint of sarcasm just strong enough to make him raise an eyebrow. You were maddening, all narrowed eyes and furrowed brows as you pored over what he assumed to be an anomalous result (you only ever hunched that closely over your work when something had gone wrong. He knew it was an old habit from before you’d started wearing glasses, when any mistakes could easily be fixed simply by eliminating the issue of poor visuals.) You were unbearable, intelligent enough to challenge him and prove him wrong, all without even raising your voice a single decibel. He wished your secrets were the kind that could be uncovered by a scalpel and a swipe or two of disinfectant.

“I do believe I’m the doctor, dear student. You’re hardly qualified to throw diagnoses around.”

“Well then, Doctor, I think you’d best go ahead and diagnose yourself with a common cold, and recommend yourself some bedrest while you’re at it.”

He grumbled incoherently under his breath, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Probably a fever, you thought with a touch of gratification. When he moved in the general direction of the incubator, you called out at his receding back.

“Do not touch my cultures. This is the fourth time I try to test this medium,” you added, mostly to yourself.

“Worry not,” he replied, voice practically oozing sarcasm. “Your subpar agar plates couldn’t be further from the top of my list of priorities.” 

You rolled your eyes, stacking the sheets of paper you inevitably accumulated at the end of every lab session and resolving to leave the Doctor and his more-annoying-than-usual attitude to finish your work elsewhere.

“Stay,” he instructed without turning around when you headed to the door. “I’ve yet to hear the details of your thermodynamic stability tests.”

“I’ll have the complete report ready tomorrow,” you pointed out, continuing to make your way to the door.

“Stay,” he repeated, just barely more forceful. “I’d like to hear about it now.”

You stopped in your tracks, sighing internally. It would be senseless to put so much effort into making sure you didn’t anger the Harbingers only to directly disobey an order and let all your posturing go to waste, so you spent the next few hours chattering extensively about your experiment, perhaps being more long-winded and going into more detail than necessary as a form of petty revenge. Not that the Doctor seemed to mind, making the occasional noise of acknowledgement and asking questions that allowed you to delve deeper into the specifics of your methodology.

By the time you’d finished off your spiel with a cursory “and then I’ll recrystallise the product so there’s a pure sample ready for another round of testing”, it was well into the evening and you’d wound up in the inevitable position of sitting on one of the workbenches thanks to the utter lack of any chairs in the lab.

“It is a well-designed procedure,” the Doctor conceded, breaking your absent-minded train of thought about whether or not you could somehow drag a comfortable loveseat inside.

“You must really be under the weather if you’re offering me a compliment on a silver platter,” you replied with a raise of your eyebrows. “Not even a backhanded one. Truly astonishing.”

Dottore rolled his eyes behind the mask. “The only cause for astonishment is your inexcusably meagre supply of respect.”

“There’s the Doctor I know,” you said with a huff of laughter, pushing your glasses to the top of your head and rubbing your eyes. “…Don’t overwork tonight,” you added after a non-negligible period of deliberation. “I need another set of hands for tomorrow’s follow-up. So…” you gestured vaguely at him with your hand, hopping down from the workbench. “Rest, if only for an hour or two.”

You weren’t quite sure if the Doctor’s silence made you feel more or less awkward, but you brushed it off to the best of your ability and left with only with the vague sense of mortification you’d get from showing a little more kindness than usual to someone who was probably more accustomed to your scorn.

Dottore, on the other hand, was more confounded than he cared to admit. You’d always been careful not to say too much; every one of your words was precisely measured and deftly presented, with no room to spare for emotion. Which was sensible of you, all things considered; he was a Harbinger, and you were in alone in a foreign country working with an organisation that veered on the wrong edge of morality, where integrity was a politely dismissed formality at best and an openly mocked concept at worst. Impassiveness would help just as much as openness would hurt. The occasional times you slipped up, the only feeling that bled into your voice was annoyance; crisp and sharp and a sight to behold, especially for a scholar such as himself who toiled against the laws of nature countless times with innumerable different methods to procure something new, a tangible result.

He marvelled at himself for thinking of you as such, an immovable law, a force of nature, then he returned to the puzzling dilemma that was your parting statement. Rest, you’d told him. You never said anything that could belie concern, or worry or weakness, yet you’d expended an extra syllable or two for the simple word, directed at him. To every rule an exception, he thought with no small measure of satisfaction at finding a way to categorise your behaviour yet again, and filed the abnormally uncertain cadence that your voice had displayed, however briefly, in the corner of his mind.

The night was still young and many of the recruits you shared a wing with loitered in the corridors, talking and smoking and looking rather exhausted. One of them, a girl with red hair so bright it could’ve replaced the floating lanterns that littered the palace, offered you a cigarette as you walked past. You declined with a nod in her direction and continued on your way, the strap of your heavy leather satchel digging uncomfortably into your shoulder as you approached your dorm. After a moment of fumbling with the chain on your belt for the key, you all but collapsed inside with a yawn, running a hand through the stray hairs that had escaped throughout the day. The fire crackled in the hearth, definitely courtesy of Anya, and you gratefully warmed your hands in front of it before unclasping your cloak and hanging it in the wardrobe along with your bag.

“You’re late, sweetling,” came a voice that was becoming alarmingly familiar- ever so slightly gravelly, with an undercurrent that always left you guessing whether its owner was amused or displeased.

“Fashionably so, I hope,” you replied, turning to face Signora with a smile that veered on the wrong side of playful. You couldn’t help it; everything about her demanded obedience, and small defiances were the only thing preventing you from feeling like a well-trained pet with not an ounce of dignity to spare. Either way, she didn’t seem to mind, judging from the exaggerated, lenient eye roll she sent in your direction. You marvelled at the companionable silence as you unpacked. Lady Signora fit seamlessly into the puzzle that your everyday belongings shaped, yet commanded attention all the same; like a swath of unblemished silk draped over aging furniture. Her first few visits were an uncomfortable experience. It had felt more like an intrusion, really, being forced to entertain an unwanted guest with your limited capacity for small talk (mortifying) and a different tea blend every time served in teacups with a painted rim that matched her lipstick (because despite it all, a part of you still wanted to impress her).

You carried out the same routine, teapot, cups and saucers, and even went so far as to open a new tin of biscuits for Her Ladyship. The eyes of Her Ladyship in question remained focused on you, half-lidded yet nonetheless penetrating as ever, as you went through the motions of pouring the tea and handing her the cup.

“Chamomile? It’s quite unlike you to forego caffeine.”

You sighed, taking a seat across from her and melting into the dips of the chair. “The Doctor was in an awful mood. If it carries on until morning I’ll need every minute of sleep I can get to deal with him.”

She clicked her tongue, lifting the cup to her lips. “That man possesses no emotional stability whatsoever. It’s a wonder you’re both still alive, especially when your temper is hardly mild either.” This last remark she paired with a wink, and a smile spread over your face.

“Right as always, my lady. Too often a day spent in the lab feels like my last.”

“Ah, Tsaritsa forbid!” She waved a hand in your direction, the simple black rings on her fingers catching the low light. “You have to live until the gala at least, sweetheart. I won’t have you tragically perishing before then; you owe me a dance, after all.”

You dejectedly rubbed your brow. “I do wish you’d pardon my absence from that gala.”

“Absolutely not,” Signora declared, crossing one leg over the other with an air of unbearable gratification. “You wouldn’t break my heart so callously, now would you?”

“Anything but Her Ladyship’s heart,” you replied dryly.

After a moment of shared laughter, a comfortable quiet fell across the room, punctuated by the crackling fire and the muffled groan of the building as it settled for the night. Your eyelids grew heavy, and staying awake was rapidly looking like an unnecessary effort you had no interest in making. Signora watched you drift off with an oddly contemplative expression, her eyes unfocused yet present all the same, as if simultaneously observing you and something far beyond. You had become a frequent visitor in her dreams, instantly recognizable by that shrewd look in your eye and the stubborn line of your mouth, one she could never resist trying to coax into a smile; and sometimes when she succeeded and the light hit you just so, she could swear that she glimpsed Rostam’s face within the shadows of your own. Then she’d blink and the illusion would dissolve, leaving behind only your sharp eyes and stern mouth, so unlike the gentleness she so clearly remembered in his.

But now, with the fire casting wavering shadows every time your lashes fluttered, just barely asleep, and the muffled silence that always seemed to accompany snow calming her mind, Rosalyne found comfort in the fact that your face – the slope of your cheek, the curve of your nose, the crease of your eyes – was entirely your own.

Something banged against the door and you started awake, half-certain you were dreaming as your eyes struggled to focus in the dark. The noise came again, louder and more insistent, and you detangled yourself from a blanket you didn’t remember falling asleep in before stumbling off the couch and towards the door, rubbing your eyes and too tired to even question who would call on you at such an ungodly hour of the night.

Bang bang bang-

“Heavens above, would you stop-”

You forcefully yanked the door open, already preparing to fix whoever was on the other side with your most withering glare. Dottore peered back at you, almost glowing in the inky blackness of the corridor. You blinked, then groped blindly through your pockets for your glasses. Upon hastily shoving them onto your nose, it became clear that it wasn’t Dottore at all, rather one of his segments.

“Omega?” You squinted up at him, then scowled. “Bastard. What exactly are you hoping to accomplish by breaking my door down?”

“I’d break down much more than just a door if it meant having a chance to see you.”

“Shut the hell up,” you hissed, feeling more enraged by the second. “You have thirty – no, twenty seconds to explain what you’re doing here before I dismantle your logic core.”

He grinned, completely unconcerned. You hated to admit it, but his lack of reaction was probably justified; the Rudimentary Mechanics of Sentient Machines course you took in your second year left you ill-equipped to go through with your threat. That didn’t mean you couldn’t simply swing a hammer, though, and you silently communicated the fact to Omega with a glower that could probably light a torch.

“Alright, alright,” he relented, shifting his weight to the other foot. “Prime’s fallen unconscious.”

You levelled him with an unimpressed look. “I fail to see how that’s my problem. There are seven of you, all with highly developed medical faculties. You can handle a little oopsie-daisy.”

“Well, of course we can,” Omega replied with a barely restrained snort. “It isn’t a lack of skill on our part, that I can assure you of. Prime coded us all with a total inability to touch his person.”

There was a pause during which you picked out a rather distasteful array of words you would’ve liked to call the Doctor. “Archons above, that man is the most imbecilic genius this timeline had the displeasure of housing.” You rubbed the bridge of your nose, already half-resigned to your fate. “And I suppose any real doctors within the building are utterly forbidden from laying a hand on His Majesty’s body, too?”

“Nope. They haven’t been given explicit instructions not to do so, but they’re all too scared out of their wits to breathe within a five mile radius of him anyway,” he replied cheerfully.

“I’m going to mix all his blood samples together,” you muttered heatedly under your breath, turning to grab your cloak and pushing Omega out of your doorway before he could start looking through your dorm. “Move it, Omega.”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbled, letting you shove him towards the barely-illuminated staircase.

The lab was just as, if not even more poorly lit than the corridors, with only a single lamp set to the dimmest possible glow; the feeble light was barely enough to see by, and you could make out the Doctor’s slumped-over form by the indistinct shadows it cast over the workbench. Despite the eeriness of the scene, you didn’t feel nervous; it was difficult not to feel at ease in a room you spent so many hours of the day in. You could probably navigate the lab blindfolded and drunk, so picking your way through the boxes, stacks of paper and books on the floor might as well have been a walk in the park. Still, you wondered why the floor was so cluttered in the first place; it was never so populated with scientific miscellany when you were working there.

Approaching the Doctor, you took note of how his mask had fallen slightly askew where his face rested against the marble, revealing a sliver of his cheek, flushed an unusual red, and the dark circles beneath one of his eyes. Your spine tingled with trepidation. Even while unconscious, the Doctor emanated danger, embodied peril; the simple act of reaching out to touch him felt like a surefire way to spell your own doom, but despite your wariness you slowly extended your hand towards his face to check his temperature.

You barely made it a few inches before he grabbed your wrist, snapping upright and staring straight at you.

“Oh,” he muttered hoarsely. “It’s you.” Then he went limp again, collapsing back onto the marble surface as you recovered from the start he’d given you.

“What in Teyvat is the matter with you?” You demanded in a whisper after a moment’s surprise. “Omega dragged me here saying you were unconscious. You can’t possibly keep denying that you’re sick, Doctor.”

“Don’t you tell me what I can or can’t deny,” came a muffled grumble in response. “Go away, dear. Omega is a meddling pest who needs his cerebrospinal fluid replaced at best and a full reformatting at worst. Nothing he says can be trusted.” His words slurred together in a most concerning manner, and you could hear the faintest Sumerian accent that wasn’t usually present in his voice from the way he rolled his r’s.

“Why would a robot need cerebrospinal- no, don’t answer that. Just”- you gestured at his hunched form, not that he could see- “Go to bed, please.”

“I can’t possibly waste time on something as useless as sleep,” he snapped, finally lifting his head. “I’m one concordant result away from a breakthrough, I swear it.”

“And I’m one stupid word from your mouth away from knocking you out properly,” you griped under your breath. “Doctor, please. I bet if I tried to take your temperature I’d lose a couple of fingers to third degree burns. Just rest, whatever breakthrough you think you’re on the verge of can wait.”

He let out a bark of wry laughter, turning to face you fully and lay the full weight of his piercing glare on you. “Aren’t we hypocritical? You once spent fifty-one and a half hours straight in the lab inhaling toxic fumes from a genetically modified mushroom’s spores because you were convinced the cure to Eleazar was within reach. You wouldn’t let a revolutionary advancement in your research wait either.”

“That is completely beside the point”- you blinked, processing his words. “How the hell do you know about that? I stopped researching Eleazar in my third year and I only have one publication on the topic.”

“I have my ways,” he replied, a self-assured grin stretching across his face.

“So you’re a stalker, too? Was the list of atrocities you’ve already committed not long enough to appease your wicked soul?”  You deadpanned.

“Stalking? I prefer to call it data collection.”

“Yes, of course you would,” you quipped, patience growing thinner by the second. “Get up, Doctor. You’re getting eight hours of sleep tonight whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t be so frivolous,” he scorned. “Three is already excessive.”

You were growing more and more aggravated by the second; if you scowled any harder the lines of your face would probably become permanently etched in that position. Steeling your nerves, you grabbed him by the sleeve and hauled him upwards. Surprisingly enough, he actually got up, although that was more likely because you caught him off-guard.

“I’m too tired to exchange witticisms with you all night. We both know you’re not going to make any more progress, and you’ll be useless in the lab if you can’t even discern silver from iron.”

You picked your way unsteadily through the mess on the floor, cursing Omega for disappearing when he could’ve made himself useful. Dottore let you pull him towards the door that led to the completely unused bedroom, still mostly out of surprise that you’d dared to lay a hand on him in the first place. He had to commend your bravery; anyone else would’ve been left with a broken wrist by now, if they were lucky. The reasoning behind your special treatment made the unpleasant pounding in his head quickly become unbearable, so he decided to drop that train of thought. For the time being.

You kicked open the door and shoved him inside the untouched bedroom. Just from taking a brief glance around you were immediately certain that no one had stepped foot in it since it had been furnished, let alone made use of it for sleep. Every surface from the dresser to the shelves mounted on the wall was completely empty save for a thick layer of dust, the bedsheets had become yellowed with age and the spider web cracks starting at the window and ending at one of the corners were tightly clustered with the tiny, jasmine-like flowers that littered the rest of the palace. The Doctor swayed slightly on his feet, and you quickly moved to catch him before he fell. A frown crossed his face. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about being so reliant on you all of a sudden. Whatever he felt about the matter, it couldn’t have been positive; every time you touched him his fever seemed to rise a few degrees.

“Well, isn’t this ironic,” you mused to yourself, guiding Dottore to the bed and pushing him down onto it. “The doctor becomes the patient and the apprentice becomes the master.”

“Do not flatter yourself so,” he bit back. “You’ve a long way to go before surpassing me, dear.”

“I see a little cold isn’t enough to knock some humility into you,” you sighed, busying yourself with trying to force the window, which hung ever so slightly ajar and let in gusts of freezing air, to fully close. Dottore watched you from the bed, wondering what you were thinking in that moment. As far as he was concerned, it was a miracle you’d managed to force him anywhere without snapping his incredibly fragile patience, and now you were even going so far as to trade jabs with him that were quite a few degrees of familiarity higher than the ones you usually let loose during the day. And you’d told him to rest earlier that night, advice he’d blatantly disregarded, but it had still been a deviance from what he’d come to expect from you. Overall, he decided, both of you were exhibiting remarkably odd behaviour, and as much as it pained him to admit it he was too tired to think further about the matter.

Upon finally forcing the window shut and sustaining a shallow nick in the palm of your hand as a result, you walked past him and back into the lab with a mumbled curse on your lips which quickly devolved into a wide yawn. Of course you’d be tired. He tended to forget, sometimes, how it felt to have a body that wasn’t modified to be as close to perfection as possible; but catching even a glimpse of your very much human exhaustion brought back distant memories of his own fatigue, before he had taken a scalpel to his own skin and remedied the limitations of his own body. Still, he mused, watching you return to the bedroom with a pot of steaming tea (where in Teyvat did you get that? Did you keep it in the lab?) with half-lidded eyes and a disgruntled frown on your lips, a part of him filled with satisfaction at the opportunity to analyse an expression of yours he hadn’t seen before. He studied you intently as you turned your attention to the tea, eagerly filing away every detail of your countenance as he always tended to do when you showed him a new side of yourself, whether intentionally or not. You bent over a little to pour the tea, and he took in the curve of your spine, normally held upright in an example of perfect posture. Your hair slipped and hid a portion of your face, and he marvelled at how soft it looked, how effectively you usually kept it tied back for it to never get in the way. You rubbed one of your eyes, dislodging your glasses, and he watched as you plucked them from your face and stowed them in the pocket of your coat, thoroughly wrinkled along with your blouse to the point where he suspected you’d fallen asleep in them. You’d never let yourself get in such a state of disarray otherwise. Your gloves remained on your hands, though, he noted. You silently offered him a cup of tea, and cast a curious, searching gaze, the one you adopted when tasked with a particularly tricky experiment or stubborn calculation, across his face. He’d long since acknowledged the sheer gratification that came with you regarding him like a puzzle to solve or a code to decipher, and now was no different. Dottore internally preened at being the subject of your curiosity.

“That mask can’t be comfortable,” you finally said, taking a sip from your cup. “Does it not impair your breathing at all?”

He stared down at the cup you’d given him, catching sight of his own reflection in the surface of the amber liquid. “Quite a poor attempt to convince me to remove it,” he remarked, sending you a bemused, slightly mocking smile.

You rolled your eyes, dragging a worn chair to the side of the bed and crumpling into it. Swirling your cup around thoughtfully, you continued to survey him through narrowed eyes. You probably couldn’t see him very well without your glasses, he realised with some amusement as he finally lifted the cup to his lips. He was pleasantly surprised; it seemed your unbelievable caffeine intake was justified, if every pot of tea you made was of such high quality.

“You’re going to get up and continue working the second I leave, aren’t you?” You said, breaking the silence. Dottore drained his teacup before answering. Some damn good tea right there.

“Unless you’ve spiked this tea with a sedative, yes.”

“Damn, I should’ve done that,” you muttered regretfully under your breath. Then, after eyeing him shrewdly for a moment, you conceded, “Well, at least you’re getting some rest now, if nothing else.”

Yet another thing about the whole situation that was confusing the hell out of him. Why didn’t he just disregard you and go back to what he was doing? Why was he sitting in this practically-antique bed in this practically-abandoned room, drinking tea and making conversation with you instead of finishing what he started? What in Teyvat was it about you that was so compelling he found it so easy to disregard the work he thought he’d choose over everything else? Not for the first time, he wished that your enigmatic nature was something he could decode like an ancient scripture or unravel like the tangle of ley lines that held the world together. So few things were a mystery to him anymore; there was so little he’d left undiscovered, yet you had managed to make it onto such a short list seemingly without effort. Even now, while you were completely still and silent, your unfocused eyes looking somewhere out the window, his full attention was captured by the way you rested your cheek on your fist, the way your eyelids fluttered periodically as you struggled to stay awake. Damn you.

You dozed off just then, teacup slipping from between your fingers. He caught it before it could shatter, then nearly crushed it to pieces himself when he realised his urgency in preventing it from hitting the floor was because he didn’t want to wake you. And that maybe you liked this particular teacup, and would mourn its loss. And fuck, why would such things cross his mind? Frustrated, he glanced back up at you as if your sleeping form would hold the answers to these infuriating questions that plagued him, and instead was left with an even greater sense of wonderment at how much the peacefulness of sleep softened the harsh lines of doubt and suspicion in your face.

He carefully set the cup down. If his grip tightened any more he’d break it in his fit of vexation. And despite not knowing the reason why, he didn’t want to upset you.

*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚*  ੈ✩‧₊˚**  ੈ✩‧₊˚*

taglist (omg there's so many of you now i'm gonna cry):

@viridian-coffer, @vvzhyxx, @darifes, @whore-of-many-hot-men

@aenishas, @lovel3tter, @randomidk-123, @autistic-deer

@luvenus702, @zoriaisasimp, @ra404, @crownohomo

@diamondcookie45, @steadybreadbluebird, @reapersimps

@lockandkeys, @lacunaanonymoused, @tyt42, @blackcatpandora

to be added or removed please reply to the masterlist post, bold means i'm having trouble tagging you :(

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"You spend half your life with dilated pupils I don't think you're nice And you treat me kinda cruel All your moves is crazy You compromise my safety All your friends are shady They tried to warn me vaguely You patronize me daily You never call me baby Or treat me like a lady And mainly quite frankly

You get on my damn nerves…"

Chlothegod – "UGOMDN"

A.N.: Content Warning. Discussions of abortion, blood & violence.

An abortion was impossible for Celeste to get under Louisiana State law.

Once Roe v Wade was abolished, the law in her state was activated to ban all abortions, regardless of whether a woman had been raped or was a victim of incest. Despite her fear, Celeste had to see a doctor after her third positive pregnancy test and increasing fatigue. She lived with horrendous morning sickness and suffered in silence. At a clinic, a sweet-faced young doctor told her she was about nine weeks along. The fetus was the size of a strawberry. Refusing to look at the ultrasound, she didn't want to acknowledge the being inside her as a baby. Especially when she wanted to get rid of it.

Under normal circumstances, the logical answer was to remove the fetus from her body by crossing state lines. But jumping up to take a trip to California suddenly wouldn't be easy. Celeste would have to find a discreet way to get away from L.A. relatives when she'd never been there before, find a clinic, have the abortion, and then lie around in bed for a day or two until she was okay. She wished she had female cousins her age to talk to, but the only other women relatives nearby were twice her age, jaded aunties who would curse her out for being so stupid about getting pregnant…by a vampire. She refused to share the news with her girlfriends, embarrassed that she let a dude knock her up on the first fuck. The one female cousin she had in L.A. that was only a couple of years older than her couldn't be trusted to keep her mouth shut if Celeste confided in her for a ride to a Planned Parenthood trip. It had to be a covert operation.

"Arrghhhh!"

Celeste screamed inside her car on the drive to the chicken processing plant. For the next twelve hours, she would sort chicken parts and blast-freeze them. The work was routine and boring, but paid well and she liked the co-workers who packaged the chicken on the graveyard shift with her. Anticipating relief from the city's heat, she couldn't wait. Freezing chicken in a controlled, cool environment saved her from thinking too much about her problems.

Sort. Push trays. Freeze. Toss frozen chicken parts into boxes. Rinse and repeat.

The hours ticked by and she settled into her work groove. The face mask covering her nose and mouth helped keep the stench of raw chicken from upsetting her stomach. She became so sensitive to odors lately that she didn't know how she could hide a pregnancy from her family. The hormonal changes fucked her up. She'd cry at the drop of a hat and get irritated so fast around people. Even at the chicken plant, she acted short with co-workers. Fatigue set in after six hours. Her snippiness was called out by the floor supervisor, and she took a break in the restroom to get her shit together. She sat on a toilet and cried, angry that she put herself in the position she was in. Plan B failed her. Her choice to let the man nut in her was ridiculous. She regretted not staying consistent on birth control pills after being with Freddie.

Covering her face with her hands, she berated herself for getting pregnant a second time in her life. The first time had been before she entered university. She'd been terrified then and confided in her cousin Micah, who stood by her in secret. He drove her to a clinic over in Slidell and let her stay with him and his family for a sleepover movie party to hide the fact that she needed a quiet place to recuperate. Micah was her favorite cousin, and she knew that he'd be the first to help her if she called, but she didn't want him to judge her for not heeding his warning about Terry. This time, she was on her own, and it killed her soul to know she was going back on her word to God about doing anything like that again. She swore as a frightened seventeen-year-old that she'd never have an abortion again if God could forgive her for terminating that one mistake.

The man who impregnated her as a teenager had been older, in his mid-twenties, and ended up getting killed by gun violence over in Shreveport when Celeste turned eighteen. She would've been an unwed teen mother with a dead baby daddy. Going back on her word brought her personal shame. As an adult woman, she should've done better. Being hot in the panties at seventeen didn't compare to being a grown ass fucking up.

Getting back on her grind, Celeste finished her shift and left the building quickly. She sat in her Charger and watched three male co-workers who car-pooled together in an old Honda leave before her from the parking lot. At three in the morning, the sky stayed dark enough to let the stars shine like little crystal buttons.

Her cell chirped.

Micah.

"Bitch, what's going on?" Micah said.

"Getting off work."

"I'm not askin' 'bout your job, cousin. What's going on with you?"

The noise of Bourbon Street droned on in the background of Micah's call. His club job didn't shut down until four in the morning.

"Nothin'. Just work…like I said."

"That redbone ever come back?"

"Terry ain't no redbone—"

"Whatever…you still fuckin' wit 'em?"

"No."

"Joyce called me and said you ran outta the Quarter like you seen the devil or something and she ain't hung witchoo since. Y'all been tight since gradeschool. Ain't like you to be anti-social, Duchess."

"Work has been kicking my ass…I just need time by myself."

"Quit one of them jobs, then."

"I need money to pay my rent and save up for my dream house."

"Nobody told you to go live in overpriced artsy-fartsy Marigny. Them old slave homes cost millions. Bitch, we from the Truh-May. You think two jobs and sewin' gonna pay for that in your lifetime? Unless these white folks give up some reparations, you stuck outchea grindin' for pennies on the dolla like the rest of us. Move in with me and you could save some real money."

"And watch you argue with your boyfriend and girlfriend all the time? I got enough drama without your chaotic poly life."

"Point is, cranky bitch, I've got plenty of room for you and a support system if you need it."

"Thank ya, cousin. I appreciate it. I'll file that away for emergencies."

"You need me to roll through and cook you breakfast when I'm done here?"

"No. I'm going to get in my bed and sleep until I gotta come back here tonight."

"You see a doctor about that anemia?"

"Yes. I'm not anemic. Just overworked."

Celeste let the lie sit. Micah didn't pester her further, and they ended their call promising to see each other at their grandparent's house for a Sunday dinner. She resolved to tell Micah the truth…about her pregnancy…and the vampires.

She started the engine of her car, and the Charger roared to life. Waving at incoming workers starting the next shift, she pulled out of the parking lot and headed for the long stretch of quiet state highway. A marine layer covered the road with an advection fog, reducing her visibility. She slowed down, played some music, and smoked. A violent coughing fit hit, and her stomach heaved. She threw the cigarette out of the window. The taste of nicotine on her tongue hit different. Like rotten meat.

While singing along to the radio, she noticed blinking hazard lights on the side of the road up ahead. An old Honda pulled to the side looked familiar. Her co-workers.

They milled about, looking forlorn.

She pulled up next to them and rolled down her passenger window halfway.

"What happened?" she asked.

Hector, a Honduran with a ready smile, leaned against her car. The other Black men with him watched the road for any oncoming cars in the fog.

"Blown tire."

"You have a spare?"

"Yeah, but no jack or lug wrench. None of us got Triple-A."

"I have a kit in the back. Hold on."

Celeste backed up behind them and hopped out of her car. The foggy air cooled her skin, and she hoped the temperature stayed that way all the way home. She popped her trunk and took out some small orange traffic cones with reflectors and spread them around her car and Hector's. One of the Black men, Shorty, who was over six feet tall, took out the equipment she had and started working on the tire. He did it all wrong, not even knowing how to use the foot jack she had.

"Stand back," she said, taking over tire duty.

The other guys thanked her and listened to music playing from their car. They lifted the blown tire from the wheelbase for her and Hector placed the spare on.

"Here, I can finish it up," Hector said.

He didn't know what he was doing, either.

"I got it, man. Don't get your ego hurt because a woman is doing this," she said.

She tightened each lug nut and patted the tire when she was done.

"Good to go," she said.

Hector pulled out a ten-dollar bill from his wallet.

"This is all the cash I have. Thanks for stopping and saving us from waiting around."

"Nah, Hector…keep that. Buy your kids some candy," she insisted.

"Y'all see that?" Shorty said.

Celeste and Hector peered over the roof of the Honda and looked to where the others had their attention. Massive oak trees with their sloping branches curved toward the ground like giant skeletal fingers, the fog whispering around them with an unnatural light that shouldn't have been possible without the moon. Four ominous figures moved toward them.

"Are those people hanging over there?" Quentin, a chubby co-worker asked.

Celeste quickly collected her tools and threw them in her trunk.

"We gotta leave!" she shouted.

Hector and the other men looked at her with confusion, but didn't move right away.

"The fuck—"

Shorty didn't finish his sentence before a mangy-looking white woman in a tattered trench coat jumped on his chest and ripped out his throat with feral teeth. The man's blood sprayed all over Celeste and she sprinted for her car, jumping in and cranking the engine. Fast-moving figures attacked and ravaged the other men. Celeste backed up and Quentin banged on her door with one hand, his other clutching the side of his neck that spurted blood like a geyser. She unlocked the passenger side, and he flung open the door to jump in.

It was too late.

A ferocious-looking white man with long, clawed fingers dragged Quentin out of her car. Celeste screamed and shifted gears, but someone punched in the tempered-glass on her side and dragged her through the window, slamming her onto the ground.

"No! No! No!" she screamed, her eyes unable to focus on how fast their attackers moved.

She immediately curled into the fetal position, closing her eyes and instinctively guarding her stomach in a protective hold, waiting for a death blow to rip her throat out.

What sounded like screams from hell reverberated all around her, and amidst the human cries for help and imploring moans to God from her co-workers, other blood-curdling shrieks rang out.

Someone lifted her by her locs and shoved her away from the Charger. She landed on her back with a hard thump to her head. Staring at the sky, she didn't move a muscle, the pain in her back and head disorienting her. Losing focus, she twisted her head to the side and watched Hector claw at the ground as his lifeblood drained onto the highway. Their eyes connected and Celeste could only observe in silence as life drained from his once shiny brown pupils. His blood pooled out toward her like a horrific black river.

A large pair of black leather lace-up boots stomped down in Hector's blood and walked through it like it was a useless puddle of liquid. She looked up, and The Deacon grinned at her with those sinister fanged grills.

"Well, well, well, Duchess…here we meet again with no barrier between us," he said.

Three of his female minions strode over next to him, their faces smeared with blood and gore. Only The Deacon's face looked clean from a feeding frenzy. The Goth, whose voice sounded a lot like the Dominique who claimed to have a package at Celeste's house, leaned in toward The Deacon.

"We finished killing that wild pack of feeders. They made a mess of the bodies… left blood everywhere. They didn't even have the intelligence to carry these blood bags into the trees," Dominique said.

Celeste tried to back away on her elbows with gravel digging into her sore skin. The Deacon reached down and grabbed her throat, stopping her pitiful escape.

"Let me kill her for you," the dark brown beauty said, crouching low. She swiped a clawed hand across Celeste's cheek, drawing blood.

Celeste hissed and whimpered at the pain. She squirmed under his grip and tried pulling her knees into her chest. The Deacon studied her carefully.

"She's defensive, but not for herself," The Deacon said.

The sound of a large vehicle pulled up. Celeste heard a sliding door and guessed that it was a van.

The Deacon kept a hand on her throat and used a claw-like nail from his other hand to slit her palm. He licked the blood that flowed out. His silvery-gray eyes stared at her with a look of shock.

"She's pregnant. It's a girl," he said.

His astonished voice made every vampire hover over Celeste, staring at her like she was a freak of nature and not them.

"Impossible!" the dark brown beauty yelled, sounding hurt.

The Deacon stared at the beauty and flicked his hand dismissively.

"Go make sure the ghouls handle the bodies and debris, Mia," The Deacon said.

His malevolent eyes softened, looking down at Celeste.

"We won't hurt you, Celeste. In fact, we will be your most ardent protectors because you carry something phenomenally priceless in your womb. I have lived several lifetimes and have yet to lay eyes on what you are about to bring into the world…a dhampir."

He stared deep into her eyes, probing them, and shook his head, gently helping her sit up.

"No…you will not abort this child. I know we may seem like horrid monsters to you because of the way we have to survive. But we are not different from you."

"You are bloodsuckers, you kill people…that's evil," Celeste said.

"You stupid humans don't kill people? Or slaughter other living creatures to feed yourselves?" Dominique barked.

"Dominique, chill," The Deacon said.

"They always think they're better. I'll be glad when our Morningstar wipes them from the earth."

"And what will we live on?" The Deacon said, annoyed.

Dominique rolled her eyes. Celeste noticed that none of the other vampires had silver eyes like The Deacon.

"Come now, get up young mother," he said.

He lifted her with a brawny arm and placed her back on her feet.

"You feel well enough to drive home?" he asked.

The sincerity of his tone threw her off. This was not the same angry and vicious vampire who beat at the door of her house, aiming to trick her for an invitation. She glanced past him and the other vampires. Two slinky individuals in dark clothes stacked Shorty and Quentin into a white van.

"Oh, God," Celeste said, turning her head away.

A third vampire minion stripped the last of Hector's clothes from his blood-soaked body and began eating him, starting at his feet. The loud crunch of bones breaking and human flesh being slurped down the worker's throat sickened her. She turned her head and lurched forward. A spray of vomit flew out of her mouth.

The Deacon chuckled and kicked dirt over it.

"Now you see what our clean-up crew does once we're done eating. They dispose of the bodies for us, leaving behind no trace like a crime scene unit. We're very efficient and prudent," he said.

The Deacon guided Celeste back to her car. Her mind couldn't fathom what was happening.

"They have children, families who will miss them…" she said.

The Deacon ignored her words.

The pale-skinned vampire pack that attacked her co-workers were left on the side of the highway and ignored. A ghoul who looked like a forgettable-looking citizen with a trim beard hopped into Hector's car and drove away. The van pulled off behind it.

"You aren't taking those dead vampires, too?" Celeste asked.

She wiped her mouth and gagged at the feel of vomit still left at the back of her throat. Coughing, then spitting, she did all she could to keep from throwing up again.

"The sun will destroy evidence of them. Our concern is that they don't properly hide their refuse."

"Refuse?"

Celeste's voice rose to an angry pitch.

"They're fucking people…humans with loved ones who are going to wonder what happened to them," Celeste screamed.

"You say that as if that's our fault," Dominique said, leaning against Celeste's car. "We didn't kill them."

The Deacon turned Celeste's face to look at him directly.

"We don't do that to people often. Our kind prefer to eat and release. We resort to killing only in self-defense or special circumstances."

"Your kind?"

"We are the top of our species' food chain. Those creatures are bottom feeders, the reason the Old Ones hunt us. They blame us for those inbred gutter dwellers. If we acted like them, do you know how many humans would disappear daily?"

"How come Terry can walk in the sun if he's one of you?"

"He's a Daywalker. The true apex predator. More powerful than us because he can kill the Old Ones during times we cannot. That's why we need him. He's our champion. If we're lucky enough, the baby in your womb will be like him. She would protect us, too."

"I'm not keeping it."

"Yes, you are. You call her Strawberry in your mind, because of her size. I could taste how attached she is to you, how much she loves you—"

"Stop fucking manipulating me. It's just a fetus with developing cells…a blob, and I'm going to stop another one of you from coming into this world. I'll find an Old One and tell them about you! I know what they are…gargoyles! Terry's great-granddaughter Miss Irma told me about them."

"Then you will doom yourself and that baby," Dominique said.

"It's not a baby! You're tricking me, trying to guilt me into keeping it."

"Rationalize your conflicted feelings how you want, Duchess. But your first instinct was to protect her. Ball yourself up. Even when I came to help you, you reacted by covering your stomach," The Deacon said.

Celeste's eyes watered.

"I can't have this baby…I can't have a monster."

"Does Terry look like a monster to you?" Mia asked.

Mia's eyes welled up. Tears fell down her face. The Deacon wiped them away.

"Mia…don't cry. She's only scared," he said.

"I'm scared for us, too," Mia said.

What the hell was happening?

Vampires afraid and crying?

The Deacon opened Celeste's driver side door. The ghouls had taken away her broken window. He traced a finger across her face and showed her the blood and bits of skin that stuck to her cheek and hair.

"You need a bath and some rest. We can't stop you in the daytime, so if you run off to…terminate…that's your choice. You don't know how profound this is for us and the hidden world. I beg you to reconsider. We'll fight anything that tries to harm you or the child."

"She doesn't want it. Let her end it," Mia screamed.

Mia's fangs were stained with blood from feeding on Celeste's co-workers, too.

"Time to go, Deacon. The sun will be up in two hours," Dominique said.

"Go home…sleep, Duchess," The Deacon said.

Celeste climbed into her car and drove off in a daze. Why didn't they kidnap her and force her to have it? They had the means and minions to do that.

From her rearview, she watched the vampires walk into the diminishing wisps of fog and vanish among the trees.

Chapter 12 HERE.

Masterlist

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[spoon-slayer]

TASM Peter Parker x TASM Gwen x Son reader

Okay, so this is an AU where Gwen doesn't die and she and Peter stay together and Gwen gets pregnant. Maybe you can write that she goes into labor and Peter has a cute fluff moment with being able to hold/see his son and Peter trying to calm him down.

Or

TASM Peter Parker x Son Reader

Peter is a single dad and it's his son's first doctor's appointment in the end, the reader has to get a shot and gets scared so Peter does his best to calm him down.

[Sorry I need fluff right now]

Shots Aren’t That Bad

TASM!Peter Parker x Son!Reader [MASTER LIST] SUMMARY: Peter hasn’t been a proper father in so long. So, when you begin to throw a fit over needing shots, he doesn’t know how to handle it. WARNINGS: Needles, shots, Doctor Offices + Brief mentions of depression and death. A/N: Hello! I’m back, and you’re the first request I’m writing for! I tweaked it a bit, so let me know if you didn’t want that! Please excuse how long it’s taken me to write this, I’m trying to get back into the groove of things. Let me know about any mistakes in my writing, and I’ll get to fixing it soon. Enjoy! [GIF NOT MINE]

Peter honestly didn’t know how his uncle did it, taking a kid to a scheduled appointment for shots. Having to wrestle the petrified kid to sit still long enough for a shot to the arm.

Because, right now, he had to sooth a screaming five year old. Sure, it would’ve been nice to have some help but he had to learn to do this himself. He wasn’t sixteen anymore, he was almost twenty-one. Aunt May won’t always be there to help him.

Peter’s depression after Gwen’s death lasted far too long for his liking. He missed out on quite a bit and had a lot of… For a lack of better words, ‘dad duties’ to catch up on. And, god forbid, it was hard. Really hard.

Frustration bubbled through his chest as soon as the doctor left the room. When his five year old son, You, immediately turned to beg for a way out of getting a shot. Pleading.

“Daddy,” you began, fingers moving to curl into Peter’s shirt. Peter gritted his teeth. He shouldn’t get frustrated with you, but he couldn’t help it. It’s been so long since he’d last dealt with a potential tantrum, so his skills lacked and his knowledge failed.

Why did he have to fall into that deep depression? This all would’ve been so much easier if he hadn’t closed himself off.

“You’re getting that shot,” Peter lifted his hand, brushing his fingers delicately through your hair. It did little to sedate your fear. And honestly? Peter didn’t expect it to. So he was far from surprised on how you reacted. “I know it’s scary, buddy, but afterwards we’re going to get some food.”

“Daddy,” you repeated, voice growing louder. Peter grimaced. A tantrum was imminent, and he was dreading its approach. Your bottom lip trembled in the pout you had mustered, eyes tearful and cheeks just about to be streaked with tears. “I don’t want it, it’s gonna hurt.”

“I know. It’ll be over before you know it. Just, bear with me here. Don’t cry, please don’t cry,” Peter damn near pleaded. His hands moved from your hair to cradle your face. You’ve grown to fit into his palms comfortably. Peter ignored the dull ache in his chest at the realization.

He’d missed it.

“It’s going to hurt,” You repeated. You were crying now, grabbing at his shirt. “It always hurts,” Peter grit his teeth. He had to stay calm. You were just a child, of course you had fears and trouble with regulating your emotions. He wiped some tears.

“Please,” You pleaded. This wasn’t going to work on him. But, it didn’t hurt to try.

“Kid,” Peter spoke more sternly now. “No. C’mon, there has to be something to calm you…” Peter muttered, more to himself than to you.

There had to be something to sedate this fear. Something had to work, something had to give. And, despite all his efforts, it led to screaming. (Of course it did, or else it wouldn’t have been mentioned at the beginning of this story.)

Frustration had finally seeped from his chest and into his head, clouding his mind as tears, too, flooded his eyes. And that was what got you to cease your screaming and crying, reduced to hiccups as your father damn near sobbed from the frustration you were bringing him.

Guilt. You felt guilt numb your fears. “Daddy…?” You wiped your face haphazardly, hands now wet with salty tears from your short lived tantrum.

“What?” Peter replied, exasperated. He had long since backed away from you, hands now clutching at his hair and tugging lightly. He had even sat himself down on the seat beside the examination table you sat upon. His tone was harsh, tired. Once he got a look at your face, your reaction, he sighed and softened up. “What is it?”

You didn’t reply for a moment, silently studying him. Something you picked up during his absence from your life. From a young age, you had to adapt to mood swings between good days and bad days. Where your father was energized enough to Sit and watch a movie to the days he’d lay in bed, easily irritated by your presence and getting Aunt May to take care of you. You learned to tell his mood from it.

From what you saw, he wasn’t a ‘Happy Daddy,’ or a ‘Mad Daddy.’ Neither of those categories were linear but just a general sense of if he was in a mood or not. Rather, this one, was more of a ‘Sad Daddy.’ (The system of which you developed wasn’t full proof. As, sometimes he looked happy when he was sad.)

With this assessment, you briefly fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, tugging on it for just a moment. “I’m sorry.” Your voice was quiet, meek.

And Peter paused. He’d heard that tone before, many times. From the days he’d lay in bed, mindlessly scrolling and groaning in disdain that his Son even requested his attention and called for his Aunt to get you. (He’ll never forgive himself for those days. He was going to rebuild this relationship with his son.)

“It’s okay, I…” Peter stopped, wetting his lips. He was back to standing. “It’s okay. I just got frustrated, that’s all. It’s okay,” he reassured.

“I’ll get the shot,” You continued, watching as Peter gently grasped your hands in his. “I won’t cry, I promise. I’ll be a big boy.”

Peter honestly didn’t like how you were acting. Not in the sense it made him angry, more so… Sad. Guilty. You were trying to act mature, trying to seem less like a little boy and more like an understanding adult. “You can cry. Don’t… Don’t act like this, please. It’s.. I…” Peter struggled. He couldn’t find the right words, really. “Crying shows you’re strong..?” Was that the right thing to say? God damn it. He didn’t know what he was doing and it showed. Next time Aunt May gives him unsolicited parenting advice, he’s going to listen.

Well, at least you stopped crying.

[applepiesupreme]

American Apple Pie

Pairing: Low/Mid Honor Arthur Morgan and female OC.

Rating: Explicit

Summary: Savigne Ricci is a temporary guest at the Van der Linde camp. Her path crosses with the enforcer of the gang, Arthur Morgan, and despite their differences, a relationship develops between them. Whole lot of smut and fluff, slow burn-ish.

Chapter 39

AOC link:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/54945853/chapters/153704167

The next morning she got up, got dressed, did her hair, counted her money and went to Cricket.

As she patted him she watched a flock of cranes across the body of water stalk around, the late morning light brandishing their beautiful plumes and wondered where they came from and where they were going back to. What they had seen. And if they remembered things like she did - with great detail and yearning, or if animals were blissfully blind to the past and so much luckier than she was. She tried to imagine living day to day, from sunup to sundown and brushing over the past day every morning to write anew. 'Definitely lucky' she thought. 'I would take that deal any day.'

In the corner of her eye, Sadie walked up to her and went to Cricket’s other side to caress his neck and watched the cranes with her. They hadn’t spoken much since the doctor visit and the days after. Sadie was always hovering around, but she remained respectfully distant enough to let her come to terms with her situation by herself.

"How ya feelin'?"

"I’m good," Savigne said. A long while later she begrudgingly added: “Everything went okay yesterday, I see.”

Sadie’s eyes flicked up at her as if she could read the jealousy and bitterness in Savigne’s head and she understood it without judgement. "He ain't dead."

Savigne sighed, offering Cricket a shriveled carrot.

"That what my gut says,” the other woman pushed.

A string of words such as 'Your gut didn't warn you when those O'Driscolls were coming to your cabin, did it?' hurtled against her teeth and she bit them back because they were sharp and mean. Savigne hung her head, ashamed even though she hadn't spoken them. But the bitterness wouldn't go away so she had to say something:

"So what?"

"So...he gonna come back."

Savigne turned to her, eyes flaring and Sadie gazed back, hers calm and cool. "So what?" she repeated. 

Sadie clicked her tongue and looked away. “I know you mad. At him. At us. At yourself. Trust me, I get it. And I know you gonna go through this at your own pace. But I was you, wouldn’ do the mournin’ just yet - all ‘m sayin’.”

Truthfully, despite recovering from the laudanum, Savigne had carefully avoided thinking about Arthur’s demise. She felt like if she did, she would spiral something fierce and all the laudanum in the world wouldn’t help. He was a room in her head that was off limits - a terrible, forbidden room, like the one in the Bluebeard tale. 

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for man who couldn’t even tell me what he was going to do.”

“He didn’ wanna worry you.”

“Well mission fabulously failed. I worried. I worried enough to sit here in a daze for weeks and I probably lost the job I trained years for. Now I’m going to have to find another. For the few months I have left before I show, that is.”

She was surprised when Sadie's rough hand grasped hers and looked up. 

"Why you going to town, sugar?”

“I’m going to see a friend.”

Sadie gave her a long look. “For?”

“I want to move forward. Work. Find a place…”

“Promise y’aint going to sniff around for some dingy back alley doctor.”

Savigne snorted. “I promise. My brain’s working again, don’t worry.”

Sadie nodded, relieved. “Okay. If you need money, you know Arthur left you his.”

“I thought he was coming back?” Savigne’s eyebrows shot up.

“Damn right he is! I ain’t givin’ the satchel, just the money. He gonna be mad if you need it and didn’ take it.”

She couldn’t help the bitter huff that fell from her lips. The way all of them stubbornly held on to Arthur’s presence, tried to honor his wishes and orders “until he returned” and refused to acknowledge the alternative was amusing. In a dark, depressing way.

“I don’t care what he would be mad over. I don’t want his god damn money. I worked for everything I have, I’ll work again.”

Sadie let out a frustrated breath. “I ain’t gonna defend that lughead, what he did was stupid. He should ‘ave talked to you. Men are dumb, I get it. But if you gonna pass on money in your condition, yer dumb too.”

“Have you even met me? I’m the picture of dumb.”

Then the blond woman looked at something over her shoulder and yelled “Oy! What I say ‘bout goin’ near that wagon?!”

Savigne turned and found Uncle frozen in his tracks on the way to her cot.

“She leavin to work!” he yelled back. “Ain’t nobody usin’ a perfectly nice bed!”

“Ain’t yer wagon, ain’t yer bed! You take one more step, ‘m shootin’ you in the ass! And ‘m tellin’ Arthur when he get back.”

The man shuffled away muttering under his breath.

“Lazy son of a bitch,” Sadie growled before she turned to Savigne again: 

“You wanna work - I respect that. But…I want you to stay here. I know it ain’t great…” Sadie waved her arms about, “…I know it’s a downgrade. But it’s safe. Ain’t safe out there for a woman on her own.”

Sadie’s horrible experience hung between them and neither spoke it out loud but both thought it. 

“I’ve been bad at showing it,” Savigne inhaled softly, “but I know you care. I owe all of you. A lot.”

“Look here, ‘m okay with you doin’ yer own thing. Yer grown, yer smart, you have to look after yerself, I get it. But…!” She gave Savigne a hard look. “…Yer stayin’ right here where I can see you. You can work and come back here like before. Ain’t nobody gonna bother you.”

“Would you?” Savigne pushed back. “An outlaw camp in a swamp - would that be your preferrence?”

“Preference?!” Sadie snorted. “Hell no! But after what I been through…yeah, yer stayin’ here.”

Savigne’s jaw muscles moved.

Sadie, sensing that she had to walk a delicate line reluctantly added “Until you find somethin’ better.” Savigne looked up at her from under her brows. “What? I ain’t unreasonable.”

“I’m going to look for a place. It’ll take me a few weeks anyway. That’s the best I’ll agree to. I’m not growing big here in a fucking swamp.”

“Don’ blame you and I’ll take that deal,” Sadie said. “If you promise - promise, ya hear - you gonna swallow yer pride and come to me if things don’ work out.” She extended a hand. “Yeah, the swamp sucks. But we got women who can help you and we got folks to protect you.”

“You mean Charles?” Savigne laughed, as he was practically the only capable man left - discounting the new addition of John.

“Excuse you, I mean me and Charles,” was the offended response.

Savigne grinned despite herself and shook her hand. “Okay, fair.”

There was a short silence as they assessed each other.

“Thank you,” Savigne sighed. “For everything. But eventually, I hope to move on. I’m done with the gang. I was done long ago but stayed because Arthur said few more months. Well that time is up. I don’t want to be around this anymore.”

The blond woman threw up her arms. “What, you think the rest of us love this shit?”

“You must,” Savigne said softly, watching her. “Or else you wouldn’t be here.” Sadie clenched her jaw and looked away. “They left you in charge, I get that. But what’s stopping Tilly? Mary Beth? Pearson? Everyone complains about the way things are, and yet I’m the only one who is riding out to find a job. They’re just sitting around washing laundry and hoping the men will come back and risk their lives to drop money in their lap. They’re delusional, lazy and entitled.”

“Didn’ know you was this harsh,” Sadie gave her a narrow eyed look.

“Tell me I’m wrong then.”

“I can’t,” was the regretful sigh. “You got a point. A sharp one, but true.”

“I’m not going to sit here and wait for a man to come save me,” Savigne sniffed. “I’m going to go and find a job and save myself. And if I can’t, I’ll go to the damn workhouse, they’ll find me something to do.”

Sadie gave her a long look. “Arthur might hate me for sayin’ it, but I don’ give a rat’s ass what a dumb man thinks: good for you.” She fished in her shirt pocket and retrieved a slim band. “From the camp loot box,” she held it up. “Like the doctor said - who gonna know? Good luck.” She dropped the band into Savigne’s palm who slipped it on her finger. It was a little loose but would do.

Savigne smiled a broken smile inspecting the band and looked up at her. “Okay.”

They hugged awkwardly and Sadie gave her a smack on the shoulder. “Don’ be late comin’ back. Gets dark early now and this the Bayou.”

“Yes ma’am,” Savigne said, then impulsively embraced her again. Like Arthur, Sadie wasn’t big on being touched. Maybe she never had been or maybe that horrible experience had changed her forever, Savigne wasn’t sure. But today and here she not only allowed it, but hugged her back fiercely.

She went to Antoine’s first. The sous chef was apoplectic to see her. He yelled at her for ten minutes straight before he had to stop and gasp for air. Savigne shifted on her feet, uncomfortably watching his face turn a blotchy red. Then, when he was finally out of breath, she calmly explained that she had had a health emergency and didn’t feel well and she understood that this was unprofessional and unacceptable.

“I know it’s not an excuse but I was really unwell. I’m sorry.”

He harrumphed but lost his blistering heat at that. “Can’t take you back,” he growled, crossing arms. “I can’t encourage people disappearing for weeks.”

“I know. Just wanted to come in and explain.”

He gave her a side eye. “That’s a real shame Savigne. I know you and I know you wouldn’t do this lightly. You’re the best damn cook I had. Real shame.”

She bit her lip, touched. “Thank you, chef,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. Just…life I guess.”

He grunted, not happy about it. “I will, however,” he brushed his apron, “give you a recommendation if you should need it.”

“Really?” she blinked, genuinely surprised.

“Like I said, you’re a very good cook. Sorry it hasn’t worked out.”

“Thank you,” she said politely.  She looked for Sarah but apparently Sarah had advanced to the dinner shift which stung because Savigne knew that had she returned to work, she most definitely would have, too. Another colossal mistake, another missed opportunity. The list of her missteps just kept getting longer.

Then she went to the steakhouse. Luther did a double take at her arrival and left his station to amble over which was a rare occasion.

“Savigne,” he folded her into his impressive mass, voice shaky, “Woman…think I aged damn ten years. Where the hell ya been?”

First the sous chef and now Luther - her inner voice was wrong, people did care about her. It welled her eyes as she hugged him back long and hard for a whole minute.

“I wasn’t well, Luther,” she mumbled into his chest and somehow he heard her.

“Course ya wasn’t,” he cupped the back of her head with one massive paw, voice uncharacteristically emotional. “Course. Come over.”

They walked back to the station, a palm on her lower back. “Come sit,” he said quietly and gave her the stool. 

“Woman…” he sighed and gave her a long look. “Ya know how worried I was?”

“I’m sorry,” she choked again. “I couldn’t…do anything. Just sat there like a stupid doll.”

“I know ya wasn’ back at work, I snooped.”

“Yeah, lost my job.”

He shook his head, then returned to flipping his steaks. “It’s fine. I talk to Mister Harrison. You come back here, where ya belong. Then, when youse better, you climb again.”

She snorted at that, “Won’t be any climbing in my future.”

“Why’s that?”

She shrugged. “You probably know about Arthur…” she fidgeted.

“Course. Fool gone playin’ pirate.”

She swallowed and looked away. “Is that what they call ‘dead’ these days?”

“No,” he said, slowly returning to his normal argumentative self. “They call dead, ‘dead’. We don’ know if he dead.”

“Why is everyone so optimistic?”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “Yer man crafty. Tough. Clever.” He mused on that for a moment. “In some ways. Other ways, I gotta admit, dumb as dirt. But! He strong. We don’ know what we don’ know.”

“You shook hands with him once for like five seconds. I don’t know where you’re getting these ideas from, but whatever, that’s not even the worst news.”

“What is?” he stilled.

“I’m…I’m…” she let out a big breath, trying to squeeze it out of herself. “I’m with child.”

She startled when he snorted and waved the fork in her direction. “I knew that.”

“Excuse me?!”

“I seen it, that how,” he grinned. “Flatters me you forget sometimes ‘m old and gray.”

“Wow,” was her stunned recovery a whole minute later. “I think I was the only one who didn’t know. Me and the pirate.”

He flipped steaks and didn’t comment. 

“I had a really bad few weeks. Tell you what, this baby in me must be as stubborn as Arthur if it’s still hanging in there.”

“What ya wanna do, Savigne? I get you a job. What else ya need?”

“I want to rent a cabin.”

“Lord above!” he groaned with exasperation.

“I don’t want roommates. And I can’t afford a flat here.”

“I find ya good roommates. They ain’t gonna be fancy, but good folk.”

Savigne shook her head. “I’m not downgrading back. I earned living alone. Please help me sign a cabin. A rental - only until…you know…birth. Then…well I haven’t decided that part yet. One step at a time.”

“Alone in a cabin, Savigne? With child?! Ya gone mad.”

“I know.”

“I can help with the money if ya wanna rent in the city. Would be close to me.”

“No, Luther. I need to stand on my own two feet.”

“The hell are friends for? What’s family for? You gotta lean when you gotta lean, Savigne. Yer too proud.” he sneered, a tad angry.

“I need to prove to myself that I can do it. I’ve…” she swallowed the rising desire to cry back down. “I’ve made some dumb choices. And I lost a lot of confidence and respect in myself. I know it makes no sense, but it’s really important to me right now to know that I’m not completely useless.”

He took a long frustrated breath in clear disagreement and flipped steaks for a bit to hide his ire.

“Just…let me try. If I fail and I’m miserable, we’ll try something else.” She could tell he wasn’t convinced but it was also obvious that he didn’t want to push back too hard.

“Fine.” The fork pointed at her again. “But we look together. And I ain’t signing anythin’ unsafe.”

“Okay,” she smiled. 

Long moments passed as he prepared a plate for her and she didn’t object when he pushed it over. “How ya feelin’ ‘bout this other thing?” he said at last.

She chewed and swallowed the morsels mercilessly down. “I’m…less enthusiastic than I should be,” she managed at last. “You think…” she flustered with her napkin, “…that makes me a bad person?”

He snorted. “No. Makes ya smart, is all.”

“Really?” she looked up, surprised that at least one person understood.

“Sure. I get it - timing’s off. Yer man gone. That ring on yer finger fake. I don’ live in Timbuktu, I know what this means, course I get it.”

Her heart swelled at the validation. “I’m scared. About this, but also…what it means for me. My future. I had so many plans…” her voice broke.

“Ain’t gonna lie - it’s gonna change things,” he flipped steaks. “But by how much - that’s up to youse.”

“How?”

“Don’ let folks tell you how to live yer life, Savigne, you only got the one. Child or no child, You do as you see fit. Ya wanna climb, strap that kid on yer back and go climb.”

She played with the band on her finger, thoughtful. When she looked up, he was giving her an inscrutable look. “Ya want me to make that real?”

“What do you mean?” she startled.

“I got lotta friends,” he shrugged, watching her carefully. “I find you a nice man. Ain’t gonna be Arthur, no, but he gonna respect you. Help you. Support yer dreams. Treat you kindly. A teammate for life.”

This made her very sad. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, close to tears again. 

“Just think on it. Ain’t gonna pick someone off the street, hell no! Gonna find someone worthy. Gonna check real well, then check again.” His eyes turned a harder shade of black as he added: “Ain’t gonna hand youse over like a lamb. Never!”

She wiped the single tear off her cheek and looked away.

“I get it. You care for yer man. That’s fine. But I care for youse. He ain’t here. Gonna be hard for you and the child without a man. Hundred years from now, maybe not. I sure hope not. But today, here, it will.” He sighed and looked away. “Sleep on it, is all. Maybe we can try after this stupid cabin idea?”

”Yeah, maybe,” she conceded.

The Sunday after Arthur woke up from his profound dream a thousand miles away and made a deal with Hercule, John stepped out the hut and watched Savigne tying up Cricket and Frost to the cart.

“You going or you just gonna stand there?” Abigail mumbled from behind the door.

“Woman, ‘m goin’,” he grumbled.

Thing is, he was gonna go anyway. He had promised Arthur, so of course he meant to. But then, out of nowhere, Abigail and Sadie had told him he had to accompany Savigne and now it was all ruined. Pissed him off that two busybodies had turned his voluntary gallant deed into a task he was merely talked into.

“Oy,” hissed Sadie from inside the hut, “She ‘bout to leave...”

John took a frustrated breath and checked his guns. At least I’ll get away from the naggin’, that’s gotta be worth somethin’he thought and stepped off the dilapidated porch to stalk towards the horses. 

“Hey.”

“Hey,” she squinted at him.

He walked around to help tie Frost. “Goin’ somewhere?” As if it wasn’t obvious.

“I’m going to see a cabin.”

“Mind if I come with?”

She blinked at that. 

He shrugged, self conscious, and patted Frost. “Got nothing else to do.” 

“I’m sure you can find something more fun to do,” she chuckled. He scratched his beard and looked away. “What’s this about?” she grew curious.

“Got tired starin’ at gators. Wanna help, is all.”

Savigne clicked her tongue. “Let me guess - you promised Arthur.”

“Somethin’ like that,” he admitted.

“No thanks.”

He took a deep breath and nodded, but didn’t move away. Her eyes flicked up to him. “You’re going to follow me, aren’t you?” was her tired groan.

“Yeah,” he grinned awkwardly.

She rolled her eyes and jabbed her chin at the cart. “Fine.”

He jumped up before she could change her mind and took the reins. 

She climbed up after. “Just so you know, I don’t appreciate being bullied,” she said as he turned the cart around.

“The hell?! I ain’t bullyin’.”

“Yes you are. You, Sadie, Abigail… I know you all mean well, but I’m a grown woman.”

“Ya know what?”

“What?” she sounded downright combative.

“Ya got a point.”

This stunned her into a long moment of speechlessness.

“Really?”

“Listen,” he huffed. “I get it. Yer proud and you used to ridin’ alone. But you gotta put yerself in my boots.”

“Okay? 

“Imagine Arthur took care of yer folks for over a year. After, too. Then laid his life out to save yer son. Proud as y’are, I know you’d want to make that ledger even, no?”

“I guess,” she sighed and looked ahead.

“Okay good. You can see my point. ‘Sides,” he have her a side eye. “Yer Arthur’s family and so am I. Means you and I family, too.

“I don’t have a family,” she mumbled to herself.

“You do. Just ain’t the usual kind, is all.”

They rode in silence for a bit.

“You think he’s alive?” was her quiet question.

John didn’t answer right away and the fact that unlike everyone else he didn’t jump at the question with certainty seemed to both intrigue and unnerve her.

“I know, unlike me, he can swim,” he said at last. “It’s somethin’, no?”

“Yeah,” she admitted with a broken grin. “It’s something.”

The Saint Denis skyline rose ahead of them. “Ride into town. We’re going to pick up a friend.” This made him nervous and as they clopped by the first buildings, he pulled his hat down. The rest of the gang was assumed dead and off the hook for now, but he had escaped prison just days ago and he had obvious scars that made him easily recognizable.

Savigne noticed his trepidation and put two and two together. She took off her shawl and had him wind it around his neck to cover most of his face.

“Sorry, I didn’t think about that. Do you want to sit in the back?”

“It’s fine,” was his muffled response. 

She tsked and snatched the reins from him. “Go on,” she motioned. He didn’t want to argue so he climbed into the cart.

They rode through the quiet Sunday streets until she slowed down and stopped. He turned to look when the cart swayed and creaked and was glad for the shawl covering his surprised face because lo and behold, her friend was none other than Mister Luther.

Luther’s passive eyes gave him a long look. 

“This is John,” Savigne introduced them as she rode on. “John, this here is my friend Luther.”

John muttered something under his breath and put his back to them. He had never been good at deception and hoped to god the ruse of not knowing each other held.

Luther, on the other hand, sounded amused when he said “He from the gang?” He hummed at Savigne’s nod as he glanced over his shoulder. “This the one papers say was sprung outta prison?”

John stiffened despite himself. Fat bastard, he thought sourly.

“Yes,” Savigne said absentmindedly, fishing in her satchel for her pocket watch.

“Bet he got a good reward on his head.” John bit his cheeks and tried to ignore the teasing. “Ya need money, dont’cha?”

“Cut it out, Luther,” Savigne gave him a dry side eye.

“‘M here to help Savigne,” John offered just in case the cook was half serious.

“Reward would help,” Luther drawled, dark eyes glinting over his shoulder.

“Ignore him,” Savigne quipped to John. She handed the reins to the black man and noted the time in her notebook.

It was a damp, chilly day and the streets of Saint Denis were half empty. John sat in the back, rocking with the gait of the horses and thought how fucked up it was that he was practically sitting where Ecco sat and the woman for whom that ordeal was done sat right there and was none the wiser. Sometimes life really teased you by putting you into places with folks you had no business being in. 

The whole thing made him think of Arthur and he huddled into his jacket when the familiar pang sang through his gut. Wasn’t it strange how you knew things and you still didn’t know? He knew how important Arthur was to him and the gang since the day he joined. Envied it, fought for it, downplayed it for years. And yet, it still gutted and surprised him, how big of a hole he left. Was like someone cut a big tree and now everything that used to grow under its shade withered and baked under the heat of the sun. Everything was broken, dirty and glum. Gang mulled about like the past was done and the future wasn’t coming and it was all the same long, endless day. Everyone was doing this weird dance where they sat around, pretending they wasn’t sad because being sad meant he was dead and nobody wanted to say he was. Even he, annoyed as he was about all this nonsense and swearing on unflinching honesty, had assured Jack the other day that Uncle Arthur was on a mission and coming back any day now, all the while feeling like a two faced clown.

He glanced at Savigne and felt ashamed for the days he had thought ill of her. Her life was gonna get a lot harder here on out and worse, here she was, tryin’ to leave the gang behind. On the one hand, good for her, gang was shit and wasn’t getting better. On the other, he cringed at the idea that she was gonna live in some cabin. He felt anxious about the whole thing and inexplicably responsible for her. He had promised Arthur that he would take care of her if something happened to him, and here he was, on a trip to check out a cabin that could be the coffin for her and his child. The notion heated up his innards. If Arthur knew, he would have a fit. But what could John do? When Arthur wanted to shoot down an idea, all he had to do was just pin you with those eyes, roll those damn shoulders and say “No” and shit was over. Non debatable, no negotiations, closed, dead, done. When John said ‘No’ folks just smiled and patted his shoulder as if he was trying to be cute.

Worse - the only person who could talk her out of this nonsense was sitting right next to her, helping her! Must be nice, he thought glancing at the big man, to know that if something happened to her in that cabin and Arthur returned, it was John, not Luther who was gonna get his windpipe crushed.

His mood darkened and he ruminated these things until Luther turned into a side trail and Savigne announced “Twenty minutes from Saint Denis.” She scribbled into the notebook. “That’s good, right?”

The cook nodded and rode on. Couple of minutes later they came around a bend and there was the saddest looking cabin John had ever seen in his life - and he had seen plenty.

It was obvious that his fellow passengers shared his disappointment and yet Savigne made a hearty effort to recover:

“Could be worse. Right?”

“Could be worse,” agreed Luther gently.

She climbed off and approached the door and fished for the key.

“This it?” John hissed at the other man, unwinding his shawl. “Our camp with gators look like a mansion next to this.”

Luther gave him a pointed head to toe. “Didn’ build the damn thing, did I?”

“Don’ think anyone did. Looks like it was blown together by a storm.”

“‘M guessin’ we headin’ to yer suggestion next?” was the acerbic response and John almost lost his balance with how much the cart rocked when the man climbed down. “Or youse just here to shit on things other folks do?”

John jumped down and looked up at him. “We gotta talk her outta this.”

“The fuck ya think ‘m here for?” Luther rumbled and followed Savigne indoors.

Indoors thankfully looked somewhat better, but John still got goosebumps as his eyes trailed the state of the floors. The cabin must have been empty for years and it showed. By some miracle the walls were intact but the floorboards were basically soft with water thanks to the sieve of a roof. There was a subtle smell of mildew and rot. He carefully walked about pretending to look at things, but Arthur or no Arthur, his disinclination to let Savigne live in this dump intensified by the minute.

“What do you guys think?” Savigne looked up to them, pulling out her notebook.

“Uh…it..I mean…” John flapped about.

“Needs a lotta work,” Luther finished for him.

“Yeah I get that,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling. But it’s practically free.”

“Should be,” John sniffed. “In fact, they should pay you for livin’ here.”

“It’s prime location. And cheap because the owner expects us to fix it.”

“Can you? Fix it, I mean.”

She shrugged. “Obviously I will have to hire people. But that might still be cheaper than rent until Spring.”

Luther’s lips bowed as he gingerly stepped around a stack of broken furniture. “Could be more expensive, too.”

“Bet it’s more expensive,” John eagerly agreed.

Savigne’s shoulders deflated. She trudged to the bedroom.

John gave Luther a nod and followed. 

“The bedroom looks okay,” Savigne said optimistically. 

“Looks like a dump,” he retorted. When her expression fell he added “An okay dump.”

Savigne stared at the broken frame of a bed. Something scurried away underneath it and she took a hasty step back. 

“The ceiling here looks intact,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” was all he could say. Emphasis on the looks, he thought grimly.

She walked back out and exited the cabin to walk around. 

“Ain’t no way she thinkin’ on rentin’ this, right?” he asked Luther. 

Luther lighted a cigarette and scoffed in amusement. “Oh she thinkin’, alright.”

John exhaled in frustration and stepped out to talk some sense into her.

“Savigne…” he found her by the outhouse, “…can I be honest?”

“Sure,” she said, scribbling in her notebook.

“This place ain’t right for ya. Needs too much work.”

She bit her lip and gave him a glance. “Indoors is fine, no?”

“Yeah but…”

“Has a huge lot,” she waved her arm. “Huge! Secluded. Twenty minutes from Saint Denis! That means twenty minutes to work. And the doctor.”

He scratched his beard, uneasy about her enthusiasm. 

“True. But…!” He glanced over his shoulder at an approaching Luther. “Kinda think we can keep lookin’.”

“We’ve been looking for two weeks! If you think this is a dump, you should have seen the other, more expensive dumps.”

He gave Luther a side eye, urging him to chip in.

“Don’ like it,” the black man said flatly. “Yer man will kill us if we sign this.”

“Us?” John balked but was ignored.

“My ‘man’ isn’t here, is he?” Savigne spat. “I’m doing the looking and I’m doing the paying and I will do the fixing!”

“Woman, get off the cross!” Luther harrumphed. “‘M standin’ right here with ya.”

“And you’ve shot down every single cabin we looked at,” she protested, her eyes starting to blaze up.

“Ain’t my fault they was all shit,” he said, all innocence.

She exhaled in frustration. “It’s been two weeks. We’re only renting until Spring. You want to wait until I give birth or what?”

“Listen here,” Luther waved his cigarette, “We got time. We don’ gotta settle.”

“In the time I look for the perfect place, I can have this cabin fixed.”

“More likely you be crushed under that damn roof!” Luther barked.

The speed of the switch caught John off guard. Savigne’s eyes flooded in an the instant, her lips wobbled, she flung her notebook into the mud and stomped towards the cart.

The two men glanced at each other. “Guessin’ that could ‘ave gone better.” John sighed.

He snatched the notebook from the ground and looked at Savigne’s neat handwriting. Then thoughtfully flipped it around in his hand for a while. “I can help,” he offered softly at long last. “With the fixin’ and whatnot.”

Luther gave him a mean eye. “Ya gettin’ soft on me, ya turncoat?”

“The hell?!”

“Thought we agreed this a dump?”

“I know that,” John rolled his shoulders, watching Savigne climb on the cart and cry. “But the inside is okay.”

Luther’s eyes narrowed.

“Has a huge lot,” John swung his arm. 

“The hell ya doin’?”

“You said could be worse!”

“That don’ mean nothin, everythin could be worse!” the other man slapped the outhouse wall.

“Look,” John shifted on his feet and glanced over his shoulder. “She had a rough go. Ecco. Everythin’ that came after. We used to livin’ rough, Savigne not so much. She didn’ even unpack her wagon, that ain’t like her…”

“She be okay. She strong,” Luther stubbornly crossed his arms. “Few more of these, she gonna agree to livin’ in the city, as she should. Where I can keep an eye on’er.”

John looked about, trying hard to ignore the sniffles in the background.

“Has a huge lot,” he tried again. 

“What ya gonna do with it, youse a cow?” was the hard question.

He rolled his eyes. “Thinkin’ I can pitch my tent out here. Keep an eye on her.”

This surprised the cook and he was favored with an intense look. “That so?”

“Got a woman. She can help with the other thing.”

Luther took a menacing step towards him. “You gonna ride ‘round robbin’ folk and bring the law to her door?”

“What!? No?” was his sullen response. “‘M lyin’ low, don’ need that shit. It’s only till Spring anyway, right?”

The cook took a deep breath and mulled it over.

“What ‘bout yer gang?”

He thought of Sadie and Charles. “They got better folks takin’ care of them. Don’ need me.”

“What if the men return? Won’ ya have to move with’em?”

“If they return, Arthur gonna take over. He won’ abandon her.”

There was a silence.

“What if he ain’t with’em?” Luther’s dark eyes locked with his.

John hesitated. He didn’t like responsibility, that had never been his thing. His thing was to do as told. Responsibility was for the likes of Arthur. What he was offering to do for Savigne was madness, was in fact more than he had done for his own woman and kid!

But…

But he couldn’t deny that there was a certain kind of justice in it. After all, when he ran off on Abigail and Jack, Arthur had done no less. Sometimes life was funny like this, served you the bill for your meal years down the road and was your choice to pay your debt, to even the scales or pass.

“Then I stay. Least till Spring.”

Luther’s eyebrows quirked up. “You gonna do this for Savigne?”

John shrugged and looked away. “Arthur did same for me. Carried my folks when I couldn’. Reckon it’s my turn.”

Luther gave him such a long look, he started to fluster under that gaze. Then the cook stepped close and smacked his shoulder. A meaty arm was pressed across his back and turned him towards the cart.

“Ya know what they say,” Luther mused as they walked back.

“What they say?”

“The blood of the covenant thicker than the water of the womb,” the cook quoted.

“The hell that mean?”

“Means family we make and choose more real than family we born into.” Then he raised his voice as they got closer. “Savigne! Woman, stop wailin’! Guess what I talked this fool into!”

A week after that Savigne was sitting in a cafe in Saint Denis. It was chilly and dark outside but the cafe was warm and crowded. Not too formal and uptight, but definitely a notch or two above Connor’s paygrade. And yet, he had insisted on bringing her here which was very generous and showed his enthusiasm to please her. He sat in his best Sunday clothes, his paddy cap in his lap, ready to be twisted and pulled when he became too nervous.

She had resisted the suggestion to meet someone for as long as she could, but the deal with Luther was that she would give it a go - no promises, no strings attached - when they found a cabin. Well, the cabin was rented as of last week, so here she was, fulfilling her end of it. She took a sip of tea and gently placed her cup back on the saucer.

Connor mirrored her. He dabbed the handkerchief along his brow again. “Sorry,” he whispered.

“For sweating?” she grinned.

“Yeah.”

She gave him a long look. He was a cute man. A little taller than her, slim but with a good build and a good frame, a mop of reddish chestnut hair he had obviously made an effort to tame with pomade, a clean shave and warm brown eyes with the fullest, longest eyelashes she had ever seen. There was a softness to him, a shyness she quite liked. Arthur was shy at times, but in a very different way. Connor embraced his shyness.

“Why are you sweating this much anyway?” she asked, trying to break the ice.

“Wasn’t expecting someone as pretty,” he blurted, then did that particular huff he did when he seemed to be surprised he had said something out loud.

She chuckled despite herself. “Maybe you need glasses,” she teased.

“You kidding me?” he wiped his brow again. “Maybe you need a mirror.”

Savigne’s eyebrows rose as she smiled, pleased despite herself. She picked up her cup and he immediately reached for his.

They sipped tea.

“I don’t want to waste your time,” she cleared her throat when they replaced the cups in tandem. “I’m hoping you were told that…I’m a package deal.”

“Sure,” he shifted in his seat. “I’m okay with that.”

She watched him for a while. “How come? I mean that has to be a hard thing to do for a man.”

He shrugged. “I like kids. Always wanted a big family. The more, the merrier.”

“Even if they’re not your own?”

“Will be if we marry, right?” Another self conscious huff. “I mean I will raise them. I raised my siblings when ma died, I’m good at it.”

Savigne played with her spoon for a while, thoughtful. “What do you expect me to do in this…marriage?”

He blinked at that, a tad uneasy. “Whatever you want,” he said carefully. “Figure if you’re happy, we’re happy.”

“I want to work.” She watched him from under her brows.

“Sure. I work. All my brothers and sisters work.”

“Even after a baby?”

He squirmed in his chair. “Sure,” was his cautious response. “Maybe not immediately. I mean…you might not want to for a while.” She clenched her jaw and he quickly added “I’m only saying, it’s fine if you want to take a break. I can work twice as hard. Could get a second job...”

“Take a break so I can have another child?” she asked coolly. “And then another?”

“I mean…if that’s what you want?” was his cautious response.

“What if I don’t want more kids?” she pushed up her chin.

“I…sure,” he stammered, dabbing his brow again. “If that’s what you want. Don’t want, I mean.”

Savigne sighed and drank her tea dry and he did the same. She missed Arthur fiercely and was cross that she had agreed to this meeting. True, she owed it a fair go for the child, but why did Connor have to be this god damn nice? The rejection would have been a lot easier if he wasn’t this agreeable.

“I have a lot of siblings. And aunts and uncles. We’re a close bunch, big Irish family. They can help with whatever you need.” He noticed her uneasy silence and tried to clarify: “But they won’t come swarming soon as we marry or anything! Don’t want you to think it’ll be mayhem. All I’m saying is, if you want a family, you’ll get lots of it. And then some.”

She swallowed and looked away, feeling increasingly boxed in. It’s like the universe had concocted this man just to trip her. As far as husbands went, he was an excellent choice. Probably as a father, too. Someone who was going to support her. Respect her, revere her. Wasn’t it good that he was malleable? Wasn’t it good that he was polite, kind and humble? Someone she could steer and shape to her liking, someone who would let her take the lead and not mind following her decisions?

“Marriage is one thing,” she cleared her throat. “But I have a mind to live separate for a while.”

He blinked at this and scratched his head. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s a big change. And I’m still recovering from some things. I would like to be somewhere familiar. Until…after.”

Surely he’ll say no. What man would agree to his wife living alone and giving birth while away? It’s an absurd ask. He’ll say no and this charade will be over.

Connor played with his cap for a while and thought this over. “I scared you with that big family thing, didn’t I?”

“A little,” she grinned.

He nodded in acknowledgement. “Knew that was a bit too much. With you being an orphan and all. But I was trying to sell it, you know?”

Her grin grew. It was refreshing how transparent he was.

“I can see why you don’t want big changes in your condition right now,” he mused, weighing her with narrowed eyes and a soft wag of his finger. “That’s clever. A bit unusual, sure, but…wise.”

Savigne was so stunned, she mimicked his huff.

“Thing is,” he licked his lips and placed his elbows between them, “I know I’d be marrying up.”

“How so?” she laughed.

Connor did his signature huff. “You’re smart. Well read, I can tell. I barely know my letters. I heard you worked in a fancy place, really hard to get into. You did all this alone! That’s very ambitious. Also…you’re gorgeous. Like, really pretty. And neat.” He chuckled nervously and twisted his cap. “So…way I see it…you’re doing fine by yourself. Someone like me lecturing you…would be silly, right? Frankly, I’m hoping it’ll rub off on me a little.”

In many ways, he was the polar opposite of Arthur. Compared to this man Arthur was a bully. Set in his ways, old fashioned, a man of convictions. Arthur was awkward in showing affection, stingy with compliments. He could be infuriatingly stubborn and at times cruel and petty. This man would worship the ground she walked on. A smart woman would pick this man and never look back.

But nobody (except for the delusional man sitting across from her right now) had ever accused her of being smart, and her heart wilted at the idea of waking up next to him instead the familiar weight of Arthur behind her.

The memory seared as it always did and she took a shuddering breath, her eyes welling. Connor stilled and sat back a little as she hastily fished for the napkin and dabbed the corner of her eyes, fighting the urge to break into sobs. “I’m sorry,” she managed.

“It’s fine,” was his quiet answer. “I understand. I have a lot of nieces and nephews. Know what my sisters went through.”

It took her a while to pull herself together. Arthur used to get supremely uneasy about her crying episodes and his usual solution was to ignore them. Connor acted like it was perfectly normal and politely sat through it.

“If I was so smart and crafty,” she sniffed at last, “we wouldn’t be having this date, would we?”

He played with his paddy cap for a moment, glancing up at her. “Life happens,” he said softly. “I don’t know what happened to you. Maybe you’ll tell me some day. It’s fine if you don’t want to. Because…life happens.”

She nodded, relieved. “I had a nice time,” she tried to smile.

He huffed nervously and grinned. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Okay!” he sighed with a relief so deep, it made her chuckle again. “Okay! How about dinner next week?”

“Sure,” she said as he motioned for the waiter to bring the bill.

He walked her back to the stable and waited as she picked up Cricket. They shook hands and she rode out of Saint Denis, towards the Bayou. During that ride, her mood darkened and she became sad and cried. She fished out the enormous stack of clean handkerchiefs and peeled one off, stuffing the rest into her satchel. Her emotions churned in her gut, one overpowering the other only to be pushed down by the next. Anger, anguish, anxiety were bubbling in her. It felt like such a betrayal to even look at another man when her heart still belonged to Arthur. Betrayal to him, to herself and to Connor. But at the same time, it felt like doing the right thing for her child. Who was only here because of her own actions. If Sister Rodriguez was here, she would say this was Savigne’s penance. That she had no right to snivel and cry because she was facing the consequences of her own actions. But the same Sister Rodriguez was the inflection point of this shitstorm, so why should it matter what that hag thought?

When she arrived, the camp was quiet. It was always quiet now which suited her fine. She unhooked Cricket and fed him an apple, then went over to Frost and offered him the same. “Don’t hate me,” she whispered to him, kissing his cheek. “I’m trying to do the right thing. Even though it sucks.”

Then she trudged to her wagon and slumped into the chair. The same old newspaper still sat there with the bent corner. 

You’re selfish, she thought, selfish and spoiled and ungrateful. He’s not coming back. Never again will someone look at you like he did. Never again will someone make you writhe and moan under him. Never again will your heart flip at a mere cocky grin and the way your name rolls off a tongue. You have stood on that mountaintop and you will never come this way, never rise that high again. You knew people were fickle, people were fragile and you gave him your heart. Now it lies at the bottom of the ocean and you can never retrieve it. It will float in that dark, cold, salty water, forever out of your reach. Your best days are behind you, but your child can flourish. And maybe, maybe maybe maybe one day, years from now, you will make lasagna again and not even once think of Arthur.

She balked at the notion and covered her face. Then there was a motion in her belly and a realization dawned in her. It washed over her heart like cool water, pushing the pain away.

”No,” she whispered, removing her hands from her face to place them on her bump. “That will never happen. Because I have you and as long as you’re with me, he will be, too.”

[immortaladrien]

Hi! I was wondering if you could write about a villain visiting a comatose hero? It could be hurt/comfort or just pure angst if you want

i dig this concept! i hope you like the direction i went with it, massive thanks to @soggiestofsocks for inspo.

TW: graphic descriptions of injury, combat, medical terminology, HEAVY angst

It was never supposed to go this far. Villain repeated the mantra in frantic whispers over and over, replaying the night in their head.

I should’ve noticed the missed beat in Hero’s attacks. The stagger in their steps. Some sign, any sign to stop attacking before something like this happened.

It’d been eight hours, twenty-seven minutes and forty seconds since the collapse. The hospital waiting room was distinctly unpleasant, the lights far too bright; Villain had only really noticed that on hour seven or so. A child coughed next to them. They withdrew further into themselves, tapping their foot impatiently.

And another thing; someone should’ve noticed by now. All I needed was a cheap pair of sunglasses and a gruff ‘we’re family’ to bypass security. How many times have the two of us made live television, face in full view? How has no one said a word?

A doctor approached down the hallway with a strained expression. Immediately, Villain was up from their seat.

“Are you-”

“Are they alive?”

The doctor startled, clearing his throat and regaining composure. “At the moment. We’ve done everything we can, but they’re not over the hill yet.”

Villain’s chest tightened, guilt pooling in their stomach. “It was… that bad?”

A heavy sigh, weighted with sympathy. “There was massive internal bleeding. To be frank, it’s a wonder their organs functioned long as they did; with the injures they sustained, it should’ve led to collapse hours before the second fight.”

There was a moments pause as the Villain seemed to buffer, processing.

“Second fight?” They managed to withdraw their eyes from the floor, and the Doctor simply nodded, flipping through the files on their clipboard.

“Incident reports from civilians indicate only a single hit happened in this battle, and it was to the face. The black eye corroborates that. It doesn’t explain the shattered ankle or multiple broken ribs, much less the gaping wound on their back. The bleeding has also progressed far too quickly to have occurred just before medics arrived.”

Villain staggered a bit on their feet as emotions hit them like a train. Relief, coupled by grief and an overwhelming, all-consuming rage.

Who. Fucking. Dared.

Fuming, they clenched their fists to hold back the fury that threatened to unleash itself on innocent people. Before they could storm out of the hospital to crush every would-be-threat in the damn city themselves, the doctor once again snapped them from their thoughts.

“They’re comatose right now, but if you’d like to see them, now might be a good time to…” The words trailed off, but the meaning remained. This might be goodbye.

“Take me to them.”

—

Hero looked like hell.

Villain stood at their bedside for a solid minute assessing the damage. Bandages wrapped around their stomach were stained crimson, their breathing labored at best.

“Hey, hero.”

They took a chair conveniently placed just to the side of their unconscious adversary. Words felt hollow. The room almost echoed, despite its size.

“I’m sorry.”

They didn’t shift. Villain fidgeted with their hands.

“I should’ve recognized… sooner. I saw you limping, and I didn’t… I’m sorry.” A shaky exhale.“Whoever fucking did this to you, I’m going to kill them.” Their voice lowered, as if testing. “You hear me? I’ll kill them. You hate it when I kill people, so you better wake up and tell me not to.” Nothing. “Wake up, Hero.” A pleading, whispered request. “Please.”

The beeping of the heartrate monitor steadily reverberated through the air as no other noise remained.

Villain stood, closing the distance between themselves and their counterpart. With a shaking hand, they reached forward and trailed their fingers over the Hero’s face in a featherlight motion, as if dedicating it to memory.

An uncomfortable lump formed in the Villains’ throat.

“I don’t know how to live without you.”

The whispered confession hangs in the air before it’s gone.

The heart-rate monitor almost drowns out silent sobs from Hero’s bedside. Almost.

part two up now!

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Jesse Duquette

* * * * *

TRUMP SEEMED HAVE HAD SOME SORT OF...EPISODE AT A RALLY IN NEW JERSEY

TCINLA

MAY 13, 2024

From Charles P. Pierce at the Esquire Politics Blog:

Over the weekend, the de facto Republican presidential candidate gave a speech in New Jersey in which he sounded like a raving lunatic. To wit:

“Al Capone was so mean that if you went to dinner with him and he didn’t like you, you’d be dead the next morning. And I got indicted more than him. On bullshit, too. Just bullshit.” “The enemies from within are more dangerous to me than the enemies on the outside. Russia and China we can handle, but these lunatics within our government that are going to destroy our country, we have to get it stopped. They’re not on the right; they’re on the left.” “Fat Alvin, corrupt guy.” “You could take the ten worst presidents in the history of our country and add them up...and they haven’t done the damage to our country that this total moron has done. He’s a fool; he’s not a smart man. He never was. He was considered stupid. I talk about him differently now because now the gloves are off. He’s a bad guy…he’s the worst president ever, of any country. The whole world is laughing at him; he’s a fool.” “They’re emptying out their mental institutions into the United States, our beautiful country. And now the prison populations all over the world are down. They don’t want to report that the mental-institution population is down because they’re taking people from insane asylums and from mental institutions.” “Has anyone ever seen The Silence of the Lambs? The late, great Hannibal Lecter. He’s a wonderful man. He oftentimes would have a friend for dinner. Remember the last scene? ‘Excuse me, I’m about to have a friend for dinner,’ as this poor doctor walked by. ‘I’m about to have a friend for dinner.’ But Hannibal Lecter. Congratulations. The late, great Hannibal Lecter. We have people that have been released into our country that we don’t want in our country, and they’re coming in totally unchecked, totally unvetted. And we can’t let this happen. They’re destroying our country, and we’re sitting back and we better damn well win this election, because if we don’t, our country is going to be doomed. It’s going to be doomed.”

(Not to be pedantic, but the fictional Mr. Lecter is still fictionally alive, and not fictionally dead. He has accomplished this despite, you know, not being a real person.)

The only story to be written about this event is that a huge crowd gathered to see and hear the presumptive presidential candidate have some sort of episode in public. That is a major news story. Half the electorate has turned into a banana farm. The following, from The New York Times, is not the way to do this.

But if Mr. Trump’s speech largely consisted of what has become his standard fare, the setting stood out. Though New Jersey has voted for Democratic presidential candidates in every election since 1992, and Mr. Trump lost the state by double-digit margins in both 2016 and 2020, he insisted that he could win there in November. “We’re expanding the electoral map, because we are going to officially play in the state of New Jersey,” Mr. Trump said to a packed crowd on the beach. “We’re going to win the state of New Jersey.”

Neither is this.

Mr. Trump, who once owned casinos in Atlantic City, N.J., and who often spends summers at his golf club in Bedminster, N.J., has been publicly bullish on his chances in New Jersey for months. Political experts, and even some of his advisers, are skeptical. Still, parts of the state are deeply conservative, including the area around Wildwood, a boardwalk town on the southern end of the Jersey Shore and a beach destination popular with working-class families. Many visitors come from Pennsylvania, a battleground state that backed Mr. Trump in 2016 but swung to Mr. Biden in 2020.

And, finally, this isn’t, either.

Against the backdrop of classic Americana, Mr. Trump repeated his typical criticism that Mr. Biden’s economic policies were hurting the middle class. With an amusement park operating rides in the background, he insisted that only he could preserve the summer shore tradition. “The choice for New Jersey and Pennsylvania is simple,” Mr. Trump said, telling supporters to vote for him if they wanted “lower costs, higher income and more weekends down at the shore.” (The area’s locals usually say “down the shore,” but judging by the cheers of the crowd, the point was well received.) The rally was a stark contrast to the scene at the Manhattan courthouse, where proceedings are more sober and Mr. Trump’s comments are limited to remarks to reporters before he enters and leaves the courtroom.

This is normalization that ought to be taught in journalism schools as an example of what never to do. And the comparisons drawn between Trump in Court and Trump on the Stump are dangerously facile. His criminal trial isn’t just another bump on the campaign trail, like a freak snowstorm in Iowa or a washed-out bridge in New Hampshire. The odds are better than 50–50 that the presumptive Republican presidential candidate will be a convicted criminal going into his party’s convention. That’s a black-swan event in American history, and it ought to be covered like one every day.

My comment:

A.G. Sulzberger is proving every day that the private ownership of a public service like the New York Times makes as much sense as allowing one of the billionaire class to own the local water supply.

[kartana]

[People I'd like to get to know better]

thank you tagging me @weepycat !!! I remember first getting on tumblr and seeing these all the time and wanting to do them so bad but I was too shy. I hope ur doing well!!!

Last song: Misty Mauve by Tatsuro Yamashita. I found a clean rip on SoundCloud and it's been my one song I repeat on there so I avoid ads. I've memorized phonetically 85% of the song since spanish and Japanese have the same sounds. I've played this song for years now it's crazy but also it's so good I highly rec it

Favorite color: there's a specific shade of yellow orange that just really brightens my day like what a sunset looks like right before the sky turns to night. Between Mandarin peels and Neon orange climbing rope. Specifically when it's like the splash of color in an otherwise muted scene idk. I feel like my answer changes a lot tho

Currently watching: I guess the last thing I watched was Dandadan with a friend of mine, I saw the first episode and ended up reading the entire manga so it's likely going to be the series I keep up with. Very excited to see turbo granny soon

Currently reading: I just fixed up my nook and downloaded all of Brandon Sandersons stormlight archive books, I've just finished part 1 of his first book The Way of Kings. I'm reading since my friend really wanted me n other friends ti read it so she could start a book club so I'm reading it partly for her and partly because I haven't bitten into a fat fantasy book in a while and I know I'd like it. I was starting his other book mistborn but was told off and instructed to read the way of kings first so im doing that. I'm also reading the manga Gachuakuta as it comes out chapter by chapter with one of my close friends it's been really fun being able to follow a manga as it releases and the art style goes hard.

Last movie: took me a second but I think it was Doctor Sleep at a friend's movie night. I have not watched the shining. Which I feel adds to the experience in a sideways unique way. Rebecca Ferguson's hat in that movie is so funny. I liked it but it felt kinda insane. Like it could've been weirder but it had some shining Hollywood ropes to jump thru. Very fun otherwise very silly.

Sweet/spicy/savory: Sweet I'm sorry to my spicy and savory lovers I'm right there with you but I've recently embraced and accepted I have a sweet tooth and it's been wonderful. I can still throw it down spicy style with only a little crying and savory is soooo close too but sweet. The grip honey in my tea has on me.

Relationship status: I'm dating someone rn 🫣 it's been about 2 months since our first date and it's been really nice🥰. It's been really helpful since in August I needed to get rid of a friend crush which is now back to being a good friendship and today I'm gonna introduce my date to a lot of friends so I'm half nervous half very excited for people to meet. Every day I thank God for Bi women. Bi4Bi baby

Current obsession: Competitive Pokémon TCG. It's truly taking over my life in a good way I love it so much. I want to get to worlds next year. I have like 4 decks rn and I'm making more. My strongest deck and most consistent(despite it being by nature an inconsistent deck) has been playing Lugia Archeops I love those two pokemon and I love how the deck plays. It's a joy to look at new cards and try and game theory new innovations or strategies against other met decks and I have been really good about not buying packs and gambling away money. I will buy singes and b happy. Please talk to me about this I will happily explain and help you get into it.

I will tag @hoth-damn @lieblingsfags @theflyingsealion @stantler @infernape @reptilepolice @poochyenas @kumatora @rexroads @ainawgsd @stylesheet @ava-stuck @castellla @shimptank @tzuyusgf @151 @vivillon @ithoughtitwasbroccoli @beleth

🎃!!!

[brightbeautifulthings]

The Black Guy Dies First: Black Horror Cinema from Fodder to Oscar by Robin R. Means Coleman & Mark H. Harris

"Black horror's triumph is its ability to reflect more deeply on the ways in which Black history has been and continues to be Black horror. Black horror points a finger at evil because those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, just like those who forget the rules of horror are just plain doomed. When the twenty-four hour news cycle moves on to some Insta-influencer, and names like Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Atatiana Jefferson, and Botham Jean become fading memories for some, Black horror steps up to remind us that, like the vengeful dolls in Tales from the Hood, the past is never 'history.'"

Year Read: 2023

Rating: 4/5

Thoughts: It took me all damn year to read this book, through no fault of its own. I received an invitation from the publishers to read it through NetGalley, got about a third of the way through, and decided I couldn't take the kind of notes I wanted on my Kindle. By the time my ordered copy arrived, enough time had passed that it seemed best just to start over. Then cue the Great Summer Reading Slump of 2023! I refused to start over again, and it still took me until December to finish. May I reflect on this before I decide to accept nonfiction again, even if it is about horror. But then, as my favorite professor always liked to say, "Struggling is productive."

This is all no reflection on the book itself, which is an in-depth look at the history of Black horror cinema. I'm an avid horror fan, and I still learned a hell of a lot, including where to fill in the gaps in my viewing (although… I'm still probably going to skip Spider Baby (1967), sorry. Even my boyfriend, Lon Chaney Jr., can't make that sound appealing). Seriously, adding films to my watch list was some of the most fun of this book, and I've already started chipping away at those by continuing with The Purge series. I gave up after having lukewarm feelings about the first, but in a weird twist, the series actually gets so much better. I'm planning to watch Event Horizon (1997) and Spiral (2021) at some point too, among others.

The writers are incredibly knowledgeable about the topics, one a scholar in the field and the other having had a hand in a number of popular culture projects centered on horror film. I think this combination is what really sets this book apart from others of its kind and gives it a more unique voice. The two of them balance the in-depth theoretical and social commentary with witty, sardonic asides. Horror has a long history of going hand in hand with comedy (horror hosts like Svengoolie are case in point), and they go well together here. Despite the fears in the acknowledgements section that the book comes over "too complainy," I didn't get that impression in any sense. A critique by definition should be critical, and it is. It spares no feelings in calling out the hugely racist film industry which, despite major strides forward, still has a long way to go. However, it's also clear throughout that the writers really love the genre, and there are points of borderline gushing over films like Get Out (2017), which had a revolutionizing effect on social-political horror in general and Black horror specifically.

The chapters are neatly broken up by Top Lists on various topics, from Frequent Dier Awards and Terrible Hip-Hop Theme Songs From Horror Movies to 10 Horror Movies About Black-White Race Relations Not Named Get Out. These work better than the sometimes long lists of films inserted into paragraphs, and are often quite funny. The first half of the book is very strong on the history of Black horror film, even to the point of feeling a bit repetitive at times, which I think is a byproduct of the essay-ish/doctoral thesis quality of some of the chapters. (We can credit academia with a lot of things, but being concise is rarely one of them.) It expertly links Black horror trends with long-held racial stereotypes and charts the often dismal numbers of Black actors, actresses, writers, and directors in horror film, and the (again, often dismal) quality of that representation.

The second half dips into the intersection of Black women and Black LGBTQ+ representation, and it's not quite as comprehensive there. In part, this is because there just isn't as much rep out there to write about, but my sense is that this is more like an overview of these topics. A dedicated scholar could spend an entire book delving into each one of those and still have more to write. The final chapter pulls together a moving rumination on how Black horror, like most media, is ultimately a reflection of the world we live in. Any minor quibbles aside, this is extremely well-done and a must-read for anyone with an interest in the history of horror film.

[hollownoire]

I love insomnia. Sleepy? Yes. Tired? Very. Exhausted? Extremely.

Though no matter how I fuckin' time taking my sleeping med, or if I say fuck you to screens before bed, it just doesn't work. I need a hard reset, man, sleeping fucking sucks.

But I don't want it to! That's when I should be having dreams, that's when I should be fluttering off to dreamland on a chariot made of clouds and joy. I wanna close my eyes and fall asleep in minutes, seconds, not....HOURS?!?! I DONT KNOW ANYONE ELSE WHO JUST LIKE CANT SLEEP WHAT THE FUCK

ALL NIGHT BRO. ITS 5 FUCKING 30. HOW DO I TAKE MY SLEEP BACK?

Roll over, not comfy. Change positions, not comfy. Roll over. Roll over. Roll over. Curl up into the fetal position and pray to God my body realizes its time to shut the fuck up and go to bed, not comfy.

Melatonin? MelaNonin. Nothing. Nada. One. Two. Three, nothing. Take none, nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

Weighted blanket? Nothing. Peaceful as a babe? Almost never, but still nothing.

Talking to my damn doctor, I'm losing my goddamn mind. My insomnia has never been this bad, hell, I thought it was normal to flip around fucking over and over again until morning. No! It's not! I'm just a goddamn skyrim draugr dissolving into dust with all my fuckin' bones hurting.

I'm fucking sleep deprived and I STILL CANT FALL ASLEEP? What kind of bullshit is this?

ALSO SOME MOTHERFUCKING TRICKSTER DEITY THOUGHT IT WOULD BE FUNNY TO GIVE ME THE WORST HICCUPS RIGHT AS I LAID DOWN

Well! No sleep for me I guess! I'll just stay up until I fold over like a melted fucking peep in the microwave.

My friend, the other day, after I got like four hours of sleep, was fucking with me saying that friend 2 was never there. Like in the call. I was talking to friend 2 for like 5 minutes straight, realized he wasn't there, and asked friend 1 where he went

He fucking said he was getting his doctorate in college, AND I JUST BELIEVED HIM.

Oh, yes, that makes sense. Friend 2 IS in COLLEGE afterall! Of course he'd be doing that right now!

BUUUUT then he asked if i was talking to him for the past five minutes, and he fucking gaslit me into thinking he was never there and I about had a goddamn panic attack thinking I was hallucinating. (It's a bit he does, it's funny, normally, this was just like too real to be funny in the moment, but it is pretty funny now despite it being like my biggest fear)

So....yeah. Shit myself goddamn sideways and now yet again sleep evades me expertly, and I'm pissed, uncomfortable, I just wanna sleep but the sun is peaking it's stupid fucking mug over the goddamn treeline and I want to go fucking throw hands with it and teach it a fucking lesson. I need like, TWO or THREE hours more of TOTAL DARKNESS or I'm gonna fucking scream!

I WOULD go to bed earlier but should this SHIT repeat itself I'd just be speedrunning Misery and Dissapointment.

Oh, what's that, you wanna toss and turn starting at 9 instead of 12 or 1? Be my guest! NONONO.

I'm gonna fucking flip through YouTube now. So fucking pissed. I have shit to do!!! My music! Art! I don't have time to nap, man, naps SUCK. Everyone fuckin' applauds sleepy-cozy time like it's a bag of chips WITH A SANDWICH but it's NOT. Its NOT!!!

It's like a fucking dark ritual you do when you failed to do the proper arcane invocation, and you close your eyes and it's shitty cause you don't fall asleep! It's just staring at my goddamn eyelids for thirty minutes until I give the fuck up.

OR, I COMMIT TO THE NAP, AND I WAKE UP IN DARKNESS AND HAVE TO SCOOP MY BRAIN BACK TOGETHER

Somebody, please, I need sleep Master's (or Mistresses I guess but that's...whatever) to fucking tell me how to sleep. Absurd. Yes. I've tried TURKEY, I've tried MILK, I've tried STRETCHING, I've tried GETTING UP AND COMING BACK LATER and NONE OF IT WORKSSSSS

PLEASEEEEEE

[oasislake76]

“Why are you like this?” 

maybe it’s because I’ve been medicated with every verity of medication to help with my ADHD since I was in elementary school. switching between new pills every week with new side effects on top of old ones and upping the dosage every couple of months till each pill was around 75mg. Which is the highest dosage the doctors prescribed to me in fifth grade and I had to take that pill everyday before going to Middle School on an empty stomach because I literally couldn’t eat in the morning. no matter how hard I’ve tried. gaining such a strong gag reflex to the pill coating that worsened when my mom forced me to go to a naturopath and start taking vitamins on top of the pills. How I fought with her every damn day about taking the damn medication because I would go hours without food because my throat felt so restricted and I felt so nauseas at just the thought of food. 

maybe it’s because I’ve cold cut myself from those pills and vitamins during the end of my Junior year of high school and it backlashed at me since I’ve been taking them constantly for over ten years of my life. how a majority of those pills during my childhood had fucking methamphetamine in them. And of course everyone thought it was a bad idea but they still went through with it, after all I was only around 4 or 5 years old when I first started so I had no say in anything about the choices of my body. my body and brain is so ridiculously stunted that everyone in my entire family was openly surprised with how I graduated High school. If Covid didn't happen my Senior year of High school and shut everything down a week before my birthday, I most likely would have had to repeat the year. 

I am about to be 21 years old tomorrow, on the 18th of March, and I’m so scared to an unfathomable point that I have been crying at night. Every night since March 1st. because I don’t know if I could ever get truly come to terms with the unreversible damage that has happened to my body. Crying over the damage that I have done to myself unwillingly through my actions and vicious nature as a child and a teen because of the effects I could not control no matter how hard I’ve tried. 

I have just recently, and I mean I just started to get the courage in September of 2022, started on the very long winding journey of trying to figure out who the hell I am. Because who ever the fuck that was on those pills was not and will never ever be me in a million years. It’s soul shattering to be screamed at by people who’ve been the one’s in charge of my choices as a child, despite dealing with every side affect that has reared it’s ugly head for years. I love my parents, to the bottom of my very existence of a being, but I’m going to make them listen to me. I’m going to force them to see the mistakes in their choices no matter how much good intentions they had while making them. 

because it still fucked me up. it has caused so much damage that the social protection that comes attached to good choices and intentions no longer covers it. I will sink my words like teeth into their ears because I refuse to be the only one who has to deal with all the aftermath. 

never forget the fact that ADHD medication does not work for everyone. no matter how “bad” or “much” you have it. properly talk with all the Doctors and make them listen to you so you don’t end up like me. 

[harringtown]

Omg I saw the obscure friends-to-lovers prompts and #3 is absolutely meant for Steve. He’s always getting hurt and you’re always the worrier and then suddenly you’re sick and he has no idea what to do because his parents never took care of him

yesss omg I am always here for anything that taps into Steve's childhood issues ahfkhsh <33333

-

First, it was chicken pox at eleven. Despite having it as a kid, his mom wanted nothing to do with a scratching, whining boy, and his dad used work as an easy excuse. So, it fell to you, the next door neighbor who wasn’t much older than Steve, but had already gotten sick years ago and couldn't get sick again. 

Then, strep throat at twelve, which you didn’t catch from him, either. The flu at thirteen, and a nasty cold at fourteen, and so on and so forth. Always Steve in the sickbed and always you tending to him with an ease he was jealous of. 

For someone who walked around the world like a burden, to Steve’s surprise, he didn’t feel that way when you force fed him chicken noodle soup and laid damp cloths on his forehead. 

And also to his surprise, you never faltered. Never seemed scared or overwhelmed, even when you were too young to be playing nurse. 

One would think that after years of being taken care of, some of that caretaking would have rubbed off on Steve. 

It didn’t. And now, you’re the one in bed, with a scarily high fever, your skin gleaming with sweat and your limbs trembling. 

Give him a monster to kill, and he’s good to go. But this isn’t his territory. This isn’t his territory, and he’s trying very hard not to lose his shit, and he’s not doing that well. 

“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” he says. He’s going to wear a hole through the carpet after so long pacing over the same spot, but he can’t stop. “Make sure this isn’t something more serious than the flu.” 

“It’s the flu,” you say. “I just have to ride it out.”

“Ride it out? Really? That’s your medical opinion? Cuz, I gotta say, I doubt an actual doctor would agree with you on that one—”

“Steve,” you say, voice low and raspy. He pauses in his pacing, frowning. “You’re freaking out. You need to sit down.” 

Steve’s frown deepens as he sits on the edge of your bed and immediately pops back up. He’s all nervous energy and twitchy limbs. 

“You made it look so easy,” he says. “When we were kids, you handled it like it was nothing. You never looked scared. Never got pissed at me when I puked on your shoes.” 

“I wasn’t exactly thrilled about that,” you murmur, eyes half lidded, a tiny smile on your lips. You reach out a hand, and Steve takes it, letting you pull him back down onto the bed. 

Your skin is warm and clammy, but Steve just holds on tighter. Your eyes flutter shut. 

“Our whole lives, you’ve taken care of me," Steve says. "And you did a damn good job of it. But now, the one time you actually need my help, and I’m—” 

Your eyes are all the way open, now. Your brows furrow, and you push yourself half into a seated position against the pillows. 

“Stop,” you say. “Just because I didn’t always need you to… I don’t know, fight my battles, for me, doesn’t mean I didn’t need you.” You swallow thickly. “Doesn’t mean I don’t need you now.” 

Steve wilts, and he draws your hand against his chest, pressing it to his heart. He’s crossing a dozen invisible lines he’s set for himself over the years, but you’re not stopping him. 

“Besides,” you murmur, “I don’t love you for your bedside manner. Which gets a B- at best.” 

And it’s hardly the first time you’ve said those words, but in the last few years, love came less and less on either side. For Steve, because it meant more than it used to, and saying it like he would to a friend felt like some kind of betrayal. 

This is different. The hesitance in your tone and the quick aversion of your gaze. 

“You—” Steve starts.

“Don’t make me repeat it,” you say. “I know you heard me.” 

Steve inhales. Holds his breath for a long moment and gathers his courage. 

“I did,” he says. “And I love you too.”

You smile, and your eyes flutter shut, but not before you say, “I know.”  

A laugh slips out of Steve’s mouth, and he brings your hand to his lips, kissing your knuckles, your skin warm. And even though your eyes are shut, he smiles back.

[modernwizard]

Reasons I love the Spymaster #70: He still likes Yaz!

Find my full series under the HELP I WUVS HIM tag or at the why I love Dhawan Master tag.

#70: He still likes Yaz!

H/T to @themastergifs for these first four gifs.

The Spymaster favors Yaz from their first meeting. Here he is in Spyfall I.

Yaz, proud of herself for having made the steganography connection, looks to the Spymaster [in his guise as O], for confirmation. He smiles and nods, approving of her conclusion and admiring her brains. Furthermore, even though the Spymaster doesn't really do standard eye contact, he makes some with Yaz here. He's really interested in her.

Here they are in Spyfall II.

I love this bit [#36: Self-deprecating flirting with Yaz!]. As I write in #36, "He’s really playing up the lovable loser dork here, isn’t he? Not once, but twice, he acts cool/knowledgeable and then undercuts his own damn self by admitting that, uh, nope, that coolness was just an act. No, they did not win. No, that was not an actual saying. Implication: Yeah, yeah, he is kind of a doofus, trying to impress Yaz." And Yaz digs it. Expressions in the second gif in this series show their mutual entertainment with his gambling ineptitude.

Even after he drops the O persona, he still takes a personal interest in Yaz. In Spyfall II, he says, "Stick with me, Yaz, 'cause I control...everything." Even though he manifestly controls...uh...nothing, please note that she's the only one he calls out by name.

By the time The Power of the Doctor rolls around, Yaz has leveled up in badassery. She has confidence aplenty, flying the TARDIS on her own, putting her foot down and demanding explanations from the Doctor, even training a gun on the Spymaster. As I point out in #59: Still not killing companions!, Yaz's power makes the Spymaster stop and take notice.

I write in #59, "The conversion of Yaz, who once thought the Spymaster was cute, into an armed and dangerous person, subdues the Spymaster...stilling his body and quieting his voice. He quits bouncing around and resorts to a deliberate, anticipatory rocking back and forth. He finds her no-nonsense attitude unsettling and her threat credible." In other words, he's scared of her.

Nevertheless, he still affects familiarity with her, directs serious eye contact toward her, and continues to like her. In a note on #59, @sclfmastery writes to me:

My friend @nickcagestrufflehog​ was talking to me about the Master and Yaz on Discord and they pointed out to me that the Master genuinely liked Yaz back when he was wearing the O persona. Beneath the acting, he was  thrilled she took him seriously, liked him, and listened to him. ... This transferred into a unique desire to earn her respect AS THE DOCTOR...

I agree with this interpretation, especially because it's borne out by the Spymaster's repeated failed attempts to bring Yaz over to his side after he has usurped the Doctor's place.

At first he tries coercion [#53: He remembers his lines!]: Here he is, right after usurpation, trying to get Yaz into the TARDIS:

Yaz obeys, but she doesn't seem very thrilled about the situation, so he tries to excite Yaz with a Doctor-like adventure:

Yaz, of course, wants nothing to do with him. She tells him to change back. She glares at him when he drags her around while he's doing damage in the Doctor's name. She even shoves him out of the TARDIS and leaves him on a dying planet for a while before returning. She sneers at him, insults him, resists him, and rejects him in every way.

And yet, still, when Yaz returns for the Spymaster [to execute her plan of getting the Doctor back and putting the Spymaster where he belongs], he continues to appeal to her.

In this invitation he tries to highlight his similarity to the Doctor. He's "fun" too! He likes to travel too. But he delivers this in a resigned tone, though, rather quietly. He knows that he's not the Doctor, and he knows that Yaz knows this too. He's speaking out of desperation, and it's not convincing.

The Spymaster's persistent attempts to win Yaz over, despite her hostility, demonstrate that he feels like he needs her approval. He can't obtain the Doctor's regard, but he thinks that obtaining the attention and respect of the Doctor's companion--someone Doctor-adjacent--would be second best.  Despite his supposed need for her, though, she has no need for him. 

@natalunasans @sclfmastery @timeladyjamie @whovianuncle @nickcagestrufflehog

[shy-violet-soul]

Left of Bang

Characters: Captain Syverson & female you, OC parents

Summary: You’re used to holding up the world for your family. But what happens when you need someone to hold up the world for you?

Warnings: angst, reference to terminal illness, dying parent, hospital scene

Word Count: 2,400 ish

A/N: this is marginally autobiographical; my dad was diagnosed with cancer a year ago. As the oldest daughter, unmarried/no kids, helping out my parents has frequently fallen to me - never more so than over the last year. And I’m happy to do it! I see it as my vocation. But there are days when the world is so. Damn. Heavy. If only I really did have Sy here to hold me on those days… Also - many hugs and thank yous to my bestie and beta @thesassywallflower for giving this a review for me.

~~~~~

There are people that being in hospitals doesn’t bother ‘em. I’m not one of those.

It’s always been crazy to me that all hospitals smell the same. Even out in the desert, that same smell came through while carrying stretchers in or visiting my boys. Antiseptic, heavy duty cleaner, and bandages. And something else - I call it the “stress scent”. Sleepless staff, worried families, they all got it. Almost smells like sweat, but not quite.

Being here…the smell, the sounds, keeps trying to drag my brain back to memories I don’t want to see. Standing in hallways dimmer and dustier than these, repeating to every medical person what happened to my soldier. Why can’t they just write it down? Save a dude from having to relive it over and over.

“And when did the symptoms begin?” The soft voice was kind, but I felt my guts flinch at the question. The same question she’d answered about a hundred fuckin’ times.

“About a month ago, we noticed him shuffling his feet when he walked. Last week, he started losing mobility on his left side. He went to see his doctor, they ordered tests. They called him last Tuesday and told him to go to the ER because they suspected he was having a stroke. And he’s been here for the last 4 days since they transferred him here after finding the brain tumor.”

The latest specialist nodded as he spoke, his pen scratching as he hustled his handwriting to keep up. Then there was another exam of her dad, more questions, what prescriptions does he take. Now, I’m sure that this doctor, a kidney specialist, is an observant pro. They gotta be, right? But he’s only lookin’ at her dad. Which is good and right; he’s the patient, after all. Sometimes, he turns and includes her mom in the talkin’. Pats mom’s shoulder when her chin starts to tremble.

Nobody’s lookin’ at my girl but me, though.

She’s got that look. If I’ve seen it once, I’ve seen it a hundred times - that numb kinda fatigue soldiers learn to fight through. The kind of stress that lives up high in your chest, squeezin’ the top of your lungs and leaves your eyes burning. Puts you on a weird type of auto-pilot - you look and sound plugged in because you’re working so hard to look that way. But it’s survival mode, all the same.

She started to get up out of her chair - I knew she wanted to offer it to the doctor when he leaned against the wall - but I kept her sittin’ with a hand on her shoulder. She didn’t look up at me as she listened to the doc, but her cold fingers reached up to squeeze mine. I glanced around the room as I listened - a habit of too many years for me to quit now. Her mama sat sad and tragic-lookin’, wringing her hands. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a woman do that until everything went to shit with Papa C. Mama C crumpled like a paper bag - she couldn’t handle even the simplest task without looking to my girl.

My gaze moved to Papa C. The man had aged 20 years in a couple’a days. Cancer’s a bastard. He listened to the doctor, but with the brain tumor and diabetes messin’ him up, I don’t know how much he’s tracking on everything. More tests ordered, surgery comin’ soon, and then goodbyes got the new doc out the door.

Despite my snacking, my belly growled right in her ear from where I stood behind her. Shit.

“Dad, I think we’re going to head home. Are you set for now until morning?” Up and moving again. Swear to God, she’s like an exhausted Energizer Bunny on the last bit of a cocaine high. I couldn’t stop my jaw from clenching as I watched her gather up the ziploc bags from her mama’s lap. She glanced at me once as she pitched the uneaten sandwich and crackers into the trash - she’d made all of us a lunch to try and stop the spending. Hospital life for families ain’t cheap, and cafeteria food got old real fast. My sweet li’l Hummingbird even went to the trouble of toasting my sandwich bread ‘cause she knows I like it, and crammed so many crackers in my bag the corner of one poked a hole in it. She’d eaten her own like she was gettin’ paid for it, even managed a few crackers. But her water bottle sat barely touched, and she hadn’t even opened the candy bar I got her from the vending machine bandit down the hall.

That’s the thing about soldiers - they learn to do enough to survive. More than that is just damn hard to do.

There’s a concept we learn in officer training called “Baseline + Anomaly = Decision”. Basically, you learn the ‘usual’ about your environment or person you’re with - that becomes your baseline. Then, you watch for any changes - anomalies. If the anomalies are a big enough issue, then you gotta choose a course of action - decision. And this concept is critical ‘cause you wanna keep you and your soldiers left of bang - before a bad thing happens. After the bad thing happens, now you’re right of bang and fucked.

Anybody else would look at my Hummingbird and not see anomalies. She’s up and movin’, walkin’, talkin’, doing her thing. Looking all kinds of like ‘baseline’. But I’m not anybody. And she’s given off anomalies fit to sink an Abrams “Beast” tank.

As Mama C started fluttering around the bed, I gathered up all her paraphernalia - the woman didn’t travel light. Hummingbird’s cheery voice reached me as I turned to watch her smack a kiss to Papa C’s forehead, rubbing his bristly bald head gently before she started trying to herd her mama towards the door.

“Well, Papa C, I’m gonna get your girls home. What contraband you want me to smuggle you in tomorrow?”

The older man smiled like I hoped as he told me, “a medium-well steak, Sy. Make it a sirloin strip.”

“10-4, sir.” I patted his shoulder and started to stand straight when he tapped my belly with the back of his hand. He glanced once towards the door where his daughter stood steamrolling his wife into her walker-wheelchair combo thing before he looked up at me.

“You take good care of her, alright?”

I leaned in close, wanting to reassure him. “You don’t worry about your wife, sir. I’m happy to watch out for her.”

He nodded once, glancing again at the women. “Thank you. But I don’t mean her.” His gaze was serious - almost a little sad - when he looked back up at me. “Beth has always leaned too hard on our oldest, and my little cupcake hasn’t always said no to her mama the way she should. I know she’s doing too much. She needs somebody to look after her.”

Seems a brain tumor and kidney failure couldn’t stop the former military man’s eagle eyes. I squeezed his shoulder, lowering my voice to just us.

“It will be my honor, sir.”

He rested back against the pillow, like I took a load off his mind. “You’re a good man, Sy.”

Mama C cried the whole drive back to her house. Thank the Lord that Hummingbird’s 7 year old brother was staying with a friend. She gave Mama C stern marching orders to eat, take her meds, go to sleep, and be ready to roll at 8:30am tomorrow morning. The minute we got in my truck, she went loose and quiet like somebody’d cut her strings. My lungs squeezed my chest tight as I realized - my little bird felt safe with me. Safe enough to stop fightin’ to survive.

The bright lights of the kitchen couldn’t hide her pallor. I helped her ditch her shoes onto the “HazMat mat” we’d relegated our germy soles to for decon each day, then urged her onto a barstool. In minutes, I had a pan of scrambled eggs and ham going. As an afterthought, I chucked in a couple handfuls of spinach. Vitamin A or potassium or some shit, but it was green and good for her. I wrapped up a hearty serving in a tortilla with a healthy dose of cheddar and handed her a plate.

“Hummingbird, why don’t you go take a shower? Or a good soak?” I watched her eat mechanically, that numb fatigued survival mode trying to kickstart up again.

“I will. Just gotta do the shoes and call Louise.” Her sister kept up a regular stream of texts and FaceTimes, but living 250 miles away with four kids and a husband working two jobs, she just couldn’t be here.

“Shoe duty is mine. Why don’t you text Lou the latest deets and tell her you’ll call in the morning?” There it was - that smile I loved. Just a hint of it, but I’ll take it.

“Did you actually use the word ‘deets’?”

I let my own smile stretch wide, pleased as punch when hers got bigger. “Damn straight, I did. ‘Cause I’m a cool ass grown up.”

She snorted around a mouthful of eggs, rolling her eyes as she scooped up her phone and hopped to the floor. “Alright, Captain, I hear you loud and clear.”

Even the simplest kiss she smacked on my face made my skin tingle. She didn’t see me smiling at her as she turned the corner for the master bath.

The minutes ticked by faster than I realized, and a quarter hour later, the shoe soles were Lysol’d and my emails were caught up. I could hear the shower as I made the hall, but when I sat on the bed and my shirt hit the floor, my heart went right along with it. Hummingbird wasn’t in the shower. She was sat on the bathroom floor, head back against the cabinet, just starin’.

That survival mode, all that endurance, had quit on her.

I squatted down in front of her, givin’ her space but lettin’ her feel my presence as I reached down and took her hands. Those fingers lay limp in mine - not even a squeeze.

“Talk to me, Hummingbird.”

Deep breath in and out - her movements so slow and heavy, it was like watching her underwater.

“I’m ok.”

I slid my hands into her hair, cupping the base of her skull, and rubbed the bones the way she loved. She sagged even looser into my grasp.

“You don’t have to be.”

Anomalies. Her swallow suddenly all tight. The way the left corner of her mouth quirked down a bit. Her bottom lip trembled. So, I decided on a course of action. I sat down cross-legged on the floor, pulled her into my lap, and hugged her up tight to me.

Left of bang.

She broke to pieces in my arms. Face in my neck, hands squeezing my shoulders fit to pinch, and cryin’ so hard my own eyes burned. And I couldn’t do a damn thing but hold her.

The shower kept on runnin’, but the water bill could go to hell. I ignored the steam as I rocked my girl, stroking her over and over. I wasn’t gonna tell her ‘everything will be fine, it’s ok’ when it sure as shit was not. So I just told her the truth for the now.

“I’m here, Hummingbird. I’m here. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart.” At first, I wasn’t sure she could hear me, she was cryin’ so hard. It didn’t matter. I just kept on saying it - her heart was gonna hear it.

Coulda been 5 minutes, coulda been an hour, but those cries finally started to slow. Her hands stroked up my shoulders to my head, and she started gently rubbing my buzz cut. She told me once how soothing that was to her, and I never teased her about it again. She sighed all shuddery against me, and when she spoke, her little voice damn near broke me.

“I’m so tired, Sy.”

“I know.”

“My dad is dying.”

“I know.”

Her arms wrapped around my neck, and I settled her in snug against me. We just sat and breathed for a minute as I rubbed her back up and down. I wanted to reach into her and take all that pain, and carry it for her. Seventeen years in the Army taught me - it just can’t be done. But I can damn sure clear a path and lighten that load.

I got her on her feet, then into the shower to get the hospital off both of us. That flowery lotion bar butter crap kept slippin’ out of my hands and she chuckled when I cussed at the damn stuff before I could massage it in her skin. Her eyes were tired but she smiled sweet at me when I kissed her belly. I rested my head there for a second, letting the water rain on me and feeling the warmth of my woman against me. We both needed this.

“I’m sorry I cried all over you.” Her voice hummed against me where I rested on her, and I couldn’t stop the frown as I looked up at her. She dodged my look and reached for my beard soap, but I wasn’t lettin’ this go. I stood up so I could get her full attention, cupping her face to look up at me.

“You don’t say ‘sorry’ for cryin’ with me, Hummingbird.” She didn’t say anything for a bit. My chin raised up a hair as the Ranger Captain in me couldn’t let go of it until I got the answer I wanted, and she needed.

Her hair moved against my hands as she nodded. “Ok, Sy.” Mission accomplished.

Later, I got her bundled into her favorite shirt she stole from me and a pair of those fuzz floppy socks she likes so much. I turned on her favorite piano music station on Pandora, then opened my arms for all the cuddles she wanted.

“Sy?”

“Yeah, little bird?”

She didn’t say anything right away. The dark room and quiet music were pulling both of us to sleep.

“It’s not gonna be ok. It’s gonna suck.”

“That’s true.”

“But we’re gonna get through it”

“Yeah, we are.”

She didn’t say anything else, and a few minutes passed with us squirming a little into more comfortable positions.

“Sy?”

“Mmmhmm?”

“I’m gonna get through it because I’ve got you.”

My throat closed up so tight, my swallow hurt. “You sure as hell do. And I’ve got you.”

So, yeah - hospital visits suck ass. But this is my new tour. My hummingbird needs someone to keep her left of bang. And I’ll report for duty every damn day.

[arrowflier]

prompt, if you have the time: ian and mickey talking about ian's bipolar in a really chill manner. like they are married and their convo after securing business made me think about how many other convos we missed 😔❤️

Disclaimer: I don’t know what it’s like to actually live with bipolar. That makes me nervous because I want to do right by it, so if I miss the mark on prompts like this, please do let me know. Also, this starts out a bit dramatic because when aren't they, but I promise they chill out.

Take Off Your Mask (don’t compensate for me)

Mickey is at the bathroom sink, getting ready to brush his teeth, when Ian comes in behind him. He watches the reflection of that messy red hair get closer as he squeezes minty toothpaste onto his brush—well, onto a brush, he’s not totally sure whose is whose at this point. Ian’s arms wrap easily around his waist, hands dipping just a little too low for common decency, and Mickey leans back into him as Ian bends to breathe against his neck.

“Mmm, again?” Mickey murmurs as Ian licks that sensitive patch of skin just behind his ear, those broad, warm palms heavy on his hips. “Didn’t I just take care of that?” he adds, pushing his hips back.

But Ian shifts so they don’t make contact, their lower halves stubbornly separated even as he plasters his chest to Mickey’s back, and Mickey knows something is wrong.

“You uh…” he starts, suppressing the sudden fluttering feeling in his chest, the one you get when you stand up too fast. He swallows. “You feelin’ good, man?”

Ian pauses behind him, and Mickey can feel him breathing. In and out, in and out, but just a touch too fast. He knows despite his efforts, the words came out cautious, came out concerned. And Ian had definitely noticed.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Ian tries casually, bringing sharp teeth to nibble at Mickey’s ear. “Can’t I just be turned on by my husband?”

“Yeah,” Mickey agrees, “sure you can.” He pulls away though, just enough to get Ian looking in the mirror, and meets his eyes through their reflections in the glass.

“But you’re not, though,” Mickey says, and Ian shoves away from him with a heavy sigh.

“Never mind,” he mutters, looking at the floor. He starts to leave, but Mickey’s having none of that, and sets his unused toothbrush down with a clatter to make a grab for Ian’s arm.

“Hey, wait,” he gets out before Ian is spinning on him again, pushing his hand away.

“I just wanted to do something for you,” Ian growls, leaving Mickey stunned with the sudden shift in attitude. “I know that wasn’t enough, earlier, I know I haven’t been enough. Not since they upped my fucking meds.”

“The fuck are you on about?” Mickey asks, completely mystified. “When did I say any of that?”

“Just now!” Ian bellows, and Mickey’s not having that, either.

“Yo,” he states firmly. “Knock that the fuck off.”

And Ian does. His eyes go wide at the iron in Mickey’s voice, and then he’s deflating. Like a balloon animal from the fair that you leave in your room for too long, he goes from overfilled and pressurized to a limp, wrinkled mess in no time flat.

“Sorry,” Ian manages softly. “I’ll just…” And then he’s leaving the room, leaving Mickey staring at the space where he had been, wishing he was better at all of this shit.

Mickey rubs his face with tired hands, then follows.

He finds Ian in their room, huddled on his side of the bed. The blankets are still kicked to the bottom of the mattress where they had left them, Ian’s toes tucked underneath as he sits with his knees to his chest.

Mickey sits on the edge next to him, facing him. Pokes at his leg until Ian looks up.

“Hey,” he says simply. “What’s goin’ on?”

Ian bites his lip, so Mickey reaches out and pokes that, too.

“You gotta talk to me, man,” he presses. “We’re married now, you can’t just run off on me.”

Mentioning their recent commitment is always a surefire way to get Ian smiling, and Mickey counts it as a victory when his husband’s lips can’t help but twitch upward. Ian doesn’t seem any closer to speaking, but Mickey can be patient. They have the time, now.

He doesn’t have to wait very long before Ian relaxes, letting his legs straighten on the bed and folding his hands loosely in his lap. Ian twists his wedding ring on his finger, stares at it, then reaches over and takes Mickey’s hand where it lies against the sheets.

“Been feeling off again,” he starts quietly, stroking the back of Mickey’s hand with his thumb.

Mickey raises an eyebrow, even though Ian can’t see it with his gaze fixed on the clasped hands.

“You think?” he offers dryly, and there’s that hint of a smile again.

“Yeah,” Ian admits. “I know. It’s just…” he hesitates, then pushes on. “I’m happy, you know? I am.”

Mickey nods.

“I am,” Ian repeats with emphasis, and Mickey just snorts.

“Didn’t say you weren’t, Ian, what the fuck?” He pulls his hand away and places it on Ian’s cheek, turning his face so he can look him in the eye.

“Just tell me what’s happenin’ here,” he asks. “You were fine earlier, so what got into that brain of yours to make you think somethin’ was wrong? That you had to make somethin’ up to me?”

Ian shrugs. “Don’t know,” he answers. “I never fucking know, that’s the problem." He laughs humorlessly. "And I can't even keep you from noticing."

Mickey can work with that.

“Alright,” he says casually. “Just the usual shit, then, huh?” He can see Ian’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t let him say anything, or turn away.

“Thought you might be on an upswing,” Mickey continues, “comin’ at me less than an hour after the last time and all. But that’s not it, obviously.”

Ian shakes his head, to the extent that he can with his chin in Mickey’s grasp.

“Downswing, then,” Mickey decides, and nods to himself. “You feel like shit, and that asshole brain of yours is tellin’ you you’re shit, too. Tellin’ you you’re not enough again, or that you’re too much?”

Ian doesn’t try to argue. “Not enough,” he admits, then, “maybe both,” a second later.

“Alright,” Mickey says again. Then he drops his hand from Ian’s face, straightens his back, and stares him in the eye.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Mickey orders. “You’re gonna go take your meds—” he holds up a hand to stop Ian’s protest, “I know you didn’t do it yet, you moron, I was in the bathroom the whole time. So you’re gonna go take ‘em,” he repeats, “and I’m gonna call your doctor. I know they said to give it a couple weeks, but you shouldn’t be havin’ to deal with this.”

“Okay,” Ian agrees softly.

“Then,” Mickey continues, “you’re gonna get a shower and put on something clean, because I can’t make you feel better, but I can damn well make you comfortable.”

Ian sighs. “Mickey…” he starts, and Mickey think he knows what’s coming: the usual diatribe of you shouldn’t have to, this is my problem, just leave me alone.

But it never comes. Instead, Ian leans over, kisses him lightly on frowning lips.

“Thanks,” he whispers, and Mickey cracks a smile.

“Yeah yeah, whatever,” he mutters, but he knows Ian can tell that he’s pleased. “Go take your pills, bitch.”

He moves to let Ian off the bed. Before the other man can get through the door, though, he calls out to him again.

“Ian,” he says, and waits for him to turn around with questioning eyes. “Come downstairs when you’re done, yeah? We’ll lay on the sofa, watch some shitty movies or somethin’.”

Ian smiles. “Yeah? Gonna cuddle me better, Mick?”

Mickey bites his lip, but he knows he’s grinning back. “Maybe. You got a problem with that, tough guy?”

“No,” Ian says over his shoulder as he turns and heads back to the bathroom. “Not at all.”

"And Ian?" Mickey calls out one more time before Ian can close the bathroom door.

"No more hidin' this shit, yeah?" he says. "No more puttin' on a mask for me, no more tryin' to compensate for somethin' that ain't even there."

He moves toward the bedroom door, rests a hand on the jamb.

"I'm in this, okay?" he confirms. "So let me be fuckin' in it."

Ian's back tenses, then relaxes again.

"Okay, Mick," he agrees. "Okay."

And it might not be okay right then, but it will be.

They always will be.