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red-archivist · 2 months

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TMAGP 23 SPOILERS!

i heard those lines and was immediately inspired to make something sad lol

Twenty years ago, Jonathan Sims quits smoking.

Twenty years ago, Martin Blackwood’s mother survives her second stroke.

Twenty years ago, Jonathan Sims quits smoking.

It’s not enough to just stop, the shakes and the headaches nip at him constantly, and he reluctantly concludes that bad habits need to replaced by better ones.

That’s where the cycling comes in, to start with.

It’s exercise, it’s eco-friendly, and he can pretend he is literally leaving his cravings behind him as he pushes hard on the pedals.

He does his homework first, researching what is the best option for city cycling, for his budget, for someone that hasn’t ridden a bike since they were nine.

He plots out his paths to the office, the shops, and the nearest puncture repair centre, just in case. He even makes a spreadsheet to keep track of them.

He is sure Tim would poke fun at him for it, if they were still talking, but the organisation keeps his twitching fingers busy and his roaming mind away from the half-finished box of cigarettes in his desk drawer that he promises he will throw away any day now.

What all that planning fails to account for, as soon as he actually gets onto the road, is the rest of the world moving around him.

Every stereotype he has heard about antagonistic drivers is proven ten-fold as he dodges swerving cars and gets sworn at for whizzing past stalled traffic. He soon learns to sneer through tinted windows.

Pedestrians are almost worse. They seem blind to him, stepping out directly in front of his wheels and making him wobble as he overcorrects. As if a bike can’t still do some damage if he were to actually hit someone. Once, he clips the edge of a pram and stops in the street to shout some sense into the careless father pushing it.

He bitches openly about this during his lunches and his coworkers only roll their eyes at him sometimes.

The cycling becomes a bit of running joke in the office when they spot him coming in with his bike shorts and change of outfit, but he ignores them. The shorts are practical. For some reason, telling them that only makes them laugh harder.

He takes the fastest route into the office and a scenic one home. It winds through quiet well-off estates, before opening out to one of the less well-known urban parks. It’s calming, almost meditative, to roll through the cool shade the cluttered trees offer after another meaningless day of data entry.

In those times, he doesn’t think of his empty flat or his dead-end job, he forgets his sniggering coworkers and his ever-dwindling contact list. It’s just him and the wind.

The only thing that could make those moments better, he admits to himself, is a smoke.

The problem with this particular path is how hard it is to see around corners in the park. There is some national re-wilding initiative in the works and the foliage looms over the roads in a way that block his line of sight.

He checks every turn, even though it is rare to encounter a car in this area. Better safe than sorry.

The night he dies is warm but overcast.

He follows his usual route and cranes his neck to see around the overgrown corner he is approaching. A drooping branch grazes his head and something falls from the tree onto his neck.

It could be a leaf, or a twig, or a ladybird, but Jon feels the whisper-touch of something small at his throat and his only thought is: spider.

He has been afraid of them since he was very young and terrified instinct immediately beats any reason. One hand flies up from the handlebars to bat away at his collar. He swerves. Fear makes him pedal faster and the bike speeds onto the junction.

He is so scared of the potential at his throat that he never even sees the delivery truck.

The bike is sent flying from the impact, Jon falls under the wheels.

The driver, to his credit, calls emergency services immediately, distraught.

The ambulance is there within five minutes, but they needn’t have bothered. Jon is declared dead at the scene with a broken neck.

What few friends he has left comfort each other with that fact.

At least it was quick.

Twenty years ago, Martin Blackwood’s mother survives her second stroke.

This is a good thing, Martin reminds himself, more than once. It is Good that his mother is alive.

It doesn’t matter that the nurses need to attend to her around-the-clock now. It doesn’t matter that the care home bills have skyrocketed. He is grateful that she is still with him.

He starts looking for a third job. The admin work during the day and the shelf-stocking at night barely covered his previous bills. He’ll have to look for some flexible positions to cram into his schedule.

In the meantime, he cuts back. Eats cheaply, eats less. Cancels overdue check-ups and doesn’t touch the heating.

His days are a current of constant worry, occasionally breached by a wave of panic that he tries to quell by hiding in the office bathroom and digging his nails into his legs.

Panic won’t pay the rent or keep the lights on or remember to call Mum every Sunday. He smothers it deep in his chest and ignores the spasm of pain he gets whenever he forces it down.

He has been getting those more often; sharp, sudden chest pains, numb fingers, dizzy spells, an aching back, shortness of breath.

He had been going to ask the doctor about it all before he cancelled the appointment but. Well. Needs must.

He has his first heart attack on the evening shift.

Pulling a box of washing up tablets from the top shelf in Aisle 4 causes such a rush of agony in his chest that he dares to ask the manager to take his 15-minute break early.

He doesn’t make it to the back room before he collapses.

In the hospital, after he wakes, the doctors ask if there is a family history of heart problems.

If he didn’t feel so weak he would laugh.

He has more in common with his mother then he likes to admit. Of course they share a bad heart.

Or maybe it came from his father. Mum always said he was heartless. Maybe there’s a hole where Dad’s DNA should be.

When the medical team leaves him to rest, all he can think is how much this will cost him.

The NHS is no charity no matter what their marketing says, not to mention how much money he will lose by recovering. He can’t afford six weeks of not working. His first job doesn’t have that much sick leave and his second doesn’t have any.

He runs the numbers in his head, tries to find what else he can hack out of his life to keep his head above water. Occasionally his thoughts swerve, self-recriminating and barbed. He is so stupid for letting this happen at all.

It’s all his fault.

Mum is going to be so angry with him.

His heart pulses in keen pain, bitter and broken.

Somehow, he drifts off, counting figures instead of sheep.

The second heart attack kills him in his sleep.

They die on the same day, at nearly the same time (Jon rushes ahead, always too eager, Martin follows inevitably after him).

Their death certificates are filed away alphabetically by a bored clerk in the dusty management system of the General Register Office.

Twenty years later, Samama Khalid exhumes them and examines them, with more curiosity than sense, only to be disappointed by the mundanity of their ends.

He returns them together, heedless of any organisation.

Jon and Martin meet, in the quiet and the dark.

The filing cabinet is a shared headstone, their names rest side-by-side.

Also on AO3

#the magnus protocol #tmagp spoilers #tmagp 23 #tmagp #jonathan sims #martin blackwood #jonmartin #is a ship a ship if its posthumous? im saying yes #tmagp fanfic #red-archivist scribbles

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growingstories · 1 year

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Truck driver

Once upon a time in the beautiful Midwestern city of Springfield, there lived a handsome young man named Jack. Jack was the epitome of Midwestern charm with his friendly smile and muscular physique. He was a star college athlete, playing as a quarterback for his university's football team.

One fateful day, after a heated argument with his coach over game strategy, Jack's anger got the best of him. In the heat of the moment, he threw a punch at his coach, an act that not only cost him his college career but also left him feeling lost and disheartened. With dreams shattered and a tarnished reputation, Jack was forced to forge a new path for himself.

With limited options, Jack found solace in the open road. He landed a job as a truck driver, which took him on a journey through every state. The long days of driving and the monotony of the road began to take a toll on him. To cope with the loneliness, Jack turned to food as a source of comfort.

As he feasted on trucker meals at rest stops and indulged in greasy fast food, his once defined six-pack abs slowly disappeared under layers of fat. The lack of time and opportunity for exercise meant his physique suffered.

One sunny afternoon, at a gas station in a small town in Nebraska, Jack's eyes met those of a petite, beautiful girl named Lily. She worked at the shop and had a radiant smile that captivated him instantly Jack and. Lily's encounters became frequent, and enough soon, a connection blossomed between them.

Lily noticed Jack's growing waistline and decided to join his journey. Whenever he made a stop at the gas station, she would lovingly pack him her homemade nutritious lunches, replacing the trucker's meals he had grown accustomed to. The hearty meals nourished Jack's body and soul, providing him with both sustenance and the love he craved.

As time passed, Jack's newfound love for Lily and her cooking combined with his old love for indulgent trucker meals led to a significant weight gain. His once-toned physique had transformed into a big, round gut that almost struggled to fit into his truck's seat. To Jack's surprise, Lily loved his bigger frame and encouraged him to embrace his new size.

Eventually, a career opportunity closer to home opened up for Jack. With the new position, he was able to spend more nights at his own bed, near Lily. The gas shop girl, now his girlfriend, continued to shower him with affection and meals. The convenience of being at home allowed Jack to truly embrace his newfound love for food, and he happily indulged in Lily's delicious cooking.

Days turned into months, and Jack's appetite continued to grow. The combination of Lily's tasty meals and his love for craft beers at motels led to him expanding further. His large gut now overtook his entire abdomen, making everyday activities a bit more challenging than before.

Despite the physical toll it took on him, Jack was content with his life. He cherished the love he shared with Lily and reveled in the joy of good food and good company. He had found happiness amidst the open road and the delicious meals that awaited him along the journey.

And so, Jack continued to drive his truck through the beautiful landscapes of the Midwest. His once fit and muscular physique may have faded away, but his spirits soared as he embraced his larger, fuller self alongside the woman who loved him for who he was. After, all his love for food and companionship were what truly filled his heart.

#fictionalweightgain #maleweightgain #maleweightgainstories #weightgain #weightgainstories #fictionalstories #wg fantasy #wg fiction #ai art #ai generated #ai image

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bullet-prooflove · 27 days

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4500 Follower Celebration Bingo - The Vet: Rip Wheeler x Reader

Tagging: @readmetosleep @kierawashere01 @Hangmanscoming @1-fuzzy-squirrels @nerdypinupcrystal

Prequel to upcoming September piece Broken - Travis Wheatley

Thrill of the Chase (NSFW) - Rip has always loved the thrill of the chase.

If You Want Me, You Can Have Me - They say that Rip Wheeler doesn't have a heart.

Stay Tonight - Rip asks to stay the night.

Use Your Words (NSFW) - Rip teases you.

Clover - Rip comforts you.

Rip’s at the Foreman’s House when he hears the gunshots echo over the pasture in the darkness. He’s just uncorked that bottle of that red you like from the winery in town because it’s been over a year since you stole this old cowboy’s heart and he wants to do something special to mark the occasion.

“I’m on my way.” You had promised him only a few minutes earlier when you’d called him. “I just need to check in Artemis.”

Gina’s horse had injured it’s leg during a barrel racing exercise a week ago and you’d been treating her since. Her cottage is less than a mile down the lane from Rip’s residence so he knows it won’t take long for you to arrive.

The instant he hears the two gunshots, something twists in his chest because they’re close, too fucking close. Both his home and Gina’s are on the Dutton’s land so he knows no one would dare go hunting in these fields. He tucks his own gun into the waistband of his jeans before he snatches up the keys to the truck and hurtles out the door.

Gina’s driveway is unusually busy when he pulls up outside her residence. There’s a black SUV he doesn’t recognise parked alongside the stables and your pickup blocks his path, the engine still running, the driver’s door thrown open.

Already he can hear the sounds of scuffle coming from the stable, shadows flicker against the warm illumination as a man curses and wood creaks.

“Touch that fucking horse and I will fucking kill you.” He hears you spit as he swings into the stables, his own gun drawn.

The scene before him is far from the one he expected.

Teal Beck is sagged against the door of Artemis’s stall, cradling his right arm close to his chest as blood jets from his badly broken nose. Dislocated shoulder, Rip assumes as Artemis paces her stall, tossing her head and grinding her teeth.

You’re standing with a Glock clasped in both your hands, finger on the trigger, weapon trained on Beck. There isn’t a single waver in you, your feet are spread apart, shoulders aligned just like they taught you when you signed up for a career in the Army as a miliary veterinarian. You’d done three tours before you resigned your commission and returned to Montana to take over your daddy’s practice.

“He was coming in here to kill the horse.” You tell Rip with a tone that could freeze the rivers of hell.

Of course, you’d go this crazy over a fucking horse. You leave and breathe for the animals under your care, every charge takes a tiny piece of your heart and you’d protect them with your life.

“You need to check on Gina.” You tell him, inclining your head slightly as you keep your eyes Teal. “Where there’s one Beck brother…”

There’s usually another.

Malcolm Beck’s been making his displeasure about his ex-wife known ever since that rodeo journalist had published the article about her come back. They’d all thought she was down and out after being kicked to the curb by him but now she’s back on the circuit, winning for the Yellowstone. She’s been spotted in the company of the rodeo king himself, Travis Wheatley.

It must have pushed every single one of that SOB’s buttons to see she was succeeding without him.

“Go.” You say again, this time more urgently. “I can take care of Teal, but Gina needs help.”

Rip’s already in motion, rushing from the stable as you keep the gun fixed on younger Beck brother.

“You better fucking hope he hasn’t laid a hand on her.” You say to Teal, your finger tightening on the trigger. “Otherwise you won’t live to see another sunrise.”

Teal smiles at you through bloody teeth.

“If that girl ain’t dead yet, she’s gonna wish she was by the time my brother’s finished with her.”

Love Rip? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

#rip wheeler #rip wheeler x reader #yellowstone

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buckera · 5 months

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Just curious because I'm always wondering about that.. If you think tommy picked up on their crazy close dynamic in such a short time, do you think the others have too? Or is that just buckandeddie to them and they don't think anything of it? Hen's "about time" comment made me wonder what she thinks, if she had eddie-suspicions over the years or if she just picked up on a general vibe from buck

I think it's a bit of both actually. because Buck and Eddie? they are absolutely cuckoo insane about each other, like genuinely not-normal.

it becomes the most obvious when other members of the team are in danger; Buck stays relatively calm no matter how worried he is, he makes a plan and tries to scheme to save them.

like in the crossover episode, he waited for hours and then tried to steal a truck when everyone was out or sleeping, even though Hen could've been long dead. and Buck loves Hen, like a lot, a lot, they are family!! and when the Jonah thing went down?? with Hen and Chim? he was on the tailend of it, worried and upset and when Albert got hurt in that car accident? when Bobby was trapped inside a burning building with an active shooter and Athena went in there after him?? these are all people Buck undoubtedly loves like family.

he was worried, but he kept it together every time.

when the well collapsed on top of Eddie, he tried to dig through 45 feet of loose mud to get to him by hand. when Eddie got shot and was in the hospital, Buck flipped out and broke down more than once, but most notably when telling Christopher about it after finding out that Eddie's gonna be okay.

similarly when the lightning hit Buck, Eddie ran up the ladder without a safety line and tried to pull him up by hand; Buck weighs like 200+ lbs plus the gear, there was no chance in hell he could've done that and Eddie isn't stupid, he knows that too. Bobby had to banish him to the driver's seat to make sure he wouldn't be in the way, then Eddie barely parked the ambulance when he was already on top of Buck, taking over CPR, then proceeded to spend the next couple of days by haunting the hospital's walls like a grieving widow.

when the truck fell on Buck's leg, Eddie wouldn't let go of his hand and when he coughed up blood, he looked more than just concerned for that split second we saw him. when he spotted Buck after the tsunami and thought that he lost Christopher? there wasn't an ounce of blame on his face.

in conclusion, they have been always just very unhinged about each other, but I think because they all work in close proximity with each other day in and day out, it's harder to differentiate these things because even in real life, firefighters are like a family; they eat, sleep and exercise together, their blood family is just as involved with each other as they are, because that's just how close you get when you have to put your life into each other's hands all the time.

but Eddie and Buck (as pointed out above) are just taking it to a whole new level when you consider all the family stuff they do together and the will... I think at this point it's sort of a "well this is just Buck and Eddie, they might as well be married" thing for the 118.

I don't think it's something they actively consider to have romantic/sexual undertones, but they all understand that their bond is extremely strong, so they wouldn't be surprised if the relationship progressed into that direction.

in Buck's case specifically, I think Hen saw the signs before Eddie even joined the 118. especially since Buck admitted that he always checked out hot guys — I don't suppose that goes unnoticed when you spend half your life with the same group of people.

#this got looong sorry #i know i'm in the bt gutter currently but buddie are just insane soulmatism right there and it still makes me feral #wish i could use all this writing energy in my wip smh #buddie #evan buckley #911 #911 abc #ask #anon #my stuff

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jeridandridge · 1 year

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hi!! i'd love to request mel x reader where reader experiences chronic pain and mel supports. maybe in a series of little ways (pep talks, driving to appts, yelling at doctors) or in a sweet massage scene. can be fluffy, angsty, or smutty--wherever the spirit takes ya! thanks in advance for considering!!

Thank you so much for this request! 🩷 nothing crazy in here: doctors visit/mention of blood tests.

Wonder Woman Socks

It started the day you took the kids to the Franklin institute. You figured you were sore and exhausted from running around with the kids and sleeping on the floor. Hell, Melissa even agreed saying she was sore too. You brushed it off.

Then going up the stairs to your classroom had become too much. When you got up the staircase and into your classroom you’d have to sit at your desk for a few minutes drinking your coffee in order to be fully awake again.

Now, months later you fidget nervously with your ring while Melissa drives you to the doctor.

“It’s gonna be fine, Tesoro. They can do their tests and we can go from there.” The red head gives you a soft smile from the drivers seat. You hated this. You felt like a scared child on the way to the doctors office and your only saving grace was Melissa. The sweet woman that made you coffee every morning to keep you going, the woman that would give you a massage every night when you came home from work because standing on your feet all day had become too much.

“What if I’m dying?” You think aloud, the thought terrifying you. You were generally healthy, you worked out, ate right thanks to Melissa’s cooking, and you definitely hydrated throughout the day.

“You’re not dying.” Melissa says firmly with a shake of her head. “There’s something makin you tired, that’s all it is.”

You don’t hear any fear or fake bravado in her voice. She means what she’s saying and you hope she’s right. When you get called into the office you give Melissa a look as you stand up that leaves no room for her to question if she should come back with you or not.

In the room after the nurse takes your vitals you’re left to change into one of the scratchy paper gowns. You huff as you strip down to your underwear until a hand lands right on your ass. You look over your shoulder to see your girlfriend smirking.

“Did you- even right this second in my underwear and Wonder Woman socks you still find me attractive?” You ask, not expecting that at all.

“yeah. You’re tired, it doesn’t mean you look bad.” She chuckles.

You shake your head with an adoring smile as you pull on the paper gown. When you sit back on the table the doctor knocks on the door coming in.

“Hello, hello,” he nods to you both. “y/n, how are you?”

“Tired,” you chuckle, “how are you?”

“I see that in my notes here,” he says flipping through the paperwork you filled out. “What sort of tiredness do you feel when this happens?”

“I feel like I got hit by a truck. Some days are better than others, but even at work just going up stairs is difficult.” You explain.

The doctor nods and makes notes and washing his hands. “Alright, well we’re gonna do a few tests with blood samples, then we’ll see if we have to do anything from there but with what you’re describing it sounds like chronic fatigue syndrome. It’s much more common in women.” He explains.

You let out a sigh of relief reaching for Melissa’s hand. “Take all the blood you need, I just wanna feel better.”

Putting the stethoscope in his ears he places it on your back. “Deep breath in for me.”

You do this a few times, looking at him nervously when he puts the instrument back around hie neck.

“Everything sounds good, We’ll run these tests then depending on the results we’ll figure out a treatment plan that’ll consist of most likely an anti depressant. If you keep exercising and being healthy and your partner here supports you,” he gestures to Melissa, “this should be under control within two months I’d say.” He smiles. “I’ll leave you to get dressed, the nurse will be in for the blood samples shortly.”

When the older man leaves you squeeze Melissa’s hand pulling her out of the chair in the corner to you.

“See?” She smiles handing you your tshirt and jeans. “I thought the guy was gonna be more difficult than that.”

“When Janine recommended this place I expected nothing less.” You chuckle getting dressed.

You squeeze Melissa’s hand when the nurse draws your blood and a few minutes later you’re walking out to the car.

“I feel a bit better mentally now.” You tell her.

“Now that we have an idea what it is I can look up recipes and other natural things that’ll help.” She smiles.

Getting in the passenger seat you smile at your girlfriend adoringly.

“You’re the best, you know that?”

“Yeah I’m pretty great.” She agrees jokingly. “I like taking care of you when you need me.”

“When we get home I require an afternoon on the couch doing absolutely nothing.” You tell her.

Melissa chuckles reaching over for your hand bringing the back of it to her lips. “I can make that happen.”

#abbott elementary #lisa ann walter #wlw #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #lgbtq+ fiction

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kuruk · 1 month

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a short time after my mom had my dad bail her boyfriend out of jail, her boyfriend got this bail bond scam call who he fought with and the guy gave typical scammer threats like whatever man... so my mom got super paranoid and had me bring berserker over here and made me sleep in the living room to watch my little sister, because she thinks it's someone local instead of a random scammer, and she suspected her creepy lyft driver who drove her to the jail or whatever to pick her boyfriend up. because of the specific information he knew about her, she didn't know how he could get that online like which car in the driveway was hers because it's not under her name or whatever and the scammer named it and said it was hers...

and I was like sigh she's always so paranoid freaking me out for nothing god 😑 I'm sure there's probably a normal way to get that information online if scamming is like your job... I'm like it's literally not your lyft driver help what an insane connection to make... she said because her lyft driver was creepy and gave a tour only of weird things all like "that's where the crackheads hang out in the morning 🙄" and he talked a lot without caring about a response and the scammer on the phone kept mentioning meth lol. and I was like so what if he tells you too clearly the directions inside the building to bail someone out... it's friendly and showing nonjudgement or whatever he was just relating with you and helping because his son was also just in jail...

but an hour or so after my mom left for work yesterday evening, this skinny older white guy parked in the street in front of the house and came out of his truck and walked around circling the driveway, and left when the dogs barked. and the same guy came back again tonight around like 7:40pm wearing the same clothes and I was like um wait eek.. I felt silly thinking too much over it yesterday like well a man can walk a bit. although odd that he parked got out and did that and then left but maybe he needed to exercise his legs real quick or something... but well doing that twice two days in a row is a bit odd help. this morning my mom showed me a picture of the lyft driver and he looked a lot like him actually the same older white guy.

yesterday he left after the dogs barked and he only did one or two slow laps walking in the driveway, but today he circled the driveway and then walked even closer to the door and instead of leaving when the dogs barked, he just walked slower and weirdly with bigger steps and he was carrying a plastic bag full of something.. my mom did tell that driver she works hospital night shifts. well whatever... it's kind of silly like sounds obviously overly paranoid but whatevevr same guy two nights in a row only getting out of his truck to walk around the driveway and up to the door a bunch jusr stop ut....

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possibilistfanfiction · 9 months

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Prompt for your little Hallmark AU: Christmas market (You know, those markets where there are booths who sell Glühwein and Punsch, Im not sure how to correctly translate it in English in Austria we call it Christkindlmarkt)

it’s grey outside, the clouds heavy but not quite snowing yet; it’s warmer than it’s been on clearer days, still cold but almost pleasant, and quiet.

you make sure to give yourself extra time to do your stretches in the morning after you go to camila’s to get breakfast. the atmospheric pressure of the incoming storm is, unsurprisingly, causing your back to ache, but that’s not new and it doesn’t really faze you at this point. if things get bad enough — and they do, sometimes — you just reschedule your plans and take pain meds and muscle relaxers from dr salvius after you do your physical therapy exercises. but your hands don’t ache and you don’t have any numbness in your feet, your temperature is normal, and so you go through your routine and feel better by the end of it.

beatrice picks you up at eleven on the dot, as she confirmed twice over text the evening before with perfect punctuation that made you feel a little bit like you were in trouble but was charming anyway.

‘hey stranger,’ you say when she knocks on your door, and she blushes and smiles and you’re delighted by the effect you have on her, almost immediately — this exceedingly smart and competent person stumbling over herself the second you smile. it makes you feel powerful and it also makes you want to treat her kindly, to make her laugh.

‘good morning, ava.’ she fidgets, for a moment, and you’re curious why you’re not just going to her truck, but then she takes a hand out of the pocket of her peacoat and opens her palm. ‘i, uh, i noticed your cane was getting stuck in the snow.’

‘oh.’ your first instinct is to be embarrassed, eleven years of abuse rearing its ugly, awful head, but then you look at what she’s actually holding.

‘i already had it,’ she explains, slightly rushed like she’s trying to make sure you’re not upset, like it was just a thoughtful aside of hers. ‘i tore my acl a few years ago and used both on my crutches, and so, i just figured, well… if it doesn’t work, that’s fine, but maybe worth a try?’

you take the winter cane tip attachment from her outstretched hand and it really does feel like some kind of offering for a moment. it’s nice, the crampon itself retractable, and easy enough to put on your cane. when you try it outside the door on the way to her truck, you can’t help but smile, remember a little bit of the joy that first came with movement as you started receiving proper care and accessibility and mobility aids. you don’t take healing for granted, even now. ’thank you,’ you tell her as she unlocks her truck and goes around to the driver’s side.

she nods. ‘like i said, i already had it sitting around. not a problem at all.’

‘still,’ you say, climbing up and twisting around to greet a suddenly very excited theo in her kennel strapped into the backseat. ‘not many people have been particularly thoughtful in my life, especially not at this.’

she frowns at your admission, her jaw clenching, her face stormy. she’s handsome in her rich maroon scarf and camel wool coat, careful hands on the wheel.

‘anyway,’ you say, a little overcome, ‘how’d you tear your acl?’

she immediately reddens, pulling out of the driveway and trying to act like she’s concentrating very hard on her turn signal to merge onto the completely empty road.

‘bea, please.’

she sighs, refusing to look at you even at the red light. ‘i was training with theo,’ she says.

‘that’s not horribly embarrassing on its own.’ you grin. ‘there’s got to be more to it.’

‘fine,’ she says, mostly just to humor you, you’re pretty sure. ‘she was small, and we were both learning how to herd. i, well — i tripped over one of the sheep.’

you wait a beat to picture it and then laugh, not unkindly but without any remorse. ‘thank you truly so much for telling me.’

she rolls her eyes. ‘you’re so welcome,’ she says flatly, and you laugh again.

you’re confused if your little outing to the christmas market is a date or not for the two minutes it takes for beatrice to park the car, get the small pack holding treats that she carries around for theo buckled around her waist — a little nerdy and totally adorable — and then letting theo out of the kennel. she’s in a little green coat, the same as the other day, and it kind of makes you feel like you’re going to scream, she’s so cute. she greets you fully now, with happy little wiggles, and then situates herself at beatrice’s side. she has a leash connected to her harness, the other half slung over beatrice’s shoulder and across her chest so her hands are free; you think theo doesn’t need it at all, but beatrice explains, ‘in crowded public access areas, it’s appropriate.’ theo, for her part, is busy sniffing a few treats beatrice scattered around her feet in the snow, and then she smiles at you and gestures to head inside.

you’re confused no longer when you see camila’s booth, advertising hot chocolate, apple cider, and egg nog, and she whistles. ‘beatrice, you look so nice with your fancy jacket.’

beatrice glares.

camila turns to face you fully, a smirk on her face. ‘she never wears that unless it’s a special occasion.’

you can’t help yourself: ‘well, i am a special occasion, if i do say so myself.’

’no one else is saying it,’ lilith grumbles from her seat behind camila, and beatrice fights a laugh while you pout.

‘you look nice too, ava,’ camila says, keeping the peace as you’ve quickly figured out she always does.

you preen a little, just for the fun of it. ‘why thank you. i love your sweater.’

camila looks down at her jesus was palestinian sweater. ‘’tis the season and all that.’ she beams at you, then beatrice. ‘well, what can i get you both on this romantic outing?’

beatrice sighs in defeat but you grin and look at the menu. ‘well, i’m on vacation and bea picked me up—‘ camila perks up even more at this— ‘so i’m going to do your bailey’s hot chocolate.’

‘i’ll have a cider,’ bea says, and you shoo away her attempt to pay for things, which brings a blush back to her cheeks when you tap your card with a pointed flourish.

you go through the market with your warm drinks, your cane not sinking into the snow as it had been the past few days, making everything easier, simpler, less nervous with every step. once you have half of your hot chocolate, you lean into beatrice with a smile, and she offers her arm, all clove and pine and her soft scarf. there are booths with ornaments, knitted coasters; you convince her to buy a pretty wreath for the front door of her cabin, which you kind of hope she’ll invite you to see.

it starts to snow when you’re about to leave, the sky darkening early, and she feed theo a few treats before she situates her in the kennel.

it’s quiet when she starts the truck, and she seems nervous, her hands white knuckled around the steering wheel. ‘i apologize if i was presumptuous.’

you soften. ‘that was a really wonderful date, bea. you can be as presumptuous as you want.’

her smile is shy, bathed in the waning light. ‘well, in that case, would you like to come to my house for dinner?’

‘yes, obviously.’

she laughs. ‘alright then.’

#hallmark au #avatrice #wn fic #avatrice fic #prompts #first date!!!#butch bea 🥺🫡

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featherlumina · 6 months

Note

What’s your favorite quirk/habit you give the cc cast when you write them?

(Glad you’re back in this mess :D, also yes everything behind gen SHOULD be on fire)

Thank you so much for the ask! :D I'm going to stick to who I've written so far, but that's still quite a few to think about! I hope you enjoy my silly/angsty/cute snippets. :3 Genesis He annotates the crap out of any book he owns. Don't get me wrong, he's got pristine copies of all editions of LOVELESS reserved for viewing only, but he's also got versions exclusively for scribbling notes and interpretations in the margins. In one particular copy, though, the notes start to get choppier, rougher, more...unhinged, as the degradation drags from months into years and his desperation for a cure deepens, particularly after the Nibelheim incident. Angeal This man can take a nap anywhere. Up a tree, in a rock crevice, in a military truck that's careening into every pothole by a careless driver... Angeal is the king of shuteye in unlikely places. It's very handy on rough missions. Sephiroth Likes to exercise his authority as a First to refuse any SOLDIER missions that even vaguely assist Hojo's research out of sheer spite. Genesis is incredibly proud of him. Zack This guy is a chaos cook, and by that I mean he just throws whatever crap he has available into a pan and just vibes. The 'throw anything together' habit he picked up from Angeal, yes, but he missed the 'think about sensible flavour combinations' part. Cloud He's a nervous fidgeter and has a lot of anxious energy that needs to escape. Drumming his fingers, leg bouncing, fiddling with his earring, picking skin, you name it. This behaviour is more prominent in his infantry days, too. Cissnei She's a collector, and by that I mean a collector of small keepsakes and trinkets found on missions around the world. Being raised in a orphanage meant that she barely had any possessions growing up, so she treasured anything that was hers and hers alone. Sometimes it's silly things from gift shops, or interesting rocks, feathers, scales, etc.

(She definitely kept a feather from that Genesis copy in Sector 8, for example.) Lazard You think this bloke only started embezzling money from ShinRa when Genesis defected? Not a chance. A lot of it gets funnelled to his non-ShinRa relatives, but also gets channelled into charitable projects around Midgar supporting people of the slums.

#genesis rhapsodos #angeal hewley #sephiroth #zack fair #cloud strife #cissnei #lazard #final fantasy 7 #ff7 #ffvii #crisis core #crisis core reunion #ask feather #featherhead thoughts #headcanons #oh my god it was so much fun thinking about these #of course I had to add in some angst for Gen #I couldn't resist #rivkae-winters

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artisticdivasworld · 4 months

Text

Staying Healthy as a Long-Haul Truck Driver: Straight Talk

Hitting the open road as a long-haul truck driver isn’t just a job; it’s a lifestyle. And let’s be real, it’s one that comes with its fair share of health challenges. With the long hours and endless miles, staying healthy might seem like a battle. But with a bit of know-how and discipline, you can keep yourself in top shape. We talked about this before here, but feel it bears repeating because…

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raffe156 · 2 years

Text

Breakaway state Part 1

Pairing - Price X Female OC “Tank”

Summary - The 141 is formed, Price and Tank can't get their shit together, bad timing, things go pop and we all hate the Dr.

A/N - Shorter but wanted to get something out, this arch is gonna hit hard (at least I hope)

Warnings - Angst. Language, Age gap Price (39) reader (25) Violence, Weapons war/fighting stuff basically injury, pregnancy mentions, medical stuff

I really appreciate all the recent feedback and asks! Please keep em coming! It only spurs me on haha

Tags: @irnbru32 @shuttlelauncher81 @mildlyhopeless @mentallynot-here @deadbranch @soapyghost @fluffysmiko @bangirl134 @mortallyscrumptiousmilkshake @boomtowngirl

If I've missed anyone, please let me know

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Call of duty characters - Only Tank, Luke, Dredd and Mckinley

Masterlist link here

_______________________________________

Kyle had belled your phone out for 2 days straight, but you didn’t know what to say to him. What could you say to him? You eventually had to answer him when his last voicemail threatened a call to your mum. Low blow Kyle.

“Hello?”

“Care to explain yourself?”

“What?”

“What do you mean what? Why did you leave? What the hell happened Tank?”

“Nothing Kyle, I just needed to head home early”

“Bullshit! I wake up Price looks like shit and I know he didn’t drink that much and your gone?Never seen Price look like that….he looked done in…what happened Tank?”

Price looked done in? He caused this, he made the call to stop whatever this was! You could feel your skin prickling now, you were getting angry.

“Kyle honestly nothing happened”

“Why are you lying to me? Was it to do with that Luke guy? Seen Price talking to him the morning you left, he didn’t look happy, he seemed a bit off with him in the pub too”

Oh god what had he said to Luke? You felt sick.

“Do you know what they were talking about?”

“Nahh couldn’t hear them…so it was to do with Luke?”

“No…well yeh Price took the funnies, saying he doesn’t know how it will work with me and him..”

“You and who? PRICE!? What?”

Shit.

“Noooo me and Luke! He doesn’t know how it will work between me and him, Luke thinks PRice is a Truck driver and I work in Logistics at the depot”

“Ohh right…oh I get what you mean now, thought you meant you and Price…”

You could hear the insinuation in his voice, Kyle wasn’t daft, but he played along for your sake.

“Anyway Ill see you soon…”

“Oh ok, il see you at base yeh?”

“Yeh, Thanks Kyle by the way don’t threaten me with calls to my mum you forget I have your mum’s number too”

“I wouldn’t have to make threats if you answers your dam phone! But you should call my mum she likes you better than me.”

********

It had been 2 weeks since the weekend away an 1 week at base. You had to get it together as your little squad of three now had two new members and the base was flooded with rookies from other teams. You recognised Simon or Ghost as he went by from years back when you were still a rookie yourself that and the obvious skull mask he wore. Johnny or ‘Soap’, however was a new face to you, not a bad looking one at that but you had a feeling he knew he was good-looking. He had watched you walk in with Kyle as if weighing you up and down. You could feel his eyes on you.

You had seen little of Price mainly because you were avoiding him. But that morning you had a training exercise an easy smash and grab two teams. You and a hand full of rookies had been paired with Ghost. Soap and Kyle the same.

Price shuffled a few papers about giving a quick glance round the room avoiding your line of sight. Kyle gave you a quick look he knew something still wasn’t right.

“Today is just a simple training exercise, so we can get a feel for each other's skill set see where we are at etc. A smash an grab job I’m sure your all familiar, so let’s not waste any time and gear up any questions?” He made his way out the door, not waiting for anyone to ask any.

You all exchanged looks an followed to the gear room.

*******

Ghost helped you with your tact vest, checking you over.

“All sorted kid” He slapped you on the back, nearly throwing your forward. You half smiled at Kyle, who was holding in a laugh, but then you noticed his eyes flick to something behind you and his expression changed. He rolled his eyes, that wasn’t like Kyle? You turned around. You wish you hadn’t instantly. Why? Why was she here? Why had he let her come here? Price was stood with Dr O’Brian, Helen. Was he taking the piss?

He had his hand on her cheek, giving her that eye-crinkling smile that would make any woman weak.

“John…enough Ill see you later tonight for dinner”

“No worries love, I'll see you then”

He placed a kiss on her other cheek, making her blush.

“Stop it you!” She faked a slap to his chest. The Rookies all burst out into wolf whistles and cheering. You stood still, your mouth dry, heart racing, anger crawling over your body, your jaw set tight, blood rushing in your ears, were you going red? Fuck.

Ghost brought you back down to earth.

“Tank? Are you ready?”

“Ye….yes…Yes Lieutenant!” You barked, taking him by surprise. You couldn’t look at Kyle, but you knew he was looking at you. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole.

The Training session started, but your mind was a storm cloud. He really hadn’t waited long had he? Bet she was round the next day! He probably didn’t even mean what he had said “It didn’t mean anything,it was a one-time thing!” One time thing my arse! Dickhead! You were raging, Soaps rookies didn’t stand a chance against you. They were simply in your way, God knows where Kyle was. Ghost was egging you on in your ear he was impressed, he hadn’t expected anything less from you however, he knew what you were capable of. You ploughed through them taking each room by storm your rookies struggling to keep up. As you came to the target room you headed in taking out two more rookies instructing yours to grab the main target.

“Slow down Tank, your getting too cocksure of yourself” Price had tuned into your channel. His voice an even tone.

Fuck you, you thought.

“With all due respect Captain, I know what I’m doing done enough smash an grabs to last me a lifetime”, you almost spat down the line, you caught a rookie looking at you as if you had gone mad.

No reply back. Just silence. Good. you thought that shut him up.

As you made sure the rookies had done their part, you made for the open window of the training house it was a 2 story abseil down. Easy you had done it hundreds of times. You wanted to get this over with as soon as possible. You motioned to go first attaching yourself to the line, but as you got about 8ft from the ground the line came away causing you to plummet the rest of the drop. The white-hot pain flooded your system. The wind knocked out of you you tried to claw your way onto your front, but your right shoulder wouldn’t support you, in fact it wouldn’t even move, you glanced over only to see it hanging down level with your chest, it had been dislocated. The pain was blinding, Ghost voice was in an out of your ear.

“Tank? What the fuck happened? Did you check the line before going down it?”

The line? The Line? As if you hadn’t checked the line, Price was going to love this. Fuck.

Kyle came into view as you felt yourself being scooped up from the floor mats.

“Kyle, slowly put her arm across her waist…eyes on me love” Ghost manoeuvred you so Kyle could do as instructed, as he did you let out a gut-churning scream. You would of rather taken a bullet again than this.

“Fuck sake Kyle!!!” You could feel the slight sting of tears. How pathetic you must of looked, cradled up crying in your Leuitants arms. Through your blurry vision, you spotted Price looking almost worried, but it must of been for only a split second as when your tears fell, clearing your sight he went back to looking pissed off. It took everything in Price not to take over you were in pain, he should be the one carrying you, consoling you not Ghost, but he had to take a backseat.

“Take her to see Dr.O’Brian…” He motioned Ghost to follow him.

No anything but that, you would rather Ghost try to pop it back in, shit you would rather be shot than see her, but you were in too much pain to even speak and as Ghost carried you to the med bay you wished you had just checked the line.

*********

“Oh deary me…what’s the matter with you?” Dr. O’Brian was rolling her eyes at you like you had scrapped your knee not pulled your shoulder out of its socket completely. Ghost answered for you like it was an actual question.

“Fell out a window, well abseiled down without checking the rig line…shoulders gone POP!” He even made a hand gesture.

“What you like? Not the first time you haven’t checked the rig, is it? John told me he always has to check your strapped in right” She glanced over at Price who was standing at the foot of the cot arms folded face stern. She was still talking to you like a child, you hated her sing-song voice. John told her? You wondered what else John had told her? Or better yet what he hadn’t told her…

“Anywho going to have to ask you a few routine questions before I can administer any strong pain relief I'm afraid, Keep on the gas and air while I do then we can give you the strong stuff”

You glupped on the air, taking it deep into your lungs and nodded.

“Okie dokie…On a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being low 10 being extreme how would you rate your pain?”

You flared your nostrils was she being serious? Ghost answered for you again.

“Im gonna says she at a 10 Doc”

“Very well, are you taking any other medications?”

You shook your head.

“Any antidepressants or other pain relief?”

You took another deep drag of the gas and air shaking you head again.

“Any allergies?”

“Surely this in on file, Helen?” Price sighed he knew this was being dragged out, but he didnt know for who’s benefit.

“Let me check…. oh yeh it is, ok last few questions Tank…Are you Sexually active?” The room went silent, had she really just asked that? The bitch. You quickly glanced over at Price, who was looking at the ground. She had clocked it.

“Yes” you mumbled teeth clenched around the mouthpiece.

“Ok when was the last time you had sex?” Her face was like stone now, she was fishing for something, and you knew exactly what. So fuck it you thought, you’ll bite. You pretended to count in your head. Prices ear pricked up.

“A few weeks ago, maybe 3….” you took another big gulp of air as her eyes flashed she was doing the math in her head. She knew you were at Prices 3 weeks ago. Plenty of opportunities for you and him to go at it.

Price looked at you he knew you didn't mean him, so amused you meant Luke. Which was also not true. He looked slightly affected. Good. Let him think about that. Helen was writing down some notes on your chart, probably SLAG in big red letters!

“Ok last question, any chance you could be pregnant? Need to know before we give decide on what to give you” She had scrunched her face up into a fake smile, it was hideous.

“Nope, not pregnant, so can we get my shoulder popped back in and get me some strong pain relief?” You were getting lightheaded on the gas and air now and it was becoming harder to control your temper.

“Ok If you're sure you're not pregnant, we can give you some morphine, but you're going to have to go to the adjoining base as we don't have the supplies to pop it back in.”

Your eyes widened. She really was playing you now. Even Price was looking at her in disbelief.

“Fuckin hell Doc! All that an she still has to wait for transfer? Fuck that ere I'll pop it back in myself! Price hold her legs down” Ghost moved round to your shoulder as Helen jumped up.

“DON'T YOU DARE! I won't allow that! Not in my med bay you can drag her out and pop it back in elsewhere, but not in here!”

She had stepped in front of Ghost but had her eyes on Price, he was dead if he touched you. You and Ghost exchanged looks nodding in agreement. He stepped around her, leaning forward for you to place your good arm over his shoulder.

“Easy does it love, I'll carry you over my shoulder so you can dangle your arm, might be more comfortable, I'll get this popped back in no time.”

You took one last big drag of the gas and air, it had taken full effect now, you were still in pain, but your mind was swimming as Ghost lifted you over his shoulder, the tight grip of his huge hand on your inner thigh sent a shiver up your spine. He would destroy you, the guy was a mountain, but the thought still did laps in your brain. You let out a little giggle.

“You good love?” Ghost patted your backside with his other hand. It sent a shock through your system causing another chuckle you felt tipsy.

“Ready when you are L.T.” you were still giggling to yourself. O’Brian was in utter shock. Price was pinching the bright of his nose.

“Ghost, put her down…your not popping anything back in, she's going to the main wing, I'll call for transport…” He hadn’t even looked up. He couldn’t, seeing Ghost handling you like that wound him up, but he would never admit that.

“Noooooo fuck that Ghost don't you dare put me down, I want you…no in fact I demand you to pop it back in, let's do this battlefield style!” You were getting giddy now the gas and air making you a bit loopy. Ghost chuckled, patting your backside again. He could see the anger in Price’s eyes, he was still his Captain.

“Easy Love, think we are going to have to listen to the Captain on this one, but if we are ever out on the job and it happens again I’ll gladly sort you out” His words caused a little flurry in your stomach. What the hell?

“You can wait outside, take the Gas and air with you…” Helen was fuming she slammed the canister into Price.

“Wont she be better off lay down Helen while we wait?” Price was looking at her confused. She whipped her head back round.

“John she can lay, hang, sit, god she can even dangle from anywhere else other than in here I don't care…get the transport called for her to go to the other base” she handed him your tact vest an walked off. You were still on Ghost's shoulder, but could see him looking after her his brow furrowed, his lips slightly downturned. You felt a pang of guilt, deep down you still cared for him and your being here was making things difficult for both of you. You would never be able to go back to normal as it wasn’t even normal to begin with.

*******

“I'll see you when your back love” Ghost gave your leg a quick squeeze as they loaded you into the truck.

You knew he wouldn’t, you weren't coming back. It was a shame, Kyle would be fine…eventually, but you needed a change, you couldn't keep this up. You looked to Price, your eyes only meeting for a second, but it was enough, enough to cement your decision. You had both been kidding yourselves thinking this would work you were only hurting each other so you had to be the one to cut the rope that had you both hanging.

Price watched as they hooked you up to an IV, he had so many things he had wanted to say to you, one of them being sorry.

He decided he was going to have a talk with you when you got back, he wanted you to be happy he really did, but his pride had been hurt that night he saw you with Luke and he had turned to Helen to try and get you out of his head, but it had only buried you deeper.

There had been some truth in your words ‘how would it work between you and him?’ He reminded himself he was 15 years older and maybe you were better of with Luke he was closer in age to you at 32 and Helen to him at 38, but he didn't want to accept that and you needed to talk properly. Speaking of Helen he had seen a different side to her today and it didn't sit right with him, but maybe that was because of her attitude towards you. He couldn't help it, no matter how much you appeared to hate him he still wanted you by his side…it was where you belonged. As the van pulled away, he made his plan and you made yours.

*******

“Well I look forward to you joining us Tank, Squad 8 needs someone with your skill set and Dredd has told me your one of the best”

“Thank you Sir, I look forward to meeting the rest of the squad, it will be nice to work with Dredd again me and her go way back”

“I must say it was a surprise your transfer request coming across my desk? Straight from the top didnt even need approving from Price? Im sure the 141 will be losing a valuable asset…which im more than happy to take” Captain Mckinley winked as he reached over his desk to shake your hand.

“You sure Price won't miss you?”

“No…I'm sure he’ll manage Sir”

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nico-di-genova · 15 days

Text

Champagne Seconds

Summary:

Pato wins in Milwaukee, Alex lets him celebrate.

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It takes ages to get Pato alone, to even see the man post race one. Despite not being popular enough in the eyes of certain parties, Pato cannot seem to escape the mob of people that surround him from the moment he parks his car in the winners circle. Alex, with his measly top ten finish, doesn’t merit much in the way of interviews. He hasn’t touched the podium since Laguna Seca, hasn’t tasted the champagne from the top step in a little over two years. There is a growing hunger, a desperation, that grows harder to ignore with every race that passes. It’s seen in his driving of late, frantic and on edge and losing the carefully maintained control he has exerted for years. He’s making mistakes, it’s costing him.

There’s little that seems to satiate the need for a win, save for Pato and the glow in his eyes when he finds Alex later. He’s come fresh from the track, knocking on the door of Alex’s hotel room with a hesitancy. Given the time, Alex doesn’t blame him for exercising caution, they’ve both been exhausted – grabbing sleep where they can, and alone time with each other in even smaller quantities. The demanding nature of double headers have already kept them separate for most the weekend, Pato’s win only doubling that time spent apart.

Alex isn’t needy, but he’s thankful for the knock anyway.

“Sorry, who are you?” he asks when he opens the door, leans on the doorframe so he’s blocking Pato’s entry into the room. He’s already changed into pajamas, sweats and a grey t-shirt that comes from his Andretti days. The faded number 27 across his chest is faint, worn away from countless washes and age. Pato’s still in his track clothes, gym shorts and a black shirt that he keeps in a bag in the driver’s room.

He rolls his eyes, “Haha. Very funny.”

“I thought so,” Alex quips, moves to allow Pato entry into his room. There’s already been enough commentary made about Pato’s fame level, his contribution to the series, Alex himself adding to the defense – but they’ve yet to talk about it in person. Pato has no plan to, if the way he brushes past Alex and brushes off the joke is any indication.

He’s barely closed and locked the door behind him before Pato’s slamming him back up against the surface of it and kissing Alex with a fervor. Alex moans, eyes going wide before fluttering closed, the taste and scent of champagne invading his senses. Pato is drenched in it, hasn’t taken a shower to wash the stuff off yet, his hair is sticky with it when Alex threads his fingers through the strands at the back of his head. He licks the taste of it from Pato’s mouth, his lips, finds himself desperate and wanting for the sharp flavor, even if it comes in the form of Pato’s seconds.

It’s been so long.

Pato’s fingers fist around the fabric of his shirt when Alex pulls away to lick a line from the base of his neck to his jaw, tasting sweat and champagne and engine exhaust all in one go. It’s like being trapped in the dirty air of the car in front of him, recycled and tainted. Alex doesn’t care, he’s learned to live off of it.

“Rossi,” Pato breathes, his name sounding like a cheer when it falls from Pato’s lips. He drinks that down too, returns to kissing Pato for the taste of his name on Pato’s tongue.

“I’m so proud of you,” Alex pants in between the frantic makeout, “So proud.”

“Wish you were there.”

Alex does too, on the podium, or getting drenched by the champagne Pato would have sprayed on the audience. Debriefs and car talk had kept him busy, ensured he couldn’t be anywhere other than the pitlane, then his own truck with the team. Now, he kisses the line of Pato’s jaw, cradles the man’s face in his hands and angles him so he can get to the soft spot just below his ear, the spot that has him turning to putty in Alex’s hands.

Pato moans, quiet, grip on Alex’s shirt tightening. His eyes are closed, dark lashes contrasting against freckled skin.

“I’ll be there next time,” He promises, licks away the traces of champagne that linger on Pato’s skin before sucking enough that he knows a mark will be left tomorrow – he’ll trace the shape of it in the morning light, his thumb working over the spot while Pato snores softly beside him.

“Promise?” The man asks, looks at Alex through his lashes, lips still parted like he’s trying to invite Alex’s tongue back into his mouth.

It’s a promise he can’t make or keep, not with the state the number 7 has been in. But there’s a raw want to the night that makes it easy for Alex to give into it all.

"You’ll be fighting me for first next time, all the way to the line.” Like the 500, where they were trading the spot back and forth for the third stint, Alex feeling the rush of the fight coursing through his veins each time he got the pass on Pato. Afterward, the feeling had faded fast, focus shifting to easing Pato through the crash of endorphins brought on by the crushing loss. Alex wants that feeling back though, wants to remember how it felt to actually be up at the front and in the fight for it all, Pato beside him.

Two races. He’s got two races.

The thought enters his mind fleetingly, anxiety at the rocky state of his future. He pushes it aside in favor of tangling his fingers in Pato’s hair, pulling the man back so his neck is exposed, so he can suck at the skin along his carotid with a new fervor. Pato might not be able to hide the mark tomorrow, it might just peak above the collar of his fireproofs. Alex can look at it in the team meeting, can know it was him who left it while Pato smirked at him like they were sharing a secret – despite the team knowing about them. Subtlety was hard where Pato was concerned, and Alex found he didn’t much care about hiding. Let them see the mark, they’d know Alex was the one who Pato had come home to. He could celebrate his win with the fans and cameras, but in the end it was Alex who was going to taste the victory on him.

He’s growing hard in his sweats.

Pato smirks against his lips, Alex can feel it. His hands settle on Alex’s hips, hold him firm against the door. Alex doesn’t forget his strength, hard to with the way Pato’s body is solid beneath his touch, but he does forget that Pato can exert said strength against him. Alex tries to thrust forward, finds Pato’s grip unforgiving.

“You wanna blow me in the shower?” He asks, standing on tiptoes and leaning against Alex further just so he can reach his ear, so he can whisper his request and send a shiver down Alex’s spine with the suggestion. “Get down on your knees for me?”

Alex’s knees probably don’t much like the idea, but he finds it hard to care with the way Pato is slipping a finger beneath the waistband of his sweats, stroking along warm skin because Alex had forgone underwear. His dick twitches in interest.

“We have another race tomorrow,” Alex counters, tries to pretend like he cares. If he weren’t thinking with his dick he probably would, but Pato’s finger is dipping lower, toying with him.

“Yeah, and I’ve been thinking about my cock in your mouth since I got off the podium.”

Alex chokes on his spit. “Y-yeah? Bet that made the interviews fun.”

“Sure did, thought about my cum on your face and it made things a lot better.”

It’s rare that Alex finds someone who can go toe to toe with him, which is maybe why he likes Pato so much. James is the only other person who’s maybe been able to match him, but Alex wouldn’t fuck James – not anymore, their friendship has solidified into just that. With Pato it’s something different, it’s easier, it’s filthier, it’s Pato fully slipping his hand into Alex’s pants to wrap it around his dick just to smirk at how hard he is.

“C’mon Rossi, let me cum on you, please.” He strokes his hand teasingly, slow and drawn out and still keeping one hand wrapped firmly around Alex’s hip so he stays still. “I won the race, I wanna celebrate.”

Alex groans, thunks his head back against the door. These hotel walls aren’t thick, which is why Pato is sure to keep his voice so low, but it’s making this whole ordeal ten times hotter.

“Go to the bathroom then,” he says, biting back another groan when Pato swipes a thumb over the head of his dick. He knows Pato is only waiting for the okay, for permission, because it’s late and they typically save any sex for after the weekend, but Alex can’t take the teasing much longer. He’s gonna spill in his sweats and then that’s just gonna ruin the whole night. This is his last clean pair.

“Really?” Pato asks, smiles genuinely. It’s cute and endearing and all the reasons that Alex loves him. He’d been toying with Alex, excelling at it, and now had the shocked look of someone who had not really been thinking he’d succeed – like he knows he’s hot, but isn’t really sure just how far looks would get him.

“Yes, Pato. Come on.”

The permission is all he needs. He kisses Alex again, quick and then pulls away – already stripping out of his shirt as he does. Alex watches the line of his back, the ripple of his muscles, the way his shoulder blades shift under his skin with the movement, and then follows along after him, mouth dry, suddenly eager to be filled.

He strips out of his own clothes while Pato gets the temperature of the water right. His pants and shirt get folded and left on the sink, while Pato’s end up in a crumpled heap on the floor.

“You gonna be okay down there?” Pato asks when Alex comes to stand behind him, wrapping an arm around him and splaying a hand across the firm expanse of his abs. He kisses the top of Pato’s head, smells the sweat and tastes the champagne.

Alex eyes the tile of the shower over the top of Pato’s head, the grout lines that will probably be indented in his skin by the end of this.

He shrugs, “Yeah, just don’t take too long.”

Pato’s already hard, had been half hard from the moment he slammed Alex up against the door. Alex is very skilled with his mouth, both verbally and when he’s got something occupying it. He’s not too worried about how long it will take to get Pato off.

Pato doesn’t seem worried either, not if the way he grabs Alex by the wrist that’s resting against his stomach and eagerly pulls him into the shower is any inclination. Alex ends pressed back up against the wall, against the cool tiles, steam keeping him warm while Pato gets the majority of the spray. He needs it, needs to clean the remnants of the track from his body.

Alex watches how the water trails down his body, in rivulets, over the ridges of muscle. His hands start to follow, grabbing Pato’s waist and pulling the man to him.

“Tip your head back,” He commands, finger curling just below Pato’s chin, angling him back so his hair is getting the brunt of the water. Pato maintains eye contact with him, a challenge in his eyes. He doesn’t want to obey tonight, he wants to be the one doling out orders.

Alex supposes he’s earned it, what with the win. And with the way he’s carried himself all day, all carefully maintained professionalism, despite the fact that he’d woken Alex up earlier that morning with a string of profanity so vulgar even Alex was shocked by it. He’s been handling media, fans and IndyCar reps alike, all trying to mitigate the minefield of drama that had been laid down by an asshole just trying to pass his failures off onto Pato because he figured Pato would just take it. Alex knows Pato can take a lot of things, but this was one that he hadn’t let slide. It had inspired in Alex a certain amount of pride, to watch Pato carry himself through the pitlane with his head held high and a firm stance on the Mexico race situation when anyone asked. He would have been proud to carry the majority of the marketing, knew it would fall on him as the Mexican driver in the series, but it should never have been his alone to manage. They’d wanted him to take the blame, Pato had thrown it back in their faces and then won the race just for good measure. So yeah, Alex figured he could get down on his knees and do as he was told for the night. Pato had earned that, and more.

He drops his grip on Pato’s chin.

“Let me wash your hair?” He asks, reaches for the shampoo bottle to his left, tucked into the corner of the shower on the recessed wall. It’s the expensive stuff that Pato splurges on, the kind that costs triple what Alex’s Head and Shoulders does, bought online because it was too fancy for the likes of a Target.

Pato smiles, pleased at it being a request and not a demand, Alex ignores how the look of satisfaction has something akin to pride settling warm inside him.

“Yeah, sure.”

Alex is quick to grab the shampoo, work it into Pato’s hair with steady fingers, using a decent amount because the champagne can be a bitch to get out. The scent of the stuff is strong, sharp, invades his senses and joins the steam that’s filling the small space. Pato watches him the whole time, hands coming to rest on Alex’s hips, thumbs tracing the dip in the bone there. Alex swallows under the gaze, tries to ignore just how predatory it is, like Pato’s sizing up his prey. When it’s lathered, soap coating Alex’s hands and foamed up on Pato’s hair, Pato’s hand goes for his cock, wraps around the length of him while Alex’s hands stutter in their methodical scrubbing.

“What-ah?” he starts, cut off by Pato leaning forward to trace Alex’s nipple with his tongue.

“Keep going,” Pato demands, only giving Alex enough time to get his hands moving again before he’s sucking marks into Alex’s chest. The hand around Alex’s cock strokes, aided by the water that spills from his shoulder down his arm and adds to the slick slide. Alex’s hips jerk forward at the same time his fingers in Pato’s hair grab at the soapy strands.

Pato hisses, bites at Alex’s nipple in retaliation.

“Fuck!” Alex jumps at the sharp bite of pain.

Pato laughs, licks at the irritated skin as an apology, then moves to the other side of Alex’s chest and repeats the motion.

“Y-you’re making it really hard to actually wash your hair.”

Pato shrugs, unbothered, “Figure it out. And don’t cum.”

"Making that hard too,” Alex counters, thrusting up into Pato’s grip around him for emphasis.

Pato works his way up Alex’s chest, his neck, nipping at the stubble rough skin of his jaw and smearing shampoo across Alex’s cheek when he reaches his ear.

“You wanna be good for me, Rossi?” He teases, bites at his earlobe.

It’s rare that he gets Pato in this form, rare enough that Alex isn’t entirely used to it. He whimpers, the sound escaping him before his brain can catch up, before he can think to hold it back for appearances sake. He can feel when Pato smiles against him, the curl of his lip.

“C’mon you’re smart right? A good listener? All those notes you take during meetings, all that skill,” he strokes Alex again, “all that talent? So you can do this, can’t you?”

“Y-yes.”

“Then prove it. Don’t cum, don’t move. You’re gonna stay against this wall, wash my hair, and then you’re gonna get down on your knees and take what I give you.”

Alex can feel his knees going weak, can feel the humiliation at Pato’s words washing over him like the spray of water. He nods, swallows around the lump forming in his throat. Pato pulls away to look at him, brown eyes wide and innocent, except for the way his pupils are blown with pure want.

Alex imagines he probably looks the same. His fingers are still tangled in Pato’s hair. It would be easy to tighten his grip, pull Pato back to him, reverse their roles. But Alex doesn’t want that. He wants to win at this game, show he can obey, show he can succeed, just as much as Pato can. Pato know it too, it’s why he cups Alex’s jaw gently in his hand that’s not wrapped around Alex’s cock and leans back in on tiptoes to kiss him like a reward.

Alex whimpers against him, unprepared for the softness of it.

“You’re doing good,” Pato promises.

Alex nods, swallows, and then he keeps washing Pato’s hair with fingers that tremble. He’s not used to the floaty space Pato has pushed him into, doesn’t mind it, just finds his body isn’t as controlled as he’s used to. It’s nice, in that it means he’s not as tense, his hips don’t thrust up as much when Pato goes back to stroking his cock. He stays perfectly still against the wall, save for hands working their way through Pato’s hair.

When he’s done, Pato tips his head back beneath the water again, washes the soap away with his own hands. Alex stays against the wall, waits for Pato’s hand on his shoulder. There’s a question in the way he grips Alex, thumb pressing against his collarbone, fingers tightening around muscle of his back, the force of it brings Alex to the surface for the moment. His head clears momentarily of the fog.

“Still okay?” Pato asks.

“Mmm-Hmm.”

“Words, Alex.”

“Yes. Yeah,” Alex replies. “All good. Just wanna suck you off, man.” He’s not thinking about the amount of times he’s going to brush his teeth after, or how sore he might be come morning. He’s thinking only about how much he wants Pato’s cock in his mouth, heavy on his tongue.

Pato laughs again, loud in the small space of the shower, echoing off the steam slick walls.

“Okay, baby. Go ahead then.”

He pushes Alex down with the hand on his shoulder, and Alex sinks to the tile. His brain sinks too, back to that floaty space, where Pato’s touch is the only thing that grounds him once he’s down on his knees. He keeps a hand on the back of Alex’s head, blocks the water from the shower head with his body, so Alex isn’t getting waterboarded and yanked from the space he’s found himself in.

Pato’s thumb strokes carefully over his hair, where he’s started growing it out, not from choice but from the lack of time he has to make it to the barber. The final leg of the season is busy, even more so because he’s balancing contract negotiations with his McLaren obligations. Pato must see something in him shift, brain starting to chase that rabbit called his future, because his grip on Alex’s hair goes sharp, fingernails scratching lightly at his skull.

Alex blinks, feels the water beaded on his lashes spill down his cheeks.

“Hey, Rossi, focus,” he demands. “Look at me.”

He follows the line of Pato’s thigh, his hip, chest, all the way back up until he’s looking up at Pato with parted lips.

“Forget everything else.”

“Okay.”

“You’re here.”

“Yeah.”

“You are gonna keep your eyes on me. Nowhere else.”

Alex can feel the thud of his heart in his chest, the sweat coating his skin from the heat of the shower. He can feel his cock jump where it rests hard against his stomach. Pato sees it too, smirks.

“And keep your hands on your thighs.”

Alex obeys, splays his fingers across the exposed expanse of his skin and waits for further instruction.

“Do not touch yourself. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Pato smiles again, soft, kind, reaches a hand out to cradle Alex’s jaw again. He has to be perched up on his knees for Pato to reach him, but the position means Pato can slide his hand from his jaw, to his mouth, slipping his thumb between Alex’s parted lips.

Alex moans, nearly lets his eyes flutter closed before he remembers the rules, looks up at Pato with determination and want while the man rests his thumb on the pad of Alex’s tongue.

“There we go,” Pato praises, “pretty boy.”

Alex isn’t prepared for the pet name. It’s the type of stuff he normally reserves for Pato. It’s never been reversed onto him. The shock of it pulls a sound from him that comes out strangled and garbled by Pato’s thumb in his mouth. His hands twitch against his thighs. He can feel himself blush, feel the heat of it, something deeper than the surface level heat of the bathroom. It must be noticeable, Pato seems to catch it.

“You want my cock, pretty boy?” he teases, presses his thumb down so Alex’s mouth opens wider, so there’s spit pooling in his mouth and threatening to drip down his chin. He can’t swallow it back down, not with the way Pato is holding his jaw open.

Instead, he looks up at Pato and garbles out something that he hopes conveys his answer, feels the blush worsen, feels tears prick at the corners of his eyes from the humiliation. Pato would stop if he gave any indication he wanted this to, if he pulled back Pato would let him go. Instead, when Pato wraps a hand around his own cock, Alex leans forward to take it.

He hasn’t done this in a while, so Pato is careful with him, doesn’t force Alex down, just keeps a hand on the back of his head like a threat. Part of him wishes he’d be brutal with it, choke Alex on cock so his throat was still raw come morning. When he tried to speak his voice would rasp, throat burning with effort. It’d give him an excuse for staying silent on the radio, for skipping out on interviews. But Pato is exceedingly gentle, lets Alex take his time.

He licks the head, testing. It’s humiliating having to look up at Pato as he does it, makes him feel incompetent. Pato still doesn’t press him, doesn’t seem to show he cares at all. His thumb tracks a soothing path along Alex’s skull.

Pato teases his cock along Alex’s bottom lip, coats it in precum. Alex opens his mouth wider in response. His tongue pokes out just enough to be teasing, and with the eye contact he’s maintaining, he imagines he probably looks pretty debauched already. It’s easy to see why Pato likes this position so much, there’s power here that Alex had forgotten.

Pato’s eyes darken, his grip on the back of Alex’s head tightens, but he doesn’t thrust forward when Alex wraps his lips around his dick, licks along the underside, following the vein with his tongue. He takes only what Alex is willing to give him, Alex working himself halfway down Pato’s decently sized cock until he’s pulling off for air.

“You can’t take me all the way, Rossi?” Pato teases, only enough that he can watch the blush spread across Alex’s cheeks. He traces a finger along Alex’s jaw, featherlight and mockingly sympathetic.

Alex’s hands on his legs clench, fingers digging into the muscle of his thigh.

In answer, Alex leans back forward, takes Pato down again, makes it a little past halfway before he gags on it. The sound seems to echo off the tiles. When he pulls away again a thread of spit follows, Pato watches it, eyes going wide. Alex watches his reaction, doing as he was instructed and not looking anywhere else. He can feel when the spit lands cool and stringy against his chin, drips down the fever hot skin of his neck. The steam from the shower and his own embarrassment are making the temperature feel worse than it is.

“Do that again,” Pato demands, hand cupping the back of his skull and finally pulling him forward. Alex goes, willingly, pliantly, gags himself on Pato’s cock and then keeps going. His eyes flutter closed for only a second when he reaches the base. There’s nails pressing into the base of his neck to remind him.

“Look at me, baby.”

From this angle, looking up the broad expanse of Pato, the ridges of his abdomen and the shape of his chest, Alex feels his mouth go dry. He swallows on impulse, just to give his throat something to do, feeling the weight of Pato on his tongue and going deeper. Knowing how it feels when the roles are reversed, when Pato swallows around his dick and the tight wet heat of him constricts, he’s prepared for the reaction it has on the man. Pato groans, head falling back, both hands wrapping around the back of Alex’s head and holding him down. His fingers scrabble for purchase, seeking out hair to pull, finding only short tufts. Alex smirks as much as he can, given the preoccupied state of his mouth. There’s nothing for Pato to grab onto, save for his own fingers when he entwines them, no way for him to set the pace. He can only take what Alex is willing to give him. Which, lucky for him, is a lot.

He sets a steady pace, chokes himself when Pato refuses to do it for him. The burn of tears in the corners of his eyes is like a release. When they fall, they mix with the water from the shower, the sweat beading down his face from his temples. He knows his eyes are glassy when he looks up at Pato, red-rimmed, shining like the spit that slicks his chin and slides down his body to the drain.

Pato wipes them away when he realizes, brushes the tears away with the pad of his thumb when Alex pulls off and then pushes him back down with an unyielding grip. Alex goes, gags again. The breath he draws in from his nose is ragged, uneven, it matches the frantic beat of his heart. He can hardly hear the praise that falls from Pato’s lips above him, too distracted by the sound of his own breathing loud in his ears.

“So good,” Pato pants, “So good, Rossi. You’re-fuck.”

Alex knows he close, can feel it in the way Pato’s cock jumps when he licks along the vein again. Part of him wants to say fuck it, suck Pato down to the hilt and swallow what he can when Pato spills down his throat. The other part of him, the part that hasn’t moved his hands to touch his own hard and leaking cock, knows tonight isn’t about him.

“Rossi,” Pato whines, like a warning.

Alex pulls away, mourns the loss of the shape of Pato down his throat only long enough to breathe in a few shaky breaths, before Pato’s fisting a hand around his dick and finishing. He keeps one hand on Rossi’s chin, angling his head up, despite the fact that Alex would have been obedient enough to do it himself. With his other, he holds his twitching dick steady.

Alex closes his eyes then, soaks in the sound of Pato’s arcing voice when he comes. Alex’s name falls from his lips like a prayer, like a celebration, and then his cum is streaking across Alex’s face like the champagne spray he hadn’t gotten. Alex feels it, tastes the bitter taste of it when some spills across his open mouth, his tongue.

“Jesus,” Pato pants when he’s done, when his breath has stopped hitching with each tiny noise of release that had escaped him. Alex can feel the cum where it’s streaked across his cheek, his eyelashes, doesn’t open his eyes because he knows he can’t. He jumps slightly when Pato’s grip on him shifts, his chin released and a warm palm cupping his jaw. Alex leans into the touch, lips still parted and breath ghosting warm over Pato’s thumb when the man traces the shape of his mouth.

“Pretty boy,” Pato praises.

Alex keens, hates how proud he feels at the words.

"Go ahead. You can touch yourself, baby,” Pato grants.

Alex listens, the death grip he’d been keeping on his thighs releasing, hand immediately going for his aching cock. It doesn’t take him long to cum, aided by Pato’s index and pointer finger slipping into his mouth and giving him something to suck, humiliating him further. He spills across his own hand. The water from the showerhead rinses any remnant of his release down the drain.

Afterward, Pato cleans him, takes a washrag warm with water and wipes the mess clear from his face. He blinks his eyes open slowly, the blurriness from having them closed for so long taking a moment to clear. He finds Pato on his knees in front of him, close enough that Alex can see the constellation of freckles dotting his cheeks, along with the beads of water on his lashes.

“All good?” He asks, swipes the washrag across Alex’s cheek. It smells like the bar of hotel soap, clean.

Alex nods, swallows. His throat hurts only slightly, voice rasping a little when he speaks.

“Uh-huh,” he winces.

Pato looks momentarily sympathetic, worried.

“I’m okay. Just- just need a minute.”

His head is still in that floaty place, body still not feeling entirely his. His fingers, when they wrap around Pato’s wrist are numb.

Pato seems to understand, probably does, Alex has eased him back into himself enough times to know how he must look right now. Dilated pupils, spit slick lips and an air of detachment in the way he looks around.

“You did so good,” Pato says, kisses Alex’s cheek that he’s just wiped clean.

Alex feels his breath shudder.

He operates on autopilot as Pato eases him to his feet. A towel’s wrapped around his waist, he holds it up as Pato uses another to dry his hair and upper body. Alex doesn’t miss the way he’s careful around his chest, patting the area dry to not upset the already steady forming hickeys any further. Come morning they’ll be dark, now they’re just tender, pink in the dimmed light from the bathroom. Pato kisses each one as he goes, works his way up Alex’s neck until he reaches his mouth.

When he kisses him, it’s with all the tenderness he lacked when he’d slammed Alex up against the hotel door. He tastes like the champagne still, the barest hint of it, and something sweet – like icing. Alex chases the taste of it, until Pato’s hand on his chest stops him, pushes him back.

“Clothes,” he orders, offers Alex his shirt that had been carefully folded on the sink, his pants after that. In between Alex getting dressed and brushing his teeth, Pato rewards him with a kiss, a praise, a touch that’s featherlight on his skin and feels more heightened than usual. Alex lets himself be taken care of, up until they’re crawling into the bed and the change in location clears his head further.

“I’m glad you won today,” he says, when Pato’s curled up against him, head resting on his chest while Alex lays on his back and stares up at the shadows cast by the streetlights outside. There’s a tree just outside the window, it’s branches dancing in the slight breeze, reflected in the dark mass of writhing movement on the ceiling.

Pato shifts against him, his hand that is splayed across Alex’s chest curls, fingers resting over the faded number 27 of his Andretti shirt. Alex doesn’t look down at him, but he can tell Pato’s moved so he can look up at Alex. He can smell the sharp scent of the mint toothpaste they had shared, Pato splurged on a fancier brand, but he’d forgotten it back at Alex’s house in Indiana, been reduced to Colgate instead.

“Yeah, me too,” he admits, “Fucking worked my ass off for it.”

“You earned it,” Alex agrees. His arm is trapped beneath Pato, sure to be sending pins and needles through him soon, but for now he’s content to wrap it around the man, slide his hand in a repetitive pattern along the ridges of his spine. Pato makes a sound not unlike that of a contented cat as he curls closer to Alex.

“More than a billboard?” Pato asks, laughs to himself.

Alex scoffs, “Fuck yeah, way more than a billboard.”

He knows Pato is still hurt, but that’s a conversation for another day. For now, he’s a winner, fresh off the top step and still wearing the shine of a man christened in wine and bathed clean again.

“You’ll be up there again soon, too,” Pato mumbles, when the silence has stretched on for so long that Alex had thought he might have gone to sleep.

Alex feels his jaw tick, feels the pang of failure register low in his gut. He shoves it down in favor of remembering Pato’s fingers in his mouth, the praise he’d been showered in. It’s not the same, never will be, but it’s enough. Not that Alex would ever say that out loud, because he still does very much want to win.

Two races left.

Alex will make one of them work, and when he does, he wants Pato on the podium with him. He’s tired of champagne seconds, wants to feel the rain of the stuff on his skin fresh and undiluted. He wants Pato to be the one holding the bottle.

"You're gonna be beside me," Alex says, nuzzles close to Pato so he's inhaling the scent of his too strong shampoo, kissing the crown of his head.

Pato sighs, content and sated and happy, "Always."

#palex #my fic #so much happened in Milwaukee tbh #I felt like unpacking it via smut

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postmodernbeliever · 5 months

Text

Thoroughfare- Fox Mulder x Female Reader

Chapter Three: Two’s Company, Three’s a Crime Scene

table of contents <3

if you’d prefer my ao3 | word count: 4,317

TW: mentions of a body at a crime scene, some graphic description.

✮ ⋆ ˚｡𖦹 ⋆｡°✩

“No comments from the peanut gallery!”

“I’m simply saying that if you’d let me handle the directions, maybe we’d get there faster!”

You sighed as Fox screwed with the gigantic spiral-bound map he found shoved between the bench of your rental truck. When the two of you landed, you discovered something new about your fellow agent- he liked being in charge of not only picking but driving the rental car. You knew the Bureau provided money for the vehicle, but you had no idea it was within your purview to choose which. You might’ve picked something a little sleeker and smaller, like an understated sedan, but the man with the pen did not share your taste, so this time you didn’t get to exercise the privilege. Fox teased you as he signed the papers for an old Chevy pickup, saying, “Seniority, Piglet.” And now he was refusing to let you control the map while he drove the two of you straight into bumblefuck Kansas as if he had a foolproof inner compass.

“Seriously, Fox, come on. It’s dangerous to drive like this, just let me help.”

“I’ve survived every case this way, you know,” he grumbled.

“Yeah, alone! You’ve got me here now, and I’m not gonna let you crash the damn car while I’m inside!” You resolved, tearing the map from his hand and ripping it at the corner of the page. All you tore was the map scale, but he still shot you a dirty look.

“Nice going–”

“Enough!”

You wanted to believe you didn’t enjoy the way he bickered with you, but it kept the endless drive of dying grass and grey sky interesting. Fox had to double-check every direction you gave him on the way into Marysville, Kansas, at whose name you of course rolled your eyes. The snarky driver learned to stop doubting you about an hour in when he disregarded your order to make a right-hand turn and went left. It took him ten minutes to admit he was wrong and turn around. You graciously accepted his apology, but not before sticking your tongue out in juvenile triumph. Nearly three hours later with the late afternoon sun preparing to set, the rickety truck pulled past a sign that greeted Welcome to Marysville! and you found yourself in the middle of a quaint little place, seemingly empty, with rows of colonial buildings and businesses. You rolled the window down and felt the muggy spring air stick to your face as you poked your head out, admiring the center of town. You could feel your hair frizzing up, and you hoped you’d have time to fix it before you had to do any work. This was not the time to look anything other than prepared.

Fox piped up, “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m gonna make a pitstop at the police station before the motel.”

You huffed and fell back into the seat, and the man let out a soft chuckle. You combatted, “What now?”

“You’re like a little kid.”

“Am not!”

Fox quirked an eyebrow at you, silently proving his point, and your face melted into a playful smile. You stopped complaining and he turned his attention back to the road, where he surveyed for a police department sign. He found it on the corner of a block, but he nearly missed it- if he wasn’t paying attention, he might’ve mistaken it for just another shop. There were stately stone steps out front and two swinging doors that were reminiscent of a saloon, so you made note of the entrance for the next time it camouflaged into the rest of the town. Fox pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, which sputtered a bit, and you made a nervous face.

“Don’t worry,” Fox smiled, “I can just hotwire something if we need to.” When you made a face, he added, “Come on, I’m kidding!”

All you gave in return was a skeptical, “We’ll see.”

As he moved to open his door, he paused, noticing how you sat still. “Everything okay?”

In your head, you weren’t sure how to answer his question. One thing has been irking you since you landed in the Midwest, and that was how badly you wanted to nail introducing yourself; you’d thought over exactly how to pull your badge from your pocket, and how you’d assert your new title, but every vision ended with you screwing it up. You’d done this at your old job in New York so often it became second nature, but somehow this was different. This was bigger. You had so much more power with a federal badge. You wondered how Fox did it every time; if he was stern, or positive, or something in between. You almost wished you’d practiced it in the mirror, but that felt stupid to entertain.Yet now that it was time to establish yourself as the overarching authority, a beacon of hope to the people of this town and the families who have lost daughters, you were afraid to make a fool of yourself by either overdoing it or not doing it right at all. For God’s sake, you dropped your passport in front of the flight attendant- what made you think you wouldn’t blurt out FBI too loud in front of the sheriff? What would the citizens of Marysville think if the government sent them a detective who couldn’t even get her name out without stuttering?

Fox wished he could read your mind, but all he could do was watch your eyes glaze over. He reached out and touched your shoulder. “Anybody home?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“You’re nervous.”

“Kind of,” you huffed, “There’s a lot I’m nervous about, you know that.”

“About the case?”

“Yeah, the case. And about doing well. Proving myself. Not letting you down,” you added at the end, to which he broke into an appreciative grin. “I don’t know. It’s a lot of pressure.”

“You’re lucky you have me then. I’m practically a diamond,” Fox winked, “Relax. I’ll take the lead.”

Fox might be a pain in the ass, but he was somewhat of a gentleman; after promising he’d lead you through things, he held the door to the station open for you, and you went inside first. There wasn’t much of a lobby. It was more like walking straight into a bullpen, and a calm one, at that. You saw three officers sitting at their desks; two working diligently on what seemed to be simple paperwork, and another with his feet kicked up on the desk and a newspaper over his head, snoring loudly. A faulty fan was whirring exhaustedly in the corner next to an open window. It was mundane everywhere you looked- dusty bookshelves, tidy filing cabinets, dust floating in the light beams spilling through the blinds. An aging woman was working the counter with fat librarian glasses perched on her hook nose and a frizzy, box-blonde French twist. Fox nudged your elbow politely, and you stepped aside to let him approach her first.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. Special Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner.”

You watched him carefully as you fished your badge out of your jacket pocket and flipped it open. He held his own up briefly, barely long enough for anyone to know if it was real. You took it he never ran into that issue. His voice in introduction wasn’t stiff, but it was still assertive. There was a warmth in the way he spoke to her, and you thought maybe he was always gentler with older women, or possibly with everyone- he certainly spoke that way with you. You would’ve kept thinking about it if he didn’t keep going.

“I talked on the phone with a Sheriff Hale, he requested my partner and I come down and take a look at a string of murders?”

The woman smiled with all her teeth, and you could tell by the way her eyes sparkled that she liked him. Just like the lady at the airport. You wouldn’t have pegged him as a ladies’ man, but it made sense. He did have a unique charm about him.

“Oh, yes! Well, Sheriff Hale is out on a house call, ‘ya see, but he’s bound to be back in soon. I can send a call out for ‘im, if you like.” Her country accent was thick as molasses, and just as sweet.

“That’d be great, ma’am, thank you.”

“Oh, please, call me Mary!”

Fox laughed and confirmed, “Mary from Marysville, huh?”

Mary cackled like an obnoxious schoolgirl, and you had to bite back a laugh yourself. Fox stepped away with you as the woman hopped on the phone to speak with the sheriff, throwing glances his way all the while.

“Flirting on the job, Fox?”

“What can I say? I’ve got game, Piglet.”

A part of you wanted to know more, but there wasn’t enough time to try between his teasing comment and the interruption of frazzled Mary: “Excuse, Mr. Agent Mulder, sir?”

“Yes?”

“The- the sheriff says he needs you down at the Church of Saint Peter the Apostle as soon as you can, sir, down on the corner. There’s been another murder, dear Lord…”

Fox defaulted to you, and despite your apprehension, you were the first to head for the door. He called back to the woman with a rushed, “Thank you, tell him we’re on our way!” and the two of you hurried to the old pickup parked out front. He got it up and running and rushed off, and there wasn’t one complaint when you reached for the map and turned to the page with a closer view of Marysville, and told him where to go.

“Up on the corner, she said, but which corner?” You wondered aloud, and Fox kept his eyes on the road. You were just about to tell him to make a left when a beater came barreling through a stop sign at the intersection, wholly ignoring your right of way, causing Fox to slam on the breaks. You lurched forward in the seat and caught yourself by slamming the map against the glovebox. You flushed, feeling like an idiot for forgetting your seatbelt.

“Are you hurt?” Fox blurted. His hand reached out to brush some hair away from your forehead, checking for a bruise or blood, but all you could think about was how softly his fingertips ghosted against your temple. You didn’t feel any pain, but you sure were shaken up.

“Y-yeah, I’m okay. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, don’t worry about me.” He dropped his hand and looked in the direction of the tin can that nearly killed you both, seeing its tire marks trailing down the road. “Where do you think he was going, driving like that?… Dick.”

He tried to let the insult slip under his breath, but you heard it loud and clear. You giggled, and he smirked at you, noting that you liked a slip-up here and there. You began to say something, but two more cars came hurtling down the street in front of the truck, laying on the horn at you for being stopped a quarter of the way into the intersection. Both loosely followed the tire tracks and made screeching turns a few blocks to the right. You looked to Fox for an explanation, who stared back with just as much confusion as you, and he took off, chasing the commotion. You clicked your seatbelt in hurriedly, holding onto the door handle. You weren’t one for speed, but you didn’t feel as unsafe as you would’ve expected yourself to. Fox knew the car well. He knew the dimensions, he knew how fast it could go, and he clearly felt comfortable in the driver’s seat because he was plowing through town like he was the one being chased. You saw a wild grin creep up on his cheeks, and your face felt warm. It was fun, going fast.

Just up the road, you saw red lights flashing in alarm, and a mass of cars pulled up in disarray outside a little church, including the three trucks that nearly killed you. It had to be smaller than the police station- it was wooden, with a weathered steeple that was shadowed by the falling dusk, and moss grew unabated over the windowsills. Teenagers and parents were prowling by the sheriff’s car, which Fox parked right beside.

“Holy shit!”

“Lord, that’s disgusting!”

“Lemme in, lemme see!”

The two of you hopped out and hurried through the hollering crowd of townspeople, right up to the ambulance that blocked them out, but didn’t hide their view. Kids peeked past the authorities with sick looks. Two paramedics met you at the yellow tape and passed some rubber gloves off, which you took gratefully, already feeling your stomach drop at the exclamations of the onlookers. When you finally got past the ambulance, you gasped at the crime scene which one deputy and the supposed Sheriff Hale were rushing to cover with tarps and close off. Fox held up the tape for you to duck beneath, and he followed as you stepped onto the scene.

“Sheriff Hale?” You inquired. “We’re with the FBI, you called for us?”

The older of the two men looked up. He had a beet-red face, which could’ve been from the intensity of the Kansas sun or stress; his eyebrows were bushy as beaver tails, and his stocky build made it hard to believe he did much more than paperwork. But nonetheless, he stood up and shook your hands as he greeted, “Thanks for getting down here so quick, agents. I reckon this is the fourth victim, she, uh… well, how about y’all take a look?”

You and Fox stood on the little dirt path that led to the steps of the church, lined with painted rocks. It looked like a children’s effort, a community project. There was a large crucifix marking where the peak of the building met the steeple, and a giant translucent sheet covered the steps; on the tall double doors, there were thick splatters of oxidizing blood and splintered wood. You knelt beside the younger officer, who was taking photographs of the scene, and made yourself known.

“What do we have here?”

“Looks like another murder, ma’am,” he frowned. You noticed his name embroidered into his uniform pocket: Deputy H. Jones. He was tall and skinny as a twig, with an endearing gap between his two front teeth. He looked too young to be a college student, let alone a police deputy. “A real shame.”

“Did you know the victim, Deputy Jones?”

“Sure I did, knew ‘em all. Lots… lots of ‘em went to school with me. This girl here, though, she was a good friend of my lil’ sister. Liane Jacobs. Real sweet girl. It, uh, it’s a rough thing to see, ma’am.”

Your heart sank at the thought of what it must feel like to be him. You reached to peel back the tarp, and it took less than a second for you to lay it right back down. You weren’t prepared for the sight, and had to choke down a gag. “Jesus Christ.”

“You ask me, Jesus ain’t got nothin’ to do with this, agent. Not a thing.”

Deputy Jones’s face fell pale as he walked away, leaving you to examine the victim. You slowly lifted the tarp again, careful not to reveal anything to the crowd gathering outside the confines of the caution tape. Despite the breakfast you had rumbling like rocks inside your gut, you took a mental note of the girl lying before you, gutted like a pig. She looked far worse than the photos in Fox’s file. Her entire chest cavity was splayed open as if her ribs had been ripped out all at once. The tissue of her dermis and lungs was a mixture of chop meat, all littering the jagged edges of her vertebrae, which were missing bones in all the spots the X-rays had in common. Her lower body was littered with bruises and cuts, especially around the hips and lower abdomen, yet her face was left untouched- not even a spot of blood was present to interrupt the porcelain appearance. She looked supremely calm, in contrast to her violent disposition; relaxed eyelids, perfectly tinted lips, flawless teenage skin. Her dark hair fell in Hollywood ringlets across her shoulders, manicured, well-placed, well-planned. You gazed up at the cross she sat rotting beneath, and you wondered what God would do, had he the choice to help you understand. You only stopped contemplating when a hand tapped the crown of your head, and you saw your partner looking down at you.

“Her name is Liane Jacobs,” you sighed, “The deputy knew her personally.”

“Seems like everyone did. Seventeen years old, grew up a mile out from here. She worked at the library as a part-time bookkeep and spent her weekends volunteering at this very church,” Fox informed. “The sheriff, deputy, and her parents all swore she was a good girl, a good friend. Devoted to her faith.”

“Look what it got her. So much for being devoted,” you grumbled, tugging Fox down to take a closer look.

A short-lived expression of shock crossed the man’s face, and then he was all business; he knelt over the body, close enough to give you the creeps, and studied the girl’s lacerations. You leaned back on the heels of your boots and glanced around, finding the bystanders terrified of how Fox seemed to dole over the dead body. You squirmed uncomfortably, realizing they must think you had a screw loose, too.

“We’re gonna need an autopsy on the body, but a lot of these mutilations match the other victims just from a visual deduction. The missing ribs, the bruising around the waist and legs. But this is way more aggressive. This is like the other deaths on steroids. The killer didn’t take nearly the same care removing the bones from her chest cavity– I mean, the last murders weren’t surgical by any means, but this? This is violent. Might as well have torn her apart by hand. Somebody is really angry. Maybe even crying out for help. It’s hard to tell.”

“Well, however they’re feeling, they clearly had something against this girl. I mean, they desecrated her, Fox. Her body is completely destroyed. I can’t even fathom what would possess someone to- to ruin a young girl like this.”

Fox nodded curtly, furrowing his eyebrows in agreement. Then his neck craned down, and he mumbled, “Hey, look at this.”

You watched Fox’s glove-clad hand dig into poor Liane’s jeans pocket, tugging out a thin string of wooden beads. It was uneven with little plastic beads between the wood bits, which told you it was homemade. The rosary looked almost charred, and the cross dangling at the bottom was splintered.

“Do you think it’s hers?”

Fox laid the chain in your palm and pointed to the little metal tag that conjoined the sides, where three initials were stamped: LMJ.

“Liane Michelle Jacobs,” he confirmed, “Seems like the type our guy would pick, don’t you think? Looks-wise. Even if she died differently, still fits the profile.”

You moved to drape the tarp back over the body, but not before taking one last look at her face. Liane looked like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her family couldn’t hold an open casket, and everyone would live with how she was found, discarded like roadkill on the local church steps, but she was still beautiful, and that was eating at you.

“I feel horrible.”

“This isn’t really the best first case to work on,” Fox admitted, “I wish it was something different for you.”

You wouldn’t have expected to be so moved by a dead girl. In all your years at college studying the world’s most prolific cases, learning how to compartmentalize, and doing fieldwork in New York, you had a stomach of steel. You could take any case, see any death, and solve it. But you’d never had the feeling you have now, as you see the fourth victim surrendered at the foot of a carpenter. Something dark surrounded her, something that nailed you to the steps. There was a force at work you’d never known before. Something was wrong. You couldn’t be sure if Fox felt it, too, but it was making it near impossible to separate your empathy from your logic. You just wanted to cover Liane, and hope that she didn’t feel any pain, and if everyone might turn their backs to you, maybe you could cry for a moment at the loss of an innocent girl to a monster.

Fox could see you fighting with yourself by the way you chewed at your bottom lip, eyes locked on the girl’s still face. He wasn’t sure what to say, but he had to say something.

“I know this is hard for you. Especially with all the pressure you’re feeling. But I also know having you here will help save other girls like Liane. You’re more than well-equipped for this. If anyone can do the job, it’s you.”

You tipped your head back to blink away a few tears that poked your eyes, and you let the plastic cover the body. Fox cleared his throat and said, “Come on, let’s go. Let the coroner take her.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Offering you a hand, Fox got you back on your feet and you followed him down the walkway towards the street. Two men shuffled over to scoop up the mess on the steps, and you had to tune out all the crying and commentary coming from the townspeople. The colors on the ground were distracting. Every rock was a different shape and size, all probably appealing to the child who chose them; there were paintings of houses and dogs, butterflies and crosses, mothers and fathers holding hands. Kids always seemed to draw what they knew best, even if their imagination took them to so many other places. You stopped short in your gawking and bent down, picking up one of the rocks lining the path; it was red, with a faded painting of a donkey looking up at a lopsided star. You turned the stone over in your hand, feeling the smooth texture, and found a neatly printed name on the back: Liane J. 3rd Grade. You pocketed the rock with no good reason and hurried to catch up with your partner who was waiting by the passenger door of the rental truck, lost in his head. When you reached him, he opened the door for you, and you slipped inside, suddenly deflated.

“I don’t think there’s much else to do tonight until we hear back from Sherriff Hale or the county morgue, so I guess we should head to the motel. I could use a second to settle in. I bet you could, too.”

“Yes, please. Thank you.” You muttered.

Fox began to shut the door on you, but paused, eyes grazing over your face. You weren’t nervous anymore, but were something else. There wasn’t a touch of color in your cheeks, but your skin was still soft-looking, like your eyes. He didn’t like the softness of them, actually, since it seemed more like fragility, or frailty, than gentle. Sitting in the truck he’d picked, on his case you were unlucky enough to be placed on, you looked young and worn, eager and tired, your hair just sweet fuzz framing the face of a girl unaware of what she agreed to. That might be the worst part, how you looked, along with how he imagined you felt. It made his chest ache.

“Hey, uh, are you hungry? I know, bad time to think about eating, but I haven’t since before the flight this morning.”

You scrunched your nose and thought about the last time you ate. You recalled grabbing a power bar on the way out of the house in the morning, but you also seemed to recall passing it to Fox at the airport gate when he complained about being starving. So, you haven’t eaten at all. The nerves kept you full.

“Well, a little, I guess. I probably should have something.”

“How about I stop and grab us a bite on the way over? Sound good?”

You felt the shadow of a smile on your lips, and you nodded your head. Fox made up for the grin you couldn’t muster with all his teeth and shut the car door swiftly, jogging around the front of the truck to get in the driver’s seat. Without another word, he started the engine and backed away from the scene, leaving the Marysville authorities to pack Liane up and ship her off to the morgue. You watched the crowd watch, and you wondered how a town so small and close-knit as this one appeared could stand around and ogle a dead girl they claimed to cherish. You replayed the whole thing in your head- how you froze, how you almost cried, how Fox had to get you out. You were more than embarrassed at how you acted, but you couldn’t change it. You were just lucky he was the only one paying attention.

Blowing out a slow, sleepy breath, you flipped the map open to look for the motel, but Fox laid his hand on it and said, “It’s okay. I got directions from the Sheriff. He said there’s a burger joint on the way, too. You take it easy for now, okay?”

Unwilling to protest, you sat quietly in the seat and let him drive down the pothole-riddled road. You obsessed over the weight of the rock in your pocket, and it felt the way you did back with Liane’s body– dark, unnatural. You left it there and hoped no one would notice it was gone.

#fox mulder #x files #spooky mulder #the x files #fox mulder x reader #fox mulder x you #soft fox mulder #fox mulder x reader fluff #fox mulder fluff #txf #catholiscism #tw religious themes #religious symbolism

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walker-extended-universe · 1 month

Text

Welcome Home

Relationship(s): August Walker & Stella Walker, August Walker & Cordell Walker, August Walker & Liam Walker, August Walker & Sadie Yoo, August Walker/Sadie Yoo

Tags/Warnings: Alternate Universe, Military, Post-Military, Post-Canon, Insecurity, Disability, Physical Disability, Amputation, Recovery, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Summary: August came back from his time in the military, but he's not the man he once was. Can his family help him get back to his old self or is he too far gone?

Written for @augustofwhump Day 11: Scars, Insecurity

A/N: I know August didn't go to the military after season 4 but I already had AUs cooked up and I'm not letting them go now

Taglist: @theladywyn, @ihavepointysticks, @klaatu51, @itsjessiegirl1, @neptunium134

----------

August had thought about the day he came home from the military for good a lot. He’d imagined himself leaving after a few years and transitioning into a more sedate lifestyle, maybe with Sadie by his side. He’d imagined himself going full career military and passing on a legacy of government benefits when he eventually bit the bullet. He’d imagined himself getting a hero’s funeral, remembered in pictures and funny stories until no one was around to tell them anymore.

In all his imaginings and daydreams, he’d never pictured this.

“Your recovery is coming along very well,” his assigned physical therapist told him. “Have you given any more thought to if you would prefer a prosthetic or crutches?”

“Crutches.” He’d made his choice soon after the amputation surgery. He’d seen the options and recovery schedule for a prosthetic. It was pricey, cumbersome, and something that would probably only lead to confusion and disappointment when he was wearing long pants. Crutches were cheaper and a lot more upfront about his baggage.

Crutches also meant he’d be going home sooner, but you can’t always get everything you want.

“Are you sure? We can-”

“I’m sure."

She blinked at him and nodded. “Alright. You’ll have to learn how to use them before we can release you. I’d also like to talk to your family about accommodations you might need at home. Is there a number I could call or….?”

August sighed. “My sister will be here in two hours. You can talk to her about all that.”

“Okay, we’ll do that then. Let’s just finish up your exercises and then I’ll come back to talk with your sister. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

“No. Let’s just get this over with.”

August could do the whole exercise routine by himself at this point, but it was definitely easier with someone else helping him. Having someone to help him balance made it easier for him to keep his eyes away from the scar he was left with. The phantom pains were bad enough; the ugly stump was just another unfortunate reminder.

He really just wanted to get his crutches and get back to moving on his own again, but he knew that would be a journey. A journey he wasn’t really looking forward to.

Especially not a journey he wanted to go on with his family.

He was glad Stella had taken the mantle of dealing with all his hospital stuff. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle it if the rest of the family was constantly hovering around him during this. He didn’t need their sugarcoated praise or unnecessary optimism. He didn’t need Gramp’s war stories or Dad’s constant assurances that this wouldn’t change anything. He didn’t need Mawline’s smothering or Liam’s assembly line of therapists to “heal his mental state”.

He just wanted to get on with the rest of his pathetic life.

—------------------

The road had been cleared before they went on it. Or, at least, they thought it was. Not that it was August’s job to worry about that. It was their Sergeant's job, or at least the drivers. He just got on the truck he was told to get on and zoned out during the drive to prevent himself from thinking too hard about their mission. He much preferred scouting to sniping, but he didn’t get to make those decisions.

He hated trips like this, but it’s what he signed up for. Literally.

Maybe he should’ve listened a little closer to his grandfather’s war stories before he committed to this. A little late to complain about it now, so he didn’t. Not to his fellow soldiers, not in his letters home, not even when he was drunk on leave. Bottling things up was the Walker Way and after a few years at it, August was a professional.

The explosion came from right under his seat. There was another one as the driver tried to regain control of the vehicle.

And then the ambush came.

August didn’t remember much after the first gunshot. He just remembered the smell of blood and the sound of someone screaming.

Later, his sergeant would commend him for his “bravery in the face of adversity”. If August hadn’t just heard that the infections in his leg wounds were too severe for the field hospital to handle and amputation was the best route, he probably would’ve punched the man.

August got a medal for his bravery. He got to shake the governor’s hand and his face was plastered on the front page of The Austin Chronicle and The Daily Texan.

The other 19 men in the truck with him died. They got no awards and their families got meager compensation. He spoke with one of the wives, tried to tell her he was sorry. She just smiled and patted his remaining leg and told him to say “hi” to his mother for her.

The more he practiced “walking”, the closer he got to going home, the more he dreaded it. He didn't want the welcome home party or the accolades of a “successful” military career. He just wanted to move on, forget how he ended up here.

But that would never happen. He could never be that lucky.

—-------------------

“So I did tell them you didn’t want a big party but-”

August groaned. “Just tell me how many people are going to be there.”

Stella sighed. “I managed to talk them down to Dad’s work friends. And nobody got plus ones. Oh, and Sadie will be there.”

Sadie. He hadn’t seen her since last Christmas. Knowing the first time she would see him again was like this made his stomach twist into knots.

Last time he’d seen her, they kissed under the mistletoe. It had gotten them laughs, but it made him want more.

One more tour, he’d told himself back then. Just one more and then he’d be good enough. His family would be proud of him, he could get great benefits on top of whatever job he picked up, and maybe he could finally ask her on a date. She might even say “yes”.

Fat chance of that happening now.

“I already told everyone you’ll probably be tired and you don’t need to be overwhelmed right now so the extra guests probably won’t stay for more than an hour. If you need me to, I can be the bad guy and kick everyone out early,” Stella promised.

“Thanks,” he muttered. “But I can deal. If I let them get all their hovering out of the way now, maybe they’ll chill for a bit.”

Stella snorted. “Yeah, right. Dad’s been excited to show you all the renovations they made for you and Liam really wants your opinions on his new ‘inclusive’ therapy plans for the rescue. And I’ve lost track of how many times Mawline’s asked me if I was absolutely sure you don’t have any new dietary restrictions.”

August groaned and slid down in his seat. “And they wonder why I wanted to stay at the hospital by myself….”

“You know it’s because they care about you. I know it’s clumsy and overbearing but they’re trying.”

“I know that but…. I just wish they wouldn’t make a big dal out of it.”

Stella gave him a side eye. “Auggie, you lost a leg. That’s kind of a big deal. I know you don’t want a fuss but it’s an adjustment for everyone. Just- I talk to them but you may just have to ride this out. They’ll calm down after a couple months and then you can go back to pretending this isn’t a big deal, okay?”

He sighed. She was right, to an extent. He’d had a lot longer to adjust to his new situation than his family did. And they did care, even if he didn’t appreciate the way they showed it.

“I can put up with the party for an hour and I’ll try not to rush Dad through his tour but can you ask Liam to hold off on the therapy stuff for a bit. I’m just- not ready to think about that.”

She nodded, smiling. “I can do that.”

Done with the conversation, August turned on the radio and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away from reality for a bit. He would take any break he could get.

#augustofwhump #augustofwhump2024 #walker #walker fic #walker fanfic #au #tw disability #tw amputation #my writing #my fic

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