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ichorai · 3 years ago

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pearls and pastries ; j.jk

pairing ; pirate!jungkook x baker!reader (gender-neutral)

summary ; a crew of pirates have been pilfering your village for several weeks now and one particularly keen buccaneer has stopped by your bakery practically every visit; whether it be for the delectable pastries or for the sweet baker he's taken an interest to, jungkook couldn’t say. but there’s a catch - the baker doesn’t know that he’s a pirate.

themes ; fantasy, angst, fluff, pining, slight action, pirate au, baker au, medieval au

words ; 3.6k

warnings / includes ; descriptions of weaponry, stealing (from the rich), jungkook being a sad lovesick sap, pirate!bts, poetic sadness but when do i not do angst lmfao everything i touch turns into written sorrow </3

a/n ; written for the @ficscafe fic exchange event for @sunshinerainbowsbts !! i hope you like it <3 i'm definitely considering writing a part two to this :D

Jungkook wasn’t quite fond of parrots. Well, his mislike wasn’t necessarily directed towards the multi-hued rotund bird itself, but the fact that the wretched thing was squawking out a poor rendition of what Jungkook had announced earlier whilst clambering down the crow’s nest.

“I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery! I’m going to the bakery!” the winged devil screeched from atop Jimin’s shoulder, ruffling its bright feathers as if taunting him.

Shooting it the nastiest of scowls, Jungkook reached behind his head to untie the vermilion bandana holding his overgrown locks away from his narrowed eyes. “You better shut that bird up before I toss it to the sharks, Jimin.”

“If I let you do that, I’d also have to throw you overboard. The both of you are equally annoying,” the other pirate snorted in contempt, glancing up at his younger friend striding across the ship before moving his gaze back to the knapsack he was emptying for the pilfer. Out fell several empty bottles of rum, a few gold pieces glinting in the harsh midday sun, two jewel-encrusted daggers, and a worn eyepatch that suspiciously looked to be the same as the one Yoongi always wore over his left eye. “You seem to forget that we’re here to steal from the rich, not buy fancy breads! You’re lucky that Namjoon has half the decency not to kick you off the boat. Jin, however fond he is of you, still calls you a moocher.”

Rouge faintly dusted across Jungkook’s cheekbones as he coughed into his fist, lifting his shoulder in a half-shrug. “I steal stuff sometimes,” he muttered under his breath. It was useless to defend himself against someone who saw straight through him.

“Sometimes, my foot!” Jimin scoffed, hiking the bag over his shoulders. “Bringing back a goblet you found rolling down the street doesn’t count, you know that, right?”

Jungkook rolled his eyes to the cloudless sky, far too stubborn to admit that Jimin was right. With not another word, the young pirate clambered off of the large vessel and onto the rickety docks, grunting upon landing. It didn’t bother him much that Jimin was irked at his lack of contribution. They were rich enough as it is; what was the rush?

The air was tangy with sea salt and damp wood as he inhaled a deep breath, setting off for your bakery. Walking there took exactly three hundred and seventy two steps. Jungkook had memorized the shortest route to your little shop, mumbling the numbers under his breath with a growing grin blossoming across his lips. He subconsciously rolled the sleeves of his white tunic down, the fabric concealing the pirate tattoos inked all over his arms.

When the youthful sea wolf stepped foot into your store, a familiar chiming of the bell hooked atop the door echoed across the cream-walled room. At the reverberating sound, your head peeked out from the kitchen situated in the back. An illuminating beam danced on your features, eyes lighting up with mirth at the sight of Jungkook.

It made the muscle within his chest slam against his ribcage, desperate to be freed from its confines because it belonged to you, and only you. He wasn’t quite sure when the sudden fixation for the village baker his crew was stealing from started, but he had acclimated to his own change of heart by visiting you as often as he could.

“Fancy seeing you here today. Are you coming in or are you now my human door stopper?” Your heavenly voice floated towards Jungkook, snapping him out of his thoughts. Sheepish, he shuffled inside, engulfed by the warm scents of chocolate cakes, powdered pastries, caramelized fruits, and toasted almonds. His stomach gave an impatient snarl at the sight of tempting desserts. You had also walked to the front of the counter, dusting your flour covered hands on an apron. Some of the white powder had managed to smudge on your cheek, and Jungkook had to resist the urge to reach over and thumb it away.

“Hi,” he said with the brightest of grins. “I’ve missed you.”

At his bold statement, you suppressed a chortle. “I think you missed those chocolate cream puffs you like so much, not me. What’ve you been up to while you were gone?”

Jungkook hesitated at that. For the short amount of time he’d been visiting you, not once had he mustered the courage to tell you of his true origins. A savage pirate like him shouldn’t even be around the likes of you. You had no idea that he was part of the crew that was robbing your village, and the very thought of you finding out had him terrified. You were a taste of all the goodness in the world, and Jungkook was afraid you’d crumble into ash if he dared touch you. The sinner had no rights touching an angel, after all.

“Visiting family,” he hummed, quick to move on. If you noticed his strange demeanor, you didn’t say anything. For that, Jungkook was grateful. “I brought something for you.”

There was something about your smile that seemed to expel any and all feelings of gloom in a room. Jungkook was no exception to this feat, his knees almost buckling against the soft pink counters. He righted himself by leaning his elbows on top and propping his chin up with a palm. Gods, he didn’t know he was in this deep.

“Oh?” you set your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the side. “To what do I owe such pleasures?”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “For those cream cheese tarts you made me last time I visited. Thought I’d repay you.” Whilst saying this, he used his free hand to reach into his back pocket, fishing out a string of authentic pearls, adorned with a glimmering clasp of gold the same hue as the sun.

Your smile melted into a confused pucker, brows knitting together in a muted painting of hesitance, yet you ogled the expensive necklace dangling by one of his spindly fingers nonetheless. Where on earth had he gotten such a valuable treasure? “But you already paid me with money. I really can’t take that, Jungkook.”

Disappointment was easily detected as he slanted his lips to the side. “Alright, then.” He tucked the pearls back into his pocket. It surprised you how easily he had complied.

The worrisome atmosphere was quick to dissolve when the bell jangled once more. A small child meandered in with a toothy beam, holding a small pouch of clattering coins in their palm. They were no taller than Jungkook’s midriff, and he liked it a little more than he should have watching a certain softness adorn your features at the sight of the kid.

“I recommend the cinnamon apple pie. Or maybe the brown sugar crepes if you’re looking for something sweeter,” Jungkook said, gesturing to the treat behind the display glass. The child angled their head to stare at the taller man with wonder. “Anything Y/N makes is to die for, though.”

The child excitedly babbled something in return, but you didn’t quite pick up what they had said. You were far too focused on Jungkook’s animated features when he kneeled down to point at some more desserts. Sure, he was a handsome man, you’ve known that since day one. You’ve never really looked at him in this light. It was as if he were carved from pure luminosity, whittled by the hand of the most skilled sculptor. Everything about him was practically perfect; the gentle slope of his nose, the angles of his raised eyebrows, the dappled rouge of his lips, the beauty marks mottling his dewy skin, the dangerous cuts of his jaw, the twinkle of gaiety you found in his irises. With the sunlight filtering through the windows, it basked Jungkook within a golden radiance, the shadows casted along his face only highlighting his best features, doing nothing to aid your fluttering pulse. Has he always been this beautiful?

“I’ll have a slice of apple pie!”

The sudden clinking of coins being dumped onto the counter snapped you out of your trance, and you kindly wrapped up what the child ordered and handed them the paper bag. Both you and Jungkook watched as they smiled in thanks and trotted out of the bakery. Curse his handsome physique.

A little flustered by your earlier thoughts, you busied your hands by sorting the coins the kid had coughed up. Jungkook, ever the kind soul, merely stood with you as you worked, engaging you in entertaining conversations to keep you occupied while your store was empty. Where did the sun go once it disappeared down the horizon? Why did everybody else seem to enjoy the bitter taste of coffee except him? Why did his heart beat so quickly when around you? The last question he couldn’t muster the courage to ask, and much to his perturbation, he already knew the answer. You enjoyed Jungkook’s company very much; to the point where you couldn’t quite remember what it was like before he had sauntered into your life.

Before the both of you knew it, the sun was already setting. Jungkook noticed the way you deflated just slightly when red kissed the sky. It was a telltale sign that Jungkook was long overdue to go back to his ship. Yoongi would have his ass if he was late again. The whole situation was ridiculous, really. He felt like a fairy tale princess running away from the ball before his clothes grew into tatters. Well, in his case, he supposed it’d be pirate-wear.

Your smile betrayed only the gentlest hint of disappointment as you thrusted a bag of warm cookies into his arms. “Take this for the road,” you had said.

And so Jungkook did, smiling like an idiot the whole way back. A part of him absentmindedly wondered what your face would look like when you noticed that he had left the pearls on the countertop for you.

The ship rocked as the young pirate scampered across the deck at a startling speed, flinging the doors to the cabins open. Six older pirates stared at his panting form, a few looking on with unsurprised indifference, most glaring at him in disappointment. Jimin merely stuck his tongue out, his childish way of saying I told you so. There was expectancy in the captain’s eyes, but it waned away at an instant upon seeing that Jungkook carried nothing of value. Namjoon pinched the space between his brows in mild frustration.

Stiffly, Jungkook jerked his arm to thrust the bag in his hand forward. “Cookie?” he asked. Nobody said anything. Jungkook slowly brought his appendage back down, guilt roiling in his abdomen. “I take it you guys don’t want the cookies?”

With a huff, Namjoon stalked forward. “Of course we want the cookies, give me that.” He snatched the bag out of Jungkook’s hands and tossed it to Taehyung, who caught it with eagerness vividly splayed across his ruffled features. “I do have to admit, we’re getting tired of you bringing back nothing but sweets every time we go on raids, Jungkook. C’mon, kid, this is a team effort here. Look, just today Yoongi managed to steal a dozen coffers from a nobleman. The least you can do is try.” True to the captain’s word, there was a mountain of chests and boxes full to the brim with gold coins and shimmering jewels piled to the side of the cabin.

Swallowing down the lump in his throat, Jungkook nodded in understanding, though not without a miniscule frown twinging his lips. What was a pirate without his treasure, right?

Taking note of his glum demeanor, Namjoon clapped a hand to the younger man’s shoulder. “We’re not mad at you—”

Yoongi snorted at that.

“We just… want to help you help us,” Namjoon finished, ignoring the salty pirate’s quip from behind him.

The youngest man on deck raised his hand to his forehead in an awkward salute. “Yes cap’n!” Shame prowled within his chest; just thinking about the dishonor he brought to the pirate reputation by loitering in a bakery all day, ogling at sugary treats (and the sweet baker, but Jungkook digresses).

A part of him felt even worse knowing that he’d see you less and less, what with the other pirates breathing down his neck. He could only hope that you’d still look forward to his visits, though few and far in between.

Authentic bottles of expensive wines were shoved into his knapsack by Taehyung, lacing chains of aureate crammed into his hands by Hoseok, bars of cold silver wedged into the pits of his arms by Jimin, and more treasures thrown at the youngest pirate to hold as they lithely ran across the village. Being one of the stronger and more agile ones of the group had its downfalls, after all. He was being treated like a pack mule, hauling all the treasure for them. Not that he was going to complain; Jungkook knew that he deserved the rough-housing.

“Hold onto these for me, will you?” Yoongi gruffly uttered as he slid the thick hilts of gem-encrusted daggers into his belt. Jungkook complied hesitantly, but not without a suppressed groan of annoyance. “They’ll sell for more than a pretty penny, so don’t lose them.” The older pirate seemed to be in a grumpier than usual mood, considering he lost his eyepatch and the mottled scar crossing over his eye was on display for anybody to gawk at. It would’ve been worrying to Jungkook if he wasn’t aware of the fact that Jimin was merely prolonging his juvenile game of ‘keep away’, attempting to dance away from Yoongi’s inevitable wrath.

Perhaps being a pirate wasn’t his true calling, because Jungkook found that his mind kept wandering off to the matters at hand—running away from the guards. Though it was a relatively easy task (the guards were quite thick-headed in this village), he thought about the pretty plants dangling from the balconies of a building they jogged by, or the scents of exotic spices carried by the souq market not far from where they were. Most of all, much to his expectancy, his thoughts were centered around you. Had you gotten many customers for lunch rush? Were you lonely without him? How many times have you smiled today? Jungkook was all too fond of your smile.

Blinded by his unsaid affectionate ramblings, he only barely caught on to Namjoon’s quiet, “We shook the guards off for now. Be careful next time, Seokjin. The sun’s about to set soon; we should head back to the ship before it gets dark.”

Jungkook hissed out a small sigh of relief, bending over to catch his breath. Jogging across the village would have been no problem, but running with treasures twice his weight draped all over him was a different story.

When he righted himself back to standing, the sudden pit of shocked trepidation unfurled within his abdomen. There you were, beautiful as ever, but a terrifying sight to see. Normally you’d be the only person he would want to see, but as of this moment, you were the absolute last person he fancied bumping into.

Why now? He had the most rotten of luck.

Today you weren’t wearing your regular apron, but a pair of fitted grey trousers and a soft beige blouse far too large for you, hanging off of one of your shoulders as you cradled a basket of breads and cheeses and other groceries in your arms. It was a simple outfit, but one that made his heart clench nonetheless. The glinting of iridescent pearls draped over your décolletage had his breath stolen away from him as raw sentiment overtook his form. You were wearing the pearls he left for you and you never looked more beautiful. Jungkook, on the other hand, was clad in clothes that practically screamed pirate; a golden-clasped corset tightened about the small of his waist, a tattered white button-up tucked into his dark trousers, worn sea boots covering his feet. A large gun was also slung over the belt cinched around his hips, along with multiple daggers of the like, and not to mention all the riches and jewelry the other boys had thrown at him.

You couldn’t see him. No, it would absolutely ruin Jungkook.

Perhaps dropping everything he was holding in a panicked effort to dash away as quickly as he could was the worst possible thing he could have done to not warrant any attention.

The concerned and confused questions erupting from the other pirates as they whipped their heads towards their youngest comrade went completely ignored. He scampered away from them, lunging towards a shadowed alley and hiding behind a teetering pile of musty boxes. A stray cat nuzzled against his leg, but Jungkook merely shooed it away with a frustrated glare and not-so-subtle shushing gestures.

What a fool I am, the young buccaneer berated himself, pressing a knuckle against his temple in frustration. He waited for another minute, before slinking out from the shadows, peering around the corner to see if you were still there.

No sign of you. Relief seized his chest, but not without the gentlest flower of disappointment staining whatever solace he felt, a weed amongst the roses. Jungkook’s mind was still reeling from the fact that you were wearing his pearls.

Treading carefully, he strode out of the alley, turning the other direction before halting in his tracks completely. A queer, garbled noise tumbled past his lips.

It was you, a confused smile gracing your features, and all Jungkook could think about was how the sunlight was made for you, how you glowed in front of him, how he wanted to cradle you into his chest and murmur confessions of his pure, unadulterated love into your ear. But Jungkook didn’t do any of that. Instead, he merely stood there, as if he was imitating a statue in all of his pirate glory. Terrified, regretful, and ever so angry at himself.

Fate was a cruel game.

The pearls shone prettily on your skin. A reminder of the best mistake he’s ever made.

Your eyes had yet to wander down to fully take in his appearance, for your expression still held fondness for the man that’s visited your bakery so often, still having no idea that he was a filthy pirate, locked into his molten gaze. “I think you dropped something…?” The golden chains dangled loose between your fingers as you held them out to him. Jungkook didn’t take them, frozen on the spot.

It was as if he could pinpoint the exact moment you found out his true origins. Your brows furrowed upon seeing the weaponry strapped onto him, one of his pirate tattoos on display (Jungkook cursed himself for not thinking of rolling his sleeve back down), and the six other men watching in silent despondency behind them. You had always been a sharp one, far too smart for your own good.

Or, perhaps, it's always been obvious. Jungkook was only wishing for the impossible.

“You’re a pirate.”

The statement wedged a stake into his chest, splintering his heart into pieces. When you stepped away from him, confused horror marring your beautiful features, Jungkook knew that it was over.

He lost you.

A flurry of emotions, overwhelming and tumultuous, evidently took over you at his lack of denial. You looked to be just as heartbroken as he was.

“You’re a pirate,” you repeated, dazed. You wanted him to say something, anything. Much to his surprise, you didn’t sound angry. You took several steps back this time. The weight of pearls around your neck suddenly felt choking.

The sudden calling of his name had his head whipping around to look at his captain, watching the brutal exchange with gentle sternness. “We have to go.” The guards’ll be coming soon, no doubt.

Jungkook looked back to you, any and all words lodged in his throat. Despite the fear in your irises, a soft expression of acceptance folded over your visage, for under all his pirate exterior, he was still the same man that you thought so fondly of from your bakery. The look was short-lived however, quick to fade away when Jungkook reached out for you hesitantly. A part of him pondered how a simple baker managed to steal from the stealer. You had robbed him of his heart, and Jungkook didn’t even try to stop you.

Upon seeing you inch away in mortification at your new revelation, Jungkook retracted his arm and pursed his lips. The agony clawing at his stomach was begging to be set free. He wanted nothing more than to get onto his knees and plead for your forgiveness.

I’m sorry I lied. I’m sorry I’m not the man you thought I was. I’m sorry I fell in love with you.

His name came out again, this time from Yoongi. That meant it was serious.

“I’ll come back,” Jungkook said, tears rimming the bottom of his warm doe eyes. You watched him start to trek backwards. “I promise.” The words felt heavy on his tongue, like he was swallowing down a knot of thorned ivy.

Before you had the chance to say anything back, he was gone, bounding back to his ship with his comrades. Not long after, the distant barks of guards pursuing them rang throughout the village. You took that as your cue to leave. Swallowing down the urge to cry, you forced your eyes away.

You hoped he wouldn’t uphold his promise, for the both of your sakes.

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cheese-ception · 4 years ago

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Icy Shell

Darlings, kindly forgive the initial angst - I promise the fluff that follows in the second half makes up for it tenfold.

Beta-tested on my dear @masamune-archive Tagging @tsubaki3192 and @spanish-aguacate, because I can and because it’s Levi time, you two, woo! Please, enjoy ♡ pairing: Leviathan (Obey Me!) x reader warnings: angst (to fluff) word count: 2004

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore and it wasn't fair. Leviathan's trembling fingers ran through his hair, still damp from the the shower he took earlier, purple strands glistening with stray droplets of water. Hours have passed him by as he struggled to pull himself together, pacing through his room anxiously, an agonized scowl twisting his features.

His eyes were glossed over, dark circles underneath them matching the shadows in his mind. He cursed profusely, tripping over one of the countless boxes littering the floor. Tears streamed down his cheeks, their wet trails almost painful in their descent, stinging his skin with merciless salt. He did not even bother to wipe them away, the last fragments of his focus set on a completely different kind of torment.

He picked up one of the boxes, tracing its edges with his chilled fingers, only to put it away again, carefully but without any real care at the same time.

The world was utterly joyless, a mere replica of what it used to be before the two of them met.

Before she filled his heart with all these strange feelings, causing him to become apathetic to the very things that used to keep him going.

Now none of them really mattered, regardless of how hard he tried.

Each time he ordered new merch, he lost interest before it even arrived.

Whatever game he played failed to entertain him.

Any show would have been better if she was there to watch it with him, leaving him feeling even more lonely and miserable.

He used to look forward to escaping social gatherings, to being alone in his room, able to enjoy the peace and quiet, far from the noise and the judgemental stares of all the normies he was forced to keep in touch with.

But not anymore.

Nothing made sense and it was all her fault.

Or was it, really? How many times had she asked to hang out together? How many times had she smiled at him, eyes sparkling with excitement, lips shiny with her cherry chapstick, upturned in the most endearing of smiles?

A smile that made him feel like his heart would cease beating if he didn't stop looking, so dazzling and brilliant that it made my shy away almost instantly.

He struggled hard not to give that feeling a name, afraid that if he did, the spell would break and she would finally realise he didn't deserve any of it, that she was better off sharing it with someone else, someone more worthy. He slid to the floor, hugging his knees tight to his chest, the war within him so intense that it easily put the whole celestial debacle to shame. Or at least that's certainly how it felt while his nails pierced his skin, setting themselves deep into the flesh of his forearms, crimson staining his white sleeves.

Days turned into weeks and he refused to leave his room, opening the door only when Asmodeus brought him food.

Sometimes not even then, leaving it grow cold at the doorstep, letting hunger gnaw at his insides in a desperate attempt to distract him from the void food couldn't fill.

It was better this way.

If he stayed away long enough, these feelings would eventually disappear. Surely he wouldn't suffer forever and she probably didn't even notice.

He was a nobody after all.

Nobody to be missed. He curled into himself in his tub, cradling a pillow to his chest and closed his eyes, ready to let the world disappear behind his weary eyelids and drift away to another restless sleep.

But even that wasn't meant to be as a soft knock sounded against the door, disturbing his attempt at disconnecting from reality.

“Go away, Asmo, I am not hungry!” he snarled, tossing around in a fruitless attempt at getting comfortable again.

He was met with silence, interrupted only by the soft click of the lock as the door opened slowly. Light spilling inside in harsh rays, Leviathan groaned, diving underneath the blanket where he sat still, pulling it over his head like a make-shift hoodie.

The floor creaked and he blinked fast, desperately trying to adjust his sight to the unwelcome luminosity but then the door closed again, shrouding everything in blissful darkness.

He sighed, relief spreading through him until he realised that his visitor didn't actually leave. Either that, or his nightmares came true and he was finally going crazy.

After all, he couldn't very well distinguish dreams from reality at this point and maybe he was just dreaming.

Why else would she be in there after all? “Levi?” a voice rang and his throat tightened, emotions flooding into him, threatening to suffocate him on the very spot.

He peered from underneath his blanket, trying to establish if it was really happening, not trusting his own voice enough to reply just yet.

“Are you okay?” Another sentence cut through the air, straight into his heart as he finally realised she was really there.

Her tone was filled with worry and he forced out a quiet hum, unsure just how to verbalize a proper response. “You have been away for a while, so I came here to check on you. I hope you do not mind too much. I know you probably did not want to see me, but I had to make sure you were alright,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, trailing off into an awkward silence. He didn't know what to say. There was so much he wished he had the courage to tell her but words failed to form and he opened his mouth to speak several times, only to close it again right after.

He felt something warm touch his arm and he shivered, torn between flinching away and remaining as he was, letting the warmth seep into his gelid body, devoid of any of his own heat within. It was like being kissed by the sun after a long winter and he decided to stay still, letting some of the frost that settled on him dissolve, even if only for a moment.

Daring to look up, he searched her face, pale in the dim light of Henry's fish tank, wearing an expression so sincere it made his grip on the blanket tighten, moved by the intensity of the moment as the realisation hit him.

She really cared. For him, out of all the beings in the three realms combined.

She chose to seek him when he wanted to make it easy on her.

When he wanted to make her life better by removing himself from it.

“You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but would it be okay if I hugged you?” she inquired, leaving him stunned for a few moments before he nodded, apprehension pulling at the last string that held him together. He thought he would fall apart right there in front of her, the frantic beating of his heart causing his blood to race, further melting his icy shell as he leaned forward tentatively.

For a fleeting moment he saw her smile, the very smile that shattered his heart and now pieced it back together, the sight of it making it soar like a phoenix born anew.

He held his breath, terrified that he misheard or that she was only teasing, ever so difficult to be convinced that anything pleasant could actually ever take place with him as a part of the equation. Doubt tugged at his mind, dismay threatening to settle in while he steeled himself, arms unfolded and raised in front of him somewhat awkwardly, waiting for her next move.

Suddenly her slender frame collided with his and it was as if he ascended back to heaven. Her scent enveloped him in its fruity sweetness, her chest pressed against his, delicate arms winding around him, patting his back affectionately.

It was entirely too much, yet somehow not enough and he choked back a whimper, sinking his teeth into his lower lip to silence himself instead.

Levi whined at the loss of the sensation when she eventually drew away, much too soon for his liking, even though he wouldn't openly admit it.

She took both of his hands in hers, giving them a little squeeze and he realised they were no longer cold at all. He closed his eyes, happiness spreading through him like a wildfire, the sparks of his love burning so bright and vivid that he nearly couldn't take it.

“I really missed you,” she chimed, loosening her grip on his hands, giving him space to retreat if he chose to do so.

“I am not quite sure what happened, but suddenly you were gone and it was like a part of me was missing too. Sorry if it sounds weird, but it's just not the same without you around, you know?”

“You really mean that?” he rasped, voice strained and hoarse, a mix of hope and insecurity filling it with equal share.

“Of course, why would I say it if I didn't mean it, silly?” she retorted, flashing him yet another smile and his last icy wall melted away.

Pulling her back to him, he let go of the previous hesitation, eager to feel more of what he spend so long denying himself, flustered and overstimulated but more content than he has ever been.

His trust was not easy to earn, but he decided to believe her and silence the nagging voices in his head for once. For her. And perhaps for himself too.

Her fingers combed through his hair, untangling the unruly tresses while her nails drew intricate patterns over his scalp, soothing yet enticing at the same time. He let out a sigh, nuzzling his face into the crook of her neck and she pulled him even closer, until he could feel her heartbeat mirroring his own in their silent race without a winner, invigorating beyond description. He felt more alive than ever before, her name dying on his lips while he carefully stroked her back in turn. He wished he could take back all the time he had wasted, thinking himself a fool for avoiding her when it was so strikingly obvious that what he really craved was the exact opposite of that.

Every second spent with her was sacred and he realised it now.

He didn't have to hide. Not anymore.

She brushed his fringe away, kissing his exposed forehead, gentle fingers attempting to tuck the silky strands away, failing tremendously. His hair cascaded back into its place, stubborn, just like himself. Levi chuckled and she kissed him again, this time on top of the messy purple layers, rewarded by a soft gasp.

“Do you still remember when you once asked me what my greatest fear was and I wasn't sure what to reply?” she inquired, snapping him out of the momentary daze.

He nodded, patiently waiting for her to continue.

Her hand slid to his cheek, gently stroking his flustered face as she took a deep breath before carrying on.

“I did not yet know then, but what really scares me is the thought of living in a world untouched by your presence, Levi. Please don't disappear on me like that again.” He met her gaze, reluctant and skittish at first, but soon grinning so hard the tips of his usually hidden fangs were on full display. He was grateful, for her but also for the fact that he somehow managed to retain his human form. He was certain that if his tail had manifested, there would be nothing he could do to prevent it from wagging. His cheeks burned even brighter than before, eyes flickering with newly found zeal. He continued smiling, extending a pinky to her with poorly concealed enthusiasm, focusing hard on pushing back the scales that begged to sprout across the sides of his hand while he held it out in her direction. “I won’t, I promise!” ________ Masterlist

#obey me!#obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me! leviathan #leviathan fanfiction #levi fanfiction #obey me levi fanfic #obey me levi x mc #obey me levi x female mc #angst to fluff #my MC earned herself a name by this one #but I won't tell you what it is yet #she's extremely good to him and I love her for it #she's a sweetheart #cheese-ception pretends to be a wordsmith

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alieninatrenchcoat · 4 years ago

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Boundaries

( An MSR one shot where Mulder and Scully attend a small get-together to celebrate the pregnancy of one of their colleagues, but Mulder begins to act a bit strange. )

The conference room was oddly dark for the occasion. The light fixtures against the walls shone against the warm wood paneling at what seemed to be half their brilliance, wrapping the atmosphere is a cozy glow. The sun had begun to sink into its own departure with the coming depth of winter, yet the window spanning the far wall of the room was left barren, letting the night sky look down upon the scene. It was as if those inhabiting the room were in denial about the loss of daylight within the specific hour of the day. The blinds were not drawn, and the street lamps added to the luminosity of the confinement as it danced upon the slow-falling clumps of the first snow in D.C. Maybe this celebration called for the onlookers of the night to find themselves witnessing the occasion as well if not for a single passing moment of their drive home from work, or exiting the bus from the street below. The conference room must have looked nothing short of inviting.

Although, Scully wasn’t too sure that a cramped FBI headquarters conference room at 5pm was necessarily a normal space to throw a party. A workplace baby shower. In fact she wasn’t sure it was even a party at all. It was more of a mundane get-together. Agent Kinsley and Agent Stonecypher had kindly asked that she and Mulder be there after their forest-frenzy en route of their “team building seminar “ in Florida. They claimed that Mulder and Scully were somewhat of an eye opener to what “true communication” truly was, and that the initiative to follow in their footsteps had brought them to realize there was more than friendship present within their partnership. The giddy couple was expecting a child.

Mulder, of course, could not have been more agitated about Scully dragging him from the basement office to sit at a small conference table with a band of fellow agents who didn’t particularly care for him. In addition, the agent couple actually respected his work, he found to be most insufferably annoying. Yet, they wanted him there to celebrate Carla Stonecypher’s pregnancy. He sat there slumped back in his chair with his arms crossed in a most unprofessional posture. Only a few others were seated at the table across from him, none of which he knew, and all of which were talking to Scully. In the seat to his right he watched her, searching for a hint of agitation to appear on her pale face. He could extract that flicker of emotion from her to curate a reason for them to exit the scene and get back to work. Heading back downstairs for the few hours left of the day, surrounded by his own company, was currently his only desire. He looked forward to spending his days there in a space he and Scully had carefully cultivated on their own. Their homey home away-from home. His eyes darkened as he swiveled back and forth slightly in his chair, fuming about being forced to sit there. He tightened his arms together, and kept watch on scully. In contrast, her posture was perfect. Her red suit coat illuminated by the street lamps beyond the window, her complexion emotionless as she sat with her hands folded neatly on the table, taking in the conversation being thrown at her.

Scully was well-aware he wasn’t happy about being there, but a pregnancy is a big deal, and a happy one nonetheless. She could feel his eyes boring into her own in hopes that she might turn around with the final signal to retreat, but she ignored him and continued her courteous flow of conversation.

Carla and Micheal were standing by the door talking to Skinner and another AD Mulder and Scully didn’t recognize. There were a few other groups standing in clusters, some by the window watching the snow and nursing glasses of wine.

Mulder felt a little gipped considering Scully was consorting with the group she wasn’t even aquatinted with until their arrival. What was the point to come if they weren’t even talking to the couple that had invited them? He straightened up, broke his Scully-trance, and scooted his chair up to the table to imitate her position. He brought his eyes up to settle upon two men in bright ties, and a tiny older woman. Their suit coats all draped on their chairs behind them. Mulder had decided too keep his on as if to send subliminal messages that he was not intending to stay long. He turned back to scully, unsatisfied with their company’s view. She finally gave him a quick glance when he nudged her calf with the toe of his dress shoe. She ignored it and continued talking about some cell research project, but furrowed her eyebrows.

Mulder couldn’t take it. The redundancy was making him sweat. To the surprise of scully and those she was speaking with, he shoved himself away from the table, gliding on his chair, and abruptly stood, causing the group’s conversation to come to a haunt - all attention on Mulder.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to get a drink, would any of you care for one?” He asked with a hint of sarcasm as he sunk his hands into the pockets of his slacks and drew his lips into a fake grin with brows raised. Scully looked up at him perplexed by this outburst, but he stared with anticipation of response at the three across the conference table. The rest of the group in the room didn’t seem to notice his flamboyant gesture of arising from his seat. The man with the yellow tie, which Mulder made a mental note of as ‘giving him a headache,’ raised his hand in request of a said drink being brought to him. Mulder nodded dramatically and gave scully’s shoulder a tap as he turned away and made for the second door to the external sitting room. He closed the door behind him and took a seat in one of the many chairs lining the confined span of wall. He was alone. A table had replaced a few chairs for the small get together in celebration of the upcoming child. Wine and water, to the effect of a baby shower, as well as a finely decorated charcuterie board sat awaiting the guests. The lights were dimmed in this room as well, but the smaller window was masked in blinds. Mulder groaned looking longingly at a glowing exit sign near the glass panes leading to the external hallway. How badly he wanted to ‘exit’ the room and escape, but he didn’t want Scully to become cross with him. He could vaguely make out yet another exit sign’s glowing light above the elevator at the end of the hall. The elevator. The stairway down to his heaven, the office. He considered leaving in that moment, wondering if scully would really actually care all too much. She knew he couldn’t stand the endless fretting of Micheal and Carla, so he thought she’d be understanding and forgiving of his absence. The more he considered taking action upon his plan to ditch her, he thought more of himself eventually being alone within his office space. Meaning no Scully. He enjoyed the peace, but Scully just made it feel like it was less of a waste of time. Working in an office was not the best possible way to investigate x files, and she was way better at doing the research than he was anyway. It would be pointless to be at an office space without her as his right hand man. He sank his head into his hands at the notion that he was at a loss no matter where he was in this building if she wasn’t there. And she sure as hell wasn’t about to leave with him, so he admitted defeat. He’d stay for her. Scully. At this stupid baby shower. But for now he just needed a second alone, away from the noise.

There was a click at the door, waking him from his resentful thought processes. He snapped to attention when he saw it was Scully peaking through. When she recognized the man in the chair across the room to in fact be Mulder, she slipped into the room with him. Mulder looked down at his hands with a bit of shame at having not brought back drinks after 5 minutes, and for leaving her alone out there. Although, she was perfectly capable of handling herself. He waited for a lecture from her. A lecture on how rude he was acting, and how he could at least make an effort to socialize because bringing life into the world was a gift she wasn’t given and he knows how much it means to her. A lecture about how she wouldn’t have dragged him away from the precious paranormal if she didn’t feel like it would benefit him in any way. That he was too much of a recluse within the fbi sometimes that maybe those who didn’t like him only looked down upon his lack of approachability rather than his investment in the extraterrestrial existence of aliens.

But the words never left her mouth.

She took a seat next to him and ran a small hand through his hair.

“You feeling okay Mulder?” He could hear the delicate concern in her voice and felt a pang for guilt for possibly making her worry “you don’t feel hot, but are you sure that you-“

“I’m alright Scully. I just needed some air.” Mulder stood, not looking at her and walked over to peer through the closed blinds covering the glass between the waiting room and the hall, searching for another sign of life.

“I know you don’t feel like being here, but It’s just for a little while. I spoke to Carla and she explained to me the the intricacies of the doctors’... Mulder?”

Mulder now had his hands cupped against the glass and his eyes like binoculars, mumbling inaudibly and giving a “mm” in response to her. He obviously wasn’t listening. Scully frowned and lost the sympathetic outlook as she too crossed the room to the wine and began to open a bottle in order to complete the task Mulder had neglected. The pop of the cork finally caught his attention and he made his way up behind her.

“Scully” his voice was somber. Almost sad. He lost the silly ‘ignorant-binocular-mumbling’ act.

“What is it Mulder?” She acknowledged snappily.

“Do you ever wonder...,” he drones off thoughtfully leaving room for her to question the end of his sentence, but she doesn’t. In hopes to draw her attention further, he finds that his hands come to grip her hips from behind as he towers over her shoulder. He tries to consume the ounce of attention left that she’d be willing to sacrifice to him. much to scully’s disadvantage she couldn’t shove his hands off of herself due to her preoccupation of pouring the wine.

“Mulder! Can you not see that im-“

“- do you ever, ever wonder...”

“Get your hands off of me,” she ordered. Her tone was even as if she had already given up trying to convince him to obey.

“Scully, do you ever wonder what it would be like?” His hands slowly move from her hips to her slower stomach. Slowly. His palms completely flat, pressing against her tiny torso as if straining to to feel every possible fiber of her blouse.

She set the glass and the wine bottle down, swallowing, shivers electrocuting up her spine. She felt a lump in her throat. Mulder was usually handsy and flirtatious by nature, but she wasn’t quite sure this was his norm. He’d never touched her like this. She didn’t try to push it away, but stood rigid, allowing his hands to rest in their place. “Wonder about what, Mulder?” A moment of silence passed as they stood there waiting for the other to say or do something in protest.

Mulder brought his voice to a near whisper.“what having a life inside of you is like?” he finished very seriously. He was seriously asking. He bent his head down slightly to brush his cheek against her within close prolixity of her ear. Scully tried her best to lean her own face away from him to look at his while still allowing him to touch her. His hands felt like magnets to the vulnerable soft feeling of her core beneath his skin, wanting an answer from that place rather than from her own mouth. She allowed it, feeling confused but sympathetic at the feeling of his neediness bleeding through. He wasn’t like this. She was worried something had happened to him, so she allowed herself to be his comfort. She was sure it meant nothing, just like every other caress or touch or closeness they exchanged. Mulder hoped that would be the case, although he wasn’t sure if that’s how he meant it to be. Maybe he wanted it to be something more. He turned his head to return her look. She seemed slightly bewildered and concerned at his question, but she gave him a confused smile. His expression had not changed. His eyes were as dim as the sky peaking through in the busy adjacent room. He was so somber, delicate, almost sad.

“Oh Mulder...of course I have. What makes you curious? The baby shower?”

He nodded, still seemingly troubled. She covered his hands with her own and guided them to a less intimate place back on her hips and shimmied herself to face him. Her back to the table. His hands left her waist to find themselves fingering over the grains of the wood in the table, trapping her between his two arms on either side of her. He couldn’t hold her gaze any longer and focused on her dainty necklace instead, in the shadow of the crook of her neck and the already dim lighting. She placed a hand on his cheek and lifted his face to meet her eyes. He felt the curiosity within them looking back at him, and he leaned into her hand. He knew he couldn’t quench that curiosity in this moment.

“Mulder. You’re acting all strange, you're positive nothings the matter?”

He gave scully a sad smile then used her shoulder to help balance himself as he straightened up. His hands returned to his slack pockets, taking a step back. He shouldn’t have touched her. He didn’t want to break their unspoken boundaries and he was grateful she didn't seem to consider it out of line or uncalled for.

“I shouldn't have- I uh - Scully…” he glanced in the direction of the hallway window and then to the door Scully had closed behind her.

“Mulder?” She cocked her head, folding her arms inquisitively.

Gluing his embarrassed eyes to his shoes, he started again “ I couldn't help but think that-”

The door clicked again and the man with the bile-yellow tie swung the door open, Mulder and Scully whipping around to face him.

“Hey Dana! I see you found him! Everything alright here? Carla and Micheal are wrapping it up, but I was hoping to be leaving with that drink, Agent Mulder!” The self-proclaimed Agent Wayne gave a boisterous laugh. Scully gave him a smile.

“Yes everything is just fine, we'll be back in a minute” Scully replied. Muder nodded in confirmation. The door shut again with a big and over enthusiastic thumbs up from Wayne. Scully’s attention was back on Mulder expectantly.

“Talk to me Mulder,” Scully insisted earnestly. He seemed to have mysteriously perked up, acting as though he wasn’t just all gloomy a moment ago, and guided her by the small of her back to the door in which wayne had retreated.

“C’mon Scully, let’s go wish the happy couple a nice farewell!”

Thoroughly confused by his drastic behavioral changes, Scully tried to let it go for the time being. She’d question him about it later and out of public eye. She was completely and utterly surprised that Mulder was soon talking it up with everyone in the room, especially Carla, asking her all about how she and Micheal ‘found themselves on this new and exciting journey,’ and catching up with them about what they’d been up to since their forest investigation. She didn't bring it up. Not there. But she couldn't help but wonder what came over him or why he would ask her about her thoughts on her own hypothetical pregnancy. About why he had touched her. They could have been walked in on by Agent Wayne seconds earlier, or even seen through the hall window. Neither of them cared for rumors about their relationship being more than platonic, and he should have known that holding her like that would put the rumors through the roof if anyone were to notice. Not to mention the probability of Skinner having been the one to walk in. Mulder left the gathering after most others had left themselves, and happily he told Scully to go home and get some rest. Mulder? Telling her to go home instead of manning the office? She was undeniably perplexed and confused.

The phone rang. It was late. Scully was already in bed, but her lamp kept her out of the dark, and she was reading Moby dick for what she claimed to be the twelfth time. It was a last resort to defeat the thoughts of Mulder that had been keeping her from falling asleep. Thoughts of possible reasonings behind his actions or something she may have missed in his words or body language that would have given him away if she'd notice. Analyzing him. The phone rang again. Leaning over to her bedside table, she picked it up.

“Hello?” She yawned.

“Hey Scully it's me.” She had a feeling.

“Mulder it’s-”

“Wait. wait, Scully. I gotta talk to you for a second” he was very much awake.

“What is it?”

“I wanted to apologize. How I acted tonight… It was...it was inappropriate. Asking you such a question and already knowing the answer. I don't want...I didn't want to hurt you by bringing it up when I knew about the, the um-“

“Mulder. It's alright. I wasn't offended, just… taken aback. I didn’t expect my infertility to be something you would think about.”

“ It wasn't my place Scully. It wasn't my place to ask… or to touch. “ There was a long pause between them for a moment. Scully took a deep breath, but he continued before she could start. “I was sitting in that room itching to be back downstairs. You knew that. I just didn't stop to think that the situation was bigger than me. I mean the whole party situation. That this was a celebration of another life coming into the world as a result of two people who love each other. It wasn’t about me. And when Carla and Micheal invited us and said that they started getting to know each other more because of you and I… I guess I just didn't know what that meant until I took a step back. In that waiting room, I just thought that...I thought of you. I thought of why you'd want to be there for them and it made sense to me” Scully didn't respond. “You still there?”

“Yes” she felt she knew where this was going. She hoped he couldn’t hear her heartbeat pulsing in the palm of her hand, knuckles white against the phone.

“Well, I realized why you wanted to be there. And that's why I asked.”

She took another deep breath, contemplating how to respond to his conclusion “I think that most women wonder what it's like to carry life, Mulder, and you don't need to pity me for wanting to try to be happy for those who have what I can't”

“You're exactly right Scully, which is why I'm apologizing. I wanted to go back into that room and feel their joy. I wanted to actually care. I wanted to. For you. I didn't want to wallow in my own self pity. How many times are we going to be at baby showers? It's trivial of me to consider, but I thought that I'd make the most of this one because I know I'm not going to get to have one for you. “

Scully's voice cracked as she breathed his name into the phone, trying to decipher exactly what he was implying, “Mulder thats-”

“Fuck Scully, I didnt mean that we… that you and I are-”

“Mulder stop.” she stood up from the bed and began to pace. “I thought maybe you were dissociating or upset about something, or that your head wasn't in the right place. We don't need to talk about it. I won't force you to come with me to things like this again. I just thought it would be...refreshing since we haven't had a field case in a bit. That maybe getting you out of the basement was a good idea. I was worried it was my fault you were so upset about being there. I’m just glad that I could be the reason you ended up wanting to stay. It's ok. We don't have to discuss...what doesn't need to be discussed.” She held her breath in hopes that she said the right thing. Her lungs were heavy. Her throat dry, heart pounding, hoping he got the message. She didn't want to push their boundaries. Neither did he.

“Thanks for looking out for me, Scully. I don't know what I'd do without you. You did the right thing getting me to go. Really.“

“Are you sure? If there’s anything else you want to talk about, we could meet up and discuss-”

“-Absolutely. Sorry if I woke you. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Mulder, wait-” he hung up. She slumped back into bed, sighing. She set the phone back in its place and picked up her book once more, but she could no longer focus on the words. The answers to her confusion tugged at her brain more than the questions she no longer had.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

( this is the first fanfic i’ve posted, so I’m not expecting it to draw much attention, but if anyone has constructive feedback or thoughts, im open to hearing any! )

#mulder and scully #msr #msr angst #fanfic #msr fanfic #agent mulder #agent scully #the x-files fanfic #txf #x files

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purkinje-effect · 4 years ago

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The Anatomy of Melancholy, 75: Paper Weight

Table of Contents. Third Instar, Chapter 6. Go to previous. Go to next. TWs: Religion, joint issues, diet/appetite weirdness, brief transphobia adjacent anxiety, minor dehumanizing ghoul treatment. Uh. Not in that order. A slightly longer groundwork chapter, and continuing evidence that I am, in fact, criminally insane. [Updated 2021.07.12.]

“...[F]ixed in a sort of eternity at the heart of the crystal.” -- Orwell’s 1984

______________________________

‘Choly woke to Sticks gently stroking at his long dark shock-streaked hair. He could not discern the time of day without any light sneaking in around the edges of curtains, and recalled their inn room did not have windows. The ghoul drew his attention back to him with a drowsy smile.

“Ready to start the day?”

To resist the draw to curl up into Sticks, ‘Choly stretched out with a yawn, only to jerk his eyes open. He laid on his back for some time. In the night, one of his shoulders had separated and dragged his neck out of alignment.

“--I’m not ready, but let’s start anyway. Angel, be a dear and turn the lights on, please.“

The Mister Handy puffed to life again. Reignition of its pilot light cast dim outlines to the space. Unveiling the Burlington glass fixtures returned the room to unnatural illumination by that strange red-green light which ‘Choly disliked intuiting as gold. By the time Angel had completed the task, Sticks had thrown himself out of bed to dress.

‘Choly managed to sit up, and palpated at his errant joints, using the mindful pressure of his fingertips to coax things back into place. Not dislocating his fingers in the process required what little focus he could summon without coffee or his reinforced gloves, but he could barely move let alone think straight with the strumming stitches radiating through his arm and neck. He squirmed inside, knowing he couldn’t help but force Sticks to bear witness to the strangled hisses and cartilaginous pops.

Angel presented ‘Choly a can, which he accepted half-awake. He put on his glasses one-handed.

“A canister of fresh water to start your day, Sir? I’ve only got the one at present, if you’d like to split it. More is on the way.”

“Would you be able to open it...?”

“I have no sharp implements,” it apologized.

“Give me that.”

Sticks snatched it playfully and held it between his knees while he reattached his Pip-Boy and left hand. He hadn’t quite got to buttoning his shirt just yet. He slipped the glove off his mechanical prosthetic, and produced a sort of multitool from the armature of the region analogous to the metacarpal bones. As the ghoul made use of the folding implement, ‘Choly watched the hand’s exposed mechanical parts in motion, intimating tendons and ligaments, not always attached to something resembling a bone. A dull pop liberated the can’s lid. Sticks took a few swigs and handed it to ‘Choly helpfully, before hiding the tool again and slipping the glove back on. He moved on to finishing with his shirt so he could tie his bow-tie blind, humor to his breath.

‘Choly simply sat there and observed Sticks at length, nearly altogether forgetting gratitude or thirst. Words failed him. Sticks ran his right hand over his one surviving curl of hair. The blond ghoul noticed him staring and sat up straighter.

“What?”

“A pocket knife? That’s allowed?” He kept turning his neck, head held at deliberate angles, seeking that last tweak of alignment his cervical vertebrae wouldn’t yield him.

“See’s never asks me to show my hand,” he shrugged. “Half the time, they don’t even notice it’s not flesh.”

“This isn’t about your hand, and you know it.”

“Hey now. They’re fine with utensils. It’s got to be scarier than a butter knife to make them skittish. Really, though. Don’t mention it. It’d probably risk ‘em taking my whole hand, especially now that it’s wired into this thing.”

Sticks huffed a bit. Angel leapt to assist when his neckwear wouldn’t cooperate.

“Oh, do let me help you with that, Sir.”

“Thanks, chap. Hard to do without a mirror.”

“I brought in a hand mirror.” Unappeased, ‘Choly gestured to Angel for his hairbrush, which he set to using with his head dipped between his knees, desperate to couple the inversion of gravity with cadence of his brushing. Once he sat up again, he looked to Sticks. “Which, would it be all right if we brought in some things from the car? I figure that even if we get lucky today, we’ve paid for a week, so we may as well stay for a week. No sense in rushing things. Might miss something, if we do.”

Sticks tilted his head.

“I could warm to that. What all would you even need to bring in, though?”

“Little things,” he reassured a little too quickly. “Toiletries. Some spare clothes. Nothing too elaborate.”

“I don’t see why not.” He gripped his own knees. “Let’s knock that out. After, we can head to breakfast. Now. You want my help with your corset and stuff?”

‘Choly’s shoulders folded in as he worked at unbuttoning his shirt. His reservations came not from distrust but self-consciousness. Despite having partook in several kinds of sex acts with him already, he still preferred that the ghoul only see him naked from behind, if at all. But, he didn’t care to parse any selfishness or perversion in the offer: he wanted Sticks’s help. He’d be a hypocrite, anyway, to find fault in Sticks’s own enjoyment of the activity, when his very physiology provided the same passive delight for ‘Choly. He pulled the corset to him, and removed his shirt so he could hook the busks. Only then, holding it up against his front, did he relent to receiving help stringing the back. The more pieces Sticks helped him into, the more straightened out and held in place he felt. More clearly than usual, he craved the full-body orthotics set, in the expectation that with them he might feel normal again. Functional again. In any sense. In every.

He objected, mostly internally, that his brain would thrust heavy self-reflection on him so soon after waking. The idea of returning to bed enticed him again. No. Sooner than do so in the bathroom mirror, he pinned up a french twist blind and loose.

The two finished off the water before leaving the room.

They first stopped at the restrooms, where Angel waited just outside. ‘Choly flinched at the doorway, only to scold himself for even thinking he shouldn’t use the men’s room. He remained aware of others the entire time, relieved to go unnoticed and unremarkable. He insisted to himself that the night before had been a fluke.

Exiting the mall made ‘Choly wish he’d brought his visor inside. The garage’s luminosity wasn’t significantly greater than inside the mall, but the shift in hues to natural lighting pulsated in his right-sided cervical migraine. He didn’t think he’d gotten used to the limited color spectrum indoors so soon, yet here he was, nearly thinking seeing any color besides red, green, and gold signified he was seeing colors which didn’t exist. The intensity with which he saw cyan, magenta, and even white, he approximated to an aura migraine. The edges of his vision felt over-illuminated and blurry. If this sensitivity overload would take place every time he adjusted to and from Burlington glass lighting, he decided he would avoid going inside and out with any frequency for the remainder of their stay.

In the garage, mostly only the children paid any attention to the trio. So early in the morning, many inhabitants shared cinder block campfires to prepare community breakfast. On the way to Little Boy Blue, they passed through delectable aromas of sweet breads and pan seared meat.

Sticks opened the trunk for ‘Choly. Once he could tell ‘Choly intended to make use of Angel’s storage compartment to carry his things inside, he tossed in few of his own clothes too. He smirked at yet another of ‘Choly’s outdated behaviors:

“You packed like you’re on vacation.”

“A vacation with a purpose, perhaps. I’m grateful for it, though. It doesn’t seem this hotel has complimentary soaps.”

Sticks snickered.

“To broach a veritable elephant,” Angel stressed, “I must point out that while we may be booked for a week’s lodging here, you only have four Melancholia remaining, Mister Carey. In addition to our primary goal, we should stay on the lookout for toothpaste and mouthwash today. And we may no longer require them for first aid, but do recall that Stimpaks are the most important part of that recipe.”

Stimpaks. 'Choly paled at his oversight.

“Surely four of those things will get you through the week,” Sticks muttered. “You can’t swear off food now, with the biggest restaurant cluster in New England at the other end of the building.”

“...If I can help it.”

Sticks puffed up.

“Not if I can help it.”

The Mister Handy and chemist turned down the invitation to argument.

On their way back inside, ‘Choly saw Maury eating with a group of other settlers. He didn’t want to interrupt their meal, but he still waved. When See’s screened them, ‘Choly showed them Angel’s compartment again. Everything passed muster with security, albeit thoroughly rifled through. ‘Choly welcomed their return to the clear, dark uniformity of the mall interior’s red-green glow. They dropped off their things at the room, then went into the mall proper.

The Concourse seemed to only just be waking up by this hour. Most walked southward like them. Only half the stores looked open for business. ‘Choly looked to his Pip-Boy for the time. Just after nine. He accepted it and slouched as comfortably as he could atop Angel.

He figured most of the people headed to the food court were Laners, while the rest were probably visitors, or at least lived outside the mall. Along the way, he people-watched, eventually making a visual distinction between Laners and everyone else less by their routine and more through their attire. The fashion of mall denizens seemed to posit some commixture of Irish crochet, beaded silk, and embroidered tweed, bakelite and astrakhan, plus-fours and long trailing skirt hems, chemisettes and dickeys tethered with layers of scarves and shawls.

More people packed into the boisterous food court for breakfast than had for dinner. Even getting to the counter with the shortest line took patience, with hundreds seeking their first meals. Sticks ordered himself carrot pancakes, then turned to ‘Choly.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in breakfast? With the lines like this, I’m not ordering twice.”

Fatigued lyric traced his reply as he patted at Angel’s storage compartment to retrieve his Billerica Golf Course mug with a smile:

“You can interest me in a cup of coffee.”

The ghoul impatiently resigned to a smaller order than he’d liked, and flashed his inn room key fob to net a discount. He requested a plate from Angel, and took it and ‘Choly’s mug to hold out for the server, who confirmed, yes maple syrup, black no sugar, before plating up as requested. Twenty-seven pulls lighter, Sticks let Angel locate their seat with its higher passive senses.

‘Choly sat with his coffee warming his gloved hands for some time, content to let the aromatic steam roll over his face while he watched Sticks dig in with knife and fork. Angel set a Melancholia bottle on the table. Eventually, Sticks’s bites slowed, and he stopped to finish chewing. He cut off a forkful and held it out with a cupped hand beneath, optimistic the craving spurred ‘Choly’s attention.

“The maple syrup makes up for it being carrot.”

‘Choly eyed it. Sooner than admit due impropriety, he let him stuff the bite in his mouth. He had expected the syrup and apple compote to provide all the sweetness, but the finely grated root vegetable mixed into the batter contributed both sweet and savory. Against his better judgment, to quash any question altogether, he mooched a second bite as well with interest.

“Don’t you like carrot?”

“...Blueberries aren’t in season,” Sticks eventually smiled. “Now, I’d happily split these with you... or are you actually happy with that damn silt flour smoothie?”

“I’m only happy with my Melancholia, in that it doesn’t upset my stomach.” He opened it with his reinforced gloves, and thought to himself, This batch isn’t even cherry. It’s mint. “If you want my full faculties, you’ll have me with Mentats, Melancholia, and a cup of black coffee.”

Brow raised, Sticks frowned into his plate as he scrutinized where to cut off his next bite.

“Far be it for me to come between you and your faculties.”

Angel used the dish station at the far end of the food court to rinse their plate, mug, and utensils. Then, they got to skimming stores.

Beginning just outside the Customs House, they poked around any open store which appeared to carry armor or apparel. ‘Choly went by cane for the most part, and tried not to let interesting garments distract him or his cash from his goal. He wasn’t about to spend anything until he knew the price tag on liberating the leather orthotics from whoever might have them. Neither their descriptions nor the product photos in the catalogue produced results.

In one shop, Sticks unhelpfully described the item to the clerk, who immediately pointed them to an array of girdles and brassieres. Beet red and speechless, ‘Choly had to nearly shove away the salesmanship, no matter the young man’s encouragement or respect. Sticks didn’t know whether to find ‘Choly’s reaction revealing or amusing.

They passed crossway between the main entrance and Sutter Grove, only for ‘Choly to stop cold. Like some strange airport reunion, a loud, excited group of Laners fawned over a black woman with a shoulder-length white bob--white all the more stark in contrast to the red-green golden mall-sea. When Sticks noticed ‘Choly had stopped, he backtracked, eyes on the woman sooner than him.

“You need me to help you up on Angel?”

“Such accolades. What do you suppose she means to them?”

“From the look of her, she must travel a lot. They probably just haven’t seen her in a real long time. It’s not important. They’re going to Burlington Glassworks. They won’t have what we’re here for. Now come on.”

Head askew, ‘Choly watched the gaggle drag the overwhelmed yet pleasant woman across the Concourse and to the lighting store.

“I... I want to go in there.”

“Didn’t think you were particularly religious, but whatever. We can take a break and play tourist or somethin’.”

‘Choly almost objected, but figured he’d understand if only he satisfied his curiosity. If he recalled anything from the time before he’d stepped foot in the United States, he knew with certainty he’d been raised to abhor religious observance. At least, outwardly...

Myriad strange shapes the luminescent space, but the motif repeated in the glass art filled with glowing golden red-green fluid, that the neck swirled and looped around the body, then somehow reentered it. Bulbs were hung by these loops from the ceiling, some in knotted strings, while most other bulbs rested in metal fixtures reminiscent of egg cups. If not for the artistic shapes and the hue of light they cast, ‘Choly and Sticks almost considered it like stepping into the lighting department of a hardware store.

“Hierosacristan Fresnel!” The group begged, both in English and what ‘Choly could only presume was French. “Hierosacristan, tell us of your orbit!”

The staff had abandoned their posts in fascination of their visitor. Some showered her with sunflowers. Here, ‘Choly could see the woman wore an ornately embroidered shawl, fur-lined metal armor, and an all-black bodysuit. The woman could only oblige her admirers with a humility strained smile. A dozen or so stone park benches furnished the deeper half of the store, in two neat rows facing the back wall. ‘Choly sat at the last bench to watch, transfixed. Begrudgingly, Sticks joined him, and Angel, behind them.

As she spoke, Fresnel’s deep, silvery voice alternated between English and French, limiting ‘Choly and Sticks’s full comprehension. Her audience seemed more captivated by anything she didn’t say in English.

When she told them, “Qu’Atom vous garde,” they mirrored it in kind. ‘Choly filled in any gaps in the language barrier with presumptions of what little he knew of Orthodoxy.

“Much of my year I have studied in Thomaston... XXXXXXXXXX I wandered the Nashua ruins a bit before coming to the Lane proper... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX I come to greet the granite... I must travel West before I return to Five Sisters. To report my findings to Grand Mother Skwodovska. But, I savor a leisurely return. My discoveries dictate my orbit. XXXXXXXXXX I Winter at the Lane for the first time... XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX ”

At some point in her speech, she took notice of their visitors. She broke away from sermonizing for the dozen or so practically clutching for her attention, to approach. ‘Choly straightened, expecting her to scold him. But she bowed to Sticks with grace, and held his hand in both her own. The ghoul fell speechless when she smiled up at him.

“What a blessing, that one of Atom’s beloved attends us. I never get the chance to speak with any Undying.”

Sticks let her hold his gloved hand, too, and laid on his charm.

“I’m impressed at our timing. We happen to be at Ant Lane right when such a highly esteemed Child of Atom has popped in.”

Again struggling with humility, she withdrew to stand. Taken aback by the sight of Angel, she hemmed into her fist.

“Forgive my start from the robot. One of my past orbits took me to the Commonwealth, and since my visit to the Cambridge Polymer Labs, I haven’t much liked the company of Mister Handies.”

“Cambridge!” Angel blandished. “Such worldliness.”

She appreciated that it did not take exception with her.

“My brothers and sisters show our devotion in a commitment to travel.”

“Forgive my stupidity,” ‘Choly asked, voice cracking, “but what exactly is a hiero...?”

The intense, robust woman half-sat on the back of the next bench to form her reply. Up close, ‘Choly could make out her face tattoo, of many concentric rings, emanating outward from one eye. Sooner than wonder what it signified, he could only imagine how much it must have hurt. The white bob was a wig.

“You speak Keb? No?” She became more particular in her words. “Among the Children of Atom is an order of scribes, historians, cartographers. We are the Daughters of Radon. We hail from the Rock of Ages. We document and research Atom’s holiest substances, such that any of Atom’s children can safely trace a path and greet everything She has touched. The rank bestowed of Daughters of Radon is Sacristan, keeper of holy spaces. Hierosacristans are the Daughters’ Zealots.”

‘Choly strained to follow along, teetering between looking lost and unintentionally judgmental.

“What interest, then, in granite? I heard correctly, that you intend to greet it? It’s very pretty, but really, I want to understand what has you all so enchanted. Is there correlation between granite and these glass lights?”

Fresnel smiled broad and beaming, nearly sarcastic in a way.

“A visitor from the Commonwealth. I see. The answer is Atom’s touch. We concern ourselves not just with nuclear bodies, but with large sources of granite, marble, and limestone. Anyone could observe these structures, both man-made and still-buried, but it takes the devotion of Daughters to listen to their histories.” A sigh and slouch announced her travel weariness. She pointed above them, to the hanging glass. “Everything is a vessel. We carry our world-soul. Nuclear bodies carry the Holy Light of Atom. And certain stones can carry recorded memories of the worlds which formed this one through Division. The Daughters are committed to documenting these memories, so that the Children can celebrate everything from the past which went into the creation of the present.”

‘Choly fumbled as carefully as he could. It fascinated him, that it seemed more and more that religious devotion tied directly into the creation and maintenance of the increasingly supernatural glowing glass fixtures--let alone that it had anything to do with radioactive material.

No wonder they appreciate Sticks. “And you... listen to the granite here?”

Sticks poorly hid his annoyance with a shift in posture and a grunt.

“Most granite is quite loud. The granite here... whispers.” Fresnel admitted. “The Children often call this place The Quiet Granite. You’re very new, and so eager to learn of Atom’s Kingdom... Are you here to let in Her Holy Light?”

“Until I stepped foot in here, I had no idea this place was a church. I know it sounds stupid, but I wanted to come in to see the lights up close. I’m fascinated that a substance could sustain luminescence without external excitation.”

Though his admission dulled her enthusiasm, his verbiage still held her interest.

“I’m not directly involved in glassblowing, so I know very little of it. The Glow is most remarkable, n’est-ce pas? Even if you’re here merely to marvel at our blessed work, you can still take a piece with you. You should speak with my brothers and sisters here. If you’re more than a scholar or tourist, the local Confessor can direct you to our body of scripture as well. I’m far better suited to geography than sermons.” Fresnel’s attention warmed back to Sticks. “Be no stranger to our space...”

“Sticks.”

“Be no stranger, Sticks.” She smiled, mirthful. “You and your odd friend here are welcome here.”

Before the game of Twenty Questions could continue, Fresnel stood to pat Sticks’s hand... and the top of ‘Choly’s head. The chemist frowned as she excused herself.

“Fresnel spoke directly with you,” a devotee said, behind them. They looked over their shoulders at the nervous man. “Is there anything I can do for you, Undying?”

“It’s Sticks,” he repeated, quickly growing tired of it. “We’re sightseeing, you could call it. I think this fella wants a souvenir.”

The man looked ‘Choly over and nodded, motioning for them to follow him to the counter. He produced an egg-crate tray of walnut sized glass baubles, and picked them up to swirl them around in visual demonstration.

“We’re blessed to meet a Hierosacristan.” He poorly contained his delight. “I wonder if she would permit that I be in her caravan when her orbit carries her onward.”

“Where is she headed next?” ‘Choly asked, moreso making conversation than wishing to know.

“The standard path for all caravans from Ant Lane to Burlington is Route 89, straight through the mountains. But, she mentioned traveling West. The Daughters of Radon follow the orbit of their heart. She may intend another orbit yet uncharted. --Forgive my gushing. You’re interested in a prayer armillary?”

“How much are they?”

The potentially inappropriate question caught in ‘Choly’s throat.

“Fifty-one pulls.”

“You don’t happen to take cash, do you?”

“Certainly. Our caravans do trade with more than just Ant Lane.” The Child picked up the tray’s edge to look at a note on the side. “One hundred fifty dollars.”

So deep in, he didn’t feel like he could say no thank you and just walk away. Not that he wanted to walk away empty handed after such a bizarre interaction.

“Tell me more about them. What makes them glow?”

“There are two aspects to Burlington’s glass artistry. We’re beholden to conceal our craft, but it’s perfectly safe for all Atom’s Children, blessed with the Endurance to withstand Her Light or no.“

In the remark, ‘Choly stifled a shiver at the possibility that the entire mall might be a religious settlement.

“The craftsmanship is remarkable.” His voice cracked. “How long do they last?”

“Years, if they must. But these smallest vessels are intended ephemeral: We encourage that you use them to seal a prayer, then shatter it someplace consequential to disperse the good will into the universe.”

“Are they... still safe if broken?”

“They are not grenades. And to drink its contents would be ill advised, foremost on account of the broken glass.”

“I would never have considered the fluid potable,” ‘Choly lied, having had the thought gifted him. He shakily produced the requested cash, and the Child let him pick one of the egg-like baubles. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you?” His beseeching, bleary eyes suggested more than simple commerce. “Do you require any arrangements? Any accommodations of any kind?”

Sticks eyed the tray with near disappointment, and rocked a bauble around in its cup with one finger.

“...You said they were fifty-one?”

“Take one, gladly!”

Feigning pleasantry, he picked one for himself. It exasperated ‘Choly that Sticks had not attempted to influence the price tag on his trinket, but only his frigid shoulders said as much.

“Thank you. Get to take a piece of this place with me, then.”

“But of course!” The Child nod-bowed to them both. “Qu’Atom vous garde.”

They mirrored the nod, caught in the uncertainty of pronunciation, and the uncertainty of appropriateness that they repeat it back.

‘Choly held his prayer armillary at his chest as they exited the Glassworks. He had no intention of ever break it. The thought crossed him as he glanced down at it, that he could place it in Angel’s storage for use as a perpetual light source, like the light to a glove compartment.

“...Angel,” he asked it, spellbound by the strange, vaguely oily, fluoresceinesque fluid, “you’ve got French programming, haven’t you? That was French, yes? What was she saying?”

“I believe it’s French, Sir. At least, partly. If I’m to understand Miss Fresnel, these Children of Atom worship gamma radiation... as well as something they regard as ‘foreign.’ ”

“Cultists, basically.” Sticks snorted.

'Choly didn’t care whether the Children’s religious motivations made any rational, scientific sense. It still burned him, that they’d given Sticks his trinket for free. The ghoul handed him his with only a vague smirk.

“I, you didn’t want one, then?” He had only starry-eyed gratitude. “Are you sure?”

“Why would I? I let them give it to me so they’d knock it off and let us leave.” The ghoul blurted out an abrupt chuckle and slung an arm around ‘Choly’s shoulders, to grip him a little too forcefully. He kept his voice down, cracked lips inches from ‘Choly’s ear. “Don’t make me go back in there. I get enough of that from you.”

-------------------

A/N: I anglicized the maiden name of Polish-French Marie Skłodowska-Curie, in the expectation that oral tradition would follow phonetically. (I also wanted to differentiate the Grand Mother from both Mother Curie III and FO4′s Curie, while still nodding to the historical figure.)

A/N: I’ve thus far gone all my life not knowing it’s pronounced Freh-nel or Fray-nel. Even my science teachers all pronounced it Fresnel. Hm.

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#fallout #children of atom #fallout 4 #fallout fanfic #fo4 fanfic #sole survivor #ghoul oc #mister handy #melancholy #sticks #angel #child of atom #hierosacristan bernadette fresnel #the anatomy of melancholy

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sohin-ace · 5 years ago

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Dio - Low Iron

This is cross-posted from Wattpad and available on AO3.

Enjoy~

You felt cold. You were currently slipping in and out of consciousness. You could only feel what seemed to be the cold hard floor underneath you. You became fully conscious when you heard a soft, low whisper close to your ear.

"Wryyyy...."

You struggled to open your heavy lids, but when you did, your vision was clouded. The room you were in was dark, barely lit by the dim light of the fireplace on the far side of the room. You could barely make out the figure that was kneeling by you.

You couldn't move immediately. You tried, but could only twitch your fingers, your body felt sore, probably from laying on the floor too long. You tried your best to lift your head and get a better look at the mysterious man in front of you.

"You're finally awake." he said in a deep warm voice. It was actually pleasant to hear.

You knew you should have been scared, but at the moment, you couldn't feel anything alarming emanating from this man. Also, you were still pretty knocked out and not quite thinking straight.

You opened your dry mouth to speak, but could only let out a hoarse whisper. "Where am I...?"

The blonde man chuckled, almost darkly. "You are in my humble abode, dear. Let me introduce myself, my name is Dio Brando."

Your eyes widened as you finally realized the situation. You have been abducted. This was certainly not your home, and this man was most definitely a stranger. But this same man, Dio, spoke in such a tender voice, it strangely put you at ease. You sighed, repeating his name tiredly.

"Dio... What a beautiful name..." The blonde's expression shifted to surprise at your words.

Weren't you scared? Why weren't you crying and begging for mercy like everyone else? Instead you were appreciating his name? Where you out of your mind? What a weird and interesting woman you were. Your voice suddenly interrupted his thoughts.

"Did you... Take me here?" you asked still looking at him. As your vision adjusted to the luminosity and cleared up, you finally made out his features.

He was actually quite charming and handsome. As much as you didn't want to glorify a kidnapper, you couldn't help but find his chiseled face, golden locks, white skin and sharp eyes very appealing. With a better look, you noticed his fangs and the crimson glint in his eyes.

Dio stood up, towering over you, and composed himself back, then answered frankly. "I did. I need human sacrifices for me and my underlings."

He turned his back to you, ready to go towards his destined velvet armchair. "You were an easy target too, you barely showed any resistance, I have to thank you for that." He finished, smirking.

You listened to him carefully and connected the dots. If your assumptions were right, you'd have to break it down to him, the reasons you didn't struggle when he took you, and still weren't struggling right now.

"...are you a vampire?" you asked as you tried to sit up weakly, pushing yourself off the floor, feeling like you were the heaviest thing in the world.

You could hear snickers from the glowing red-eyed shadows of his servants hidden in the corners and ceiling of the room.

"Smart girl, you catch on quick." he glanced at you eerily over his shoulder. His expression fell when he saw you collapsing back down after you managed to sit up. What the hell? Were you injured? Was his perfect little prey somehow damaged?

"What's the matter? I made sure not to hurt you when I brought you here. What's going on?" he came back to kneel next to you, almost annoyed that his meal was flawed. He liked his blood bags fresh and healthy.

You pushed yourself off the ground again, slightly panting as the room was spinning and you were hit with a painful headache. You wimpered quietly and put a hand over your face in an attempt to calm your migraine down. Dio subsconsciously offered his arms out to you, still confused as ever and you grabbed them for support.

"Mr Brando... I'm afraid you chose the wrong victim... To feast upon.." you clenched your eyes shut to avoid getting more dizzy and seeing stars.

Dio looked at you with furrowed brows. There was definitely something wrong with you and it started to bother him greatly. He noticed how pale you were and speculated one thing.

"Don't tell me...Are you..."

"I am anemic, Mr Brando... Not exactly what you'd look for in a prey..." you mused, letting him process the information. For a seemingly perfect being above humans, he sure did make mistakes.

Just what he guessed, of course. He clicked his tongue in annoyance. He went all this way to bring you here and you were defective. How bothersome.

"Get up." he ordered as he brought you forcefully to you feet. He made you stand up so quickly, leaving no time for your low-pressured body to adjust, that you immediately felt dizzy and lost balance, stumbling right into his arms.

He effortlessly caught you, surprisingly gentle with his hold. You wanted to move out of his embrace and have a good look at him, but you were still out of balance and felt tingles in your legs, so you leaned onto his solid chest a little bit longer, well-knowing that you would collapse without his support.

You muttered a tiny appology at how intimate you were with him even if it wasn't entirely your fault, but he only smirked in return. He actually found this quite enjoyable, the way your small frame perfectly fit into his large body. He could get used to holding you like this, especially if you couldn't struggle.

After thinking about it, he figured that you being anemic was definitely troublesome, but not a huge problem in itself. It's not like low iron and blood pressure would stop him from sucking you dry.

He thought, however, that acting upon his original plan would actually be a shame and a waste of the interesting fellow that you were. If he didn't make you his dinner, he would at least make you his little toy. After all, he could kill some time as an immortal being.

You finally steadied yourself back on your feet properly. As you wanted to back away from him, the blond man caged you in his strong arms, wrapping them securely around you, preventing you from slipping away. You gasped and looked up at him, asking silent questions.

He then cupped your delicate chin in his large hand and moved your face from left to right, analyzing your features in every single detail. He seductively hummed in satisfaction.

"Hmmm... not bad. I could actually quite make a use of this..." he huskily observed, shamelessly checking you out.

Your glance shifted away from him in shyness from the sudden contact. Your mind was racing. You started to become worried at his statements and actions.

"...Are you not going to kill me or get rid of me?" you stared at his intense ruby eyes with uneasy confusion.

You accepted your fate the moment you saw him, ready to die a more or less painful death, but now he was sparing you? If he didn't want to kill you, then what destiny has he prepared for you? If you weren't scared before, now adrenaline started to rush. He chuckled darkly.

"I didn't go through the trouble of bringing you here just to discard you without getting anything for myself."

He slid one hand around your small waist and squeezed you harder against his body. Your heart started pounding in your chest as you panicked. You looked around, trying to find an opening, anything to make a run for it.

Just, what did he plan to do with you? Torture you? Or worse even. Not thinking straight anymore, you tried to convince him through shallow breaths.

"But... I'm useless!"

He let out an amused huff and leaned in only inches away from your now heating face. Your breath hitched at the closeness. You could feel his hot breath over your lips as he whispered.

"Oh trust me you won't be for long..."

He then closed the distance in a hungry kiss. You couldn't fight him even if you wanted to. Your hands pushing on his chest felt like nothing to him, so you gave up. His hold on you was strangely comforting, his charming aura was intoxicating, his full lips kissing yours felt like a sweet spell. You knew it was wrong, but it felt so right.

You reluctantly melted into the forbidden kiss and the vampire glided his tongue over your lips, demanding access. You denied, which he did not appreciate at all. He poked his sharp fangs in your bottom lip and you gasped in pain, giving him his much wanted entrance.

Your body tensed up at the new feeling of his warm tongue caressing yours slowly. Your heart was pounding in your chest, you let him lead the way and explore your mouth as you didn't know what else to do.

He sucked on your tongue and your lips like it was his last chance to ever do so. You subconsciously moaned, imploring him to release you, at least for one second, since breathing through your nose didn't make you justice anymore.

He finally separated from the kiss as you were in desperate need for oxygen. You gasped for air and clutched at his shirt for support the moment he set you free.

"Haaah... Haaah.... Haaa..." You panted flush-faced and dizzy. This was just too much for you to handle.

He let you time to regain your composure and sneered at your pathetic form. "You better get used to it, young blood. Next time will be much worse."

He put his hand over the back of your head and gently made you lean your forehead on his chest as he thought ahead of what he could do next with such a cooperative associate.

Fun fact, I became anemic after donating blood too often lol good times.

Also I'm not trying to picture anemic people as weak or submissive, in case anyone is offended lol but litterally anemia will just make you go "Oh, too many people on the train? Guess I'll faint lol" it's ridiculous.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #jojo #jjba #x reader #reader insert #phantom blood #dio #dio brando #writing #jojo no kimyou na bouken #jojo part 1 #part 1 #dio x reader #dio brando x reader

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danetobelieve · 5 years ago

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Catchlight || Adam and Winston

TIMING: sometime before the S1 finale LOCATION: Non-descript forest in White Crest PARTIES: @walker-journal & @danetobelieve SUMMARY: Adam and Winston run into some ethereal creatures in the forest. WARNINGS: violence cw, blood cw a little, no TWs

It took alot to call Adam Walker and his cadre hunting buddies back into town from hunting Alghouls, Redcaps, and other scourges out in the hinterlands, but a black ocean and people sprouting with eyeballs all over their bodies definitely qualified. One of the sacred duties of Hunters was to ensure that the supernatural world’s secrecy was maintained. The status quo between humanity and the paranormal was a fragile balance, one Adam often had to enforce using copious amounts of Nepenthe-filled syringes.

But sometimes the balance just absolutely shat itself and imploded. Containment was a lost cause and it just came down to finding some way to make the madness stop.

Adam had inquired with older Hunters and hit up various contacts in the grimier side in White Crest’s paranormal world. Bribes, promises, threats, and tacit agreements had thus far yielded very little to go on. Antedilvuian myths and mummerings about the Troubles come again were interesting, but not exactly helpful in the “how does it fucking stop” deparment.

So it was that Adam had followed this trail of breadcrumbs out in the Outskirts where witnesses reported a beacon of unearthly light that was only visible when your eyes were closed. The shadows of late evening were deepening in the forest as Adam made his way through towards the beacon, M4 carbine slung over his shoulder and pausing at various points to close his eyes and reorient on the pillar of light.

The eyeball was still in Winston’s hand and they were still very far from thrilled about that fact. It was the visions, they had gone from just monsters to everything else and Winston had found themselves drawn to the Outskirts of the town. The plan wasn’t a great one. They’d pulled on a jacket and shoes and grabbed their phone before heading out into the night. They just knew that they had to be there and as they drove they found themselves following a pillar of light that they could see with their third eye but nothing else. Winston parked a little way of and began their trek towards the light once there was no more road to follow. They were making their way there when they spotted a figure with what looked like an assault rifle on his shoulder. Doing their best to act natural, Winston held their hand behind their back so that Adam wouldn’t spot the eye and gave them a weak smile. “Nice night for a … walk … right?”

Adam had been raised with a singular raison d'etre for his life, the protection of humanity. Thus when he crossed path with a human being dangerously close to the epicenter of some paranormal phenomena, the Hunter’s features creased in concern. His chestnut eyes scanned the horizon back from whence they’d both come, taking in the waning crepuscular rays of evening as they dimmed to frail strands peeking through the forest canopy.

It’d be a setback to have to turn back so close to the objective, but Adam couldn’t in good conscience let a civilian draw so close to supernatural danger. If that meant this night was a bust and he drove this person home, so be it. “Afraid that's a no go my dude,” Adam said. “It's pretty dangerous out here at the moment, there’s been an accident up ahead,” said the young man whose kevlar tactical jacket and fatigues were an odd uniform for a ‘civil servant.’ “You should head back into town”

Raising an eyebrow gently, Winston flashed Adam a quick smile and looked them over. “Listen, you’re clearly not WCPD because I know literally everyone that works there from the janitor to the captain,” working there helped with that, “I don’t see a badge or an identification being displayed so it’s a pretty good chance that you’re not any other sort of agency.” Winston took a deep breath, doing their best to pretend that they were authoritative in this situation and not completely terrified of the assault rifle that could riddle them with bloody holes. “I need to get over to the ‘accident’ up ahead, because there’s important information that I really need. I don’t want to argue or whatever and you’re more then welcome to come, but I’m … I’m going okay?” Winston tried to sound tough, they doubted they did.

Adam stood on the rugged forest path, sizing his interlocutor up for a time. It was clear they were determined to go through with this and while the Hunter’s mutant strength made manhandling them back into town possible, it’d likely be a pointless effort that was more trouble than it was worth. Guess that meant accompanying this person into the anomaly and trying to make sure they made it back out intact.

Definitely wasn’t Adam’s favorite arrangement, but with ancient demonic forces on the rise there wasn’t really the luxury of time.

He nodded assent and offered a hand to the stranger. “Name’s Adam, and no, I’m not anyone with any cred,” he admitted with a chuckle. The young man started the trek towards the invisible luminosity, evidently having accepted that company just going to be a thing. “Who’re you?”

“Winston, Dane.” Winston replied, “Cool to meet you I guess, Adam right?” Winston looked them up and down. Muscular. Armed too. Which was good if this guy was going to join Winston in their little trek which by the looks of things they seemed determined to do. They looked at their path and began down it, slowly and carefully. The strange light that you could only see when you closed your eyes might have been helpful, but it was still completely dark otherwise and Winston did not need to twist their ankle at a time like this. “I’m out here doing research,” Winston explained quickly, “obviously you’ve noticed all of the weird stuff that is going on around town. You know, you’d have to be living under a rock to miss it. But then again some people aren’t the most observant, I guess that because you’re here you’ve come for a similar reason?”

Adam nodded acknowledgement, not seeing purpose for further obfuscation when it was clear Winston knew what was going on. He had no idea what the unseen light truly entailed, but keeping Winston in the dark on details seemed counterproductive if they were going to help each other. “I’m trying to find the connection between the increases in paranormal phenomena and a disease some of the locals have come down with that causes eye-looking tumors on the skin.” The Hunter noticed his non-mutant companion was struggling in the dimming twilight. Adam reached back into his pack and rummaging around before pulling out a rescue flashlight from amongst the more deadly equipment therein. Offering it to Winston, Adam forged ahead over roots and gullies that dipped into dense brush.

“I’ve been tracking leads to see if there is some way to cure them and purify the water in the harbor. Since witnesses report that the light thing in these woods flares up whenever the sun goes dark, I want to check it out and compare notes with friends that are looking into other stuff around town.”

Accepting the flashlight, Winston flashed Adam a grateful smile. “Oh don’t worry,” Winston replied with a laugh, “I am not convinced that they are just eye looking tumors and not just eyes.” Winston had an eye on their hand and although the way that they had received it had been very different, Winston however wasn’t about to admit to having a weird-eye-hand. “Friends that are looking into other stuff around town? Have you started a supernatural-super-friends group?” Winston wanted to join honestly. If there were people trying to fix this so that Winston didn’t have to fly by the seat of their pants all of the time then that would truly be ideal. “I suspect that they’re all tied into the giant squid demon that is currently sat at the bottom of the lake, or the cult that appears to worship it … either way, investigate the strange light that flares up when the sun goes down?” Winston smirked, “I can help with that for sure.”

Adam turned back to give Wintson a long look, crooking a sandy eyebrow as his companion revealed that he knew more then the Hunter ever anticipated. “Born into it technically,” Adam admitted. “But it’s widened over these past few months as more and more people get sucked into the paranormal craziness. I’d prefer more secrecy about the demonic incursion...alot more secrecy,” the Hunter continued with a sigh that suggested perhaps the rather swashbuckling approach Blanche and others in the Scooby Gang took with supernatural secrecy did not sit well with Adam sometimes. “But supernatural awareness is always higher in an area with thin dimensional barriers like this. Doesn’t help that we may be having a repeat of Dead Sunday, in which case we’re totally fucked together regardless. So, y’know YOLO.”

On that cheery note Adam led their party of two to a wooded hill covered in gnarled trees whose branches curled like grasping claws around large quartz boulders. Closing his eyes, Adam reoriented on the Unseen Light’s last vantage point. “Happy to have you along Winston...honestly any help is appreciated when the stakes are this high,” he said with a warm smile before turning back to blindly regard the small valley their vantage point overlooked. “Not to pry, but got any skills I should know about for the investigation? Also, are you comfortable with a weapon? I’ve got some sidearms if you are.” The hunter nodded to the incline that descended into a far densely wooded section. “I’m asking now because once we go down and close in on the anomaly. Weird shit will probably start to happen.”

“It’s my duty to protect you,” the Hunter said without bothering to explain why. “But it’ll be easier if I know what you’re capable of and all that”

“Born into it?” Winston replied with a raised eyebrow. They weren’t sure if Adam was implying what they thought he was, but that sounded like he definitely wasn’t entirely human. Which made Winston wonder what he could be. He didn’t seem like fae and he looked too tanned to be a vampire, but that didn’t really help Winston with anything. There was still so much more to learn. “I think that everyone in town would prefer more secrecy, mostly because those that are ignorant of the existence of the supernatural aren’t exactly the type to take it well if it were forcefully revealed to them.” Winston wasn’t worried about word about the supernatural getting out, everyone was clearly so oblivious to it that even if there was a giant demon swinging a flag saying that the supernatural was real people would still think that it was just cosplay. “Yeah, defo, yolo is really the response I want to something called … Dead sunday?” Winston wasn’t sure that they wanted to know.

Winston stuck their hands in their pocket as they walked. They’d brought a few prototypes that they had been working on. Magical grenades that did different things, the spider bot and a few other very early prototypes. “I don’t want a gun,” Winston replied immediately, “I don’t … no guns. I’ve got …” Winston wasn’t sure that they wanted to really explain everything to Adam, although the longer this went on the more sure that Winston was that Adam was a Hunter. “I’ve got my own stuff that I can use to look out for us and I’ve got … other things that I can do if the worst comes to the worst.”

“My family have been paranormal investigators for a while,” Adam replied, technically telling the truth in a manner of speaking. “Dead Sunday was a colonial shitstorm alot like this,” was Adam’s attempt to summarize a rather complicated event whose aftermath had established both the Silver Bullet and the Hunter presence in White Crest. “Humanity lost...hard.”

Winston’s assessment of his combat capacity as literally “stuff” and “things,” was hardly reassuring from a tactical point of view.

“Alright man, watch your step,” Adam said as he began descending down into the wooded valley of Unseen Light, feet displacing rocks and soil as he eased his way along the trailess side of the incline.

Raising an eyebrow thoughtfully in response to Adam’s reply, Winston wished that they could make the same claim. “Well, I’ll let you take the lead since you’re so much more experienced apparently,” Winston was being sincere. They were still really new to this and they were always happy to follow someone else’s lead if it meant that it kept them alive. Winston followed after them closely, their third eye blinking in the light that only it could see. In fact, right now Winston was wondering if the third eye was entirely accurate, because they were pretty sure that there was a squid like creature who’s tentacles were going to smack into them.

Winston flew backwards with a thud, their back cracking with a painful crunch as their shoulder collided with a root, but when they looked around there was nothing there. “What the hell?”

“Sorry...look, I didn’t mean it like that, you asked…,” Adam began, misinterpreting Winston’s statement as salty sarcasm. However that particular line of miscommunication born of tension was rendered moot as Winston was abruptly knocked back by some unseen force, hitting one of the many thick roots that formed vein-like patterns across the forest floor with an audible crack that made Adam instinctively wince. In the instantaneous reflex born of training, Adam drew a Sig Sauer service pistol from its holster and closed the distance to Winston, scanning for any movement in the darkness while he offered a free-hand to help Winston up.

Yet the forest was absolutely quiet. The Hunter’s enhanced senses couldn’t even hear any ambient animals noises in the brush. The local fauna knew something was wrong.

There came a feeling of frigid heat down Adam’s spine, and eerie hot-cold feeling as his Hunter clairvoyance picked up the approach of a paranormal creature. The sensation grew to painful intensity throughout Adam’s body as the inhuman presence grew nearer and nearer.

But there was still nothing, not even the crack of a twig.

“I can sense something here,” Adam mummurred to his companion, not really caring about revealing his abilities with a threat so close. “It might be glamored, just a sec.” The Hunter retrieved a grey metallic sphere emblazoned with a severed celtic knot from his pack. There came a mechanical click as Adam flicked a trigger on the Dispellate and wound up into a baseball pitch that hurled the grenade towards where the unnatural presence emanated strongest.

A low hiss of released vacuum sealant was followed by a faintly luminous silver smoke that billowed through the air. Tendrils of the Dispellate’s alchemical cocktail of anti-illusion vapors spread amongst the branches like an argent fog. But though Adam’s aim had hit the area of that strange presence dead-on, nothing materialized.

“Well uh..shit,” Adam huffed with a frustrated but rueful chuckle. “You ok? I’m not sure wha...gah motherfu.” The Hunter’s rumination was out in an outburst of pained cursing as deep gashes cut straight through his tactical kevlar from thin air, the impact knocking Adam to his knees as blood blossomed down his side.

Winston was really getting sick and tired of fighting things that they could so clearly tell were well out of their league. It wasn’t that they weren’t capable. But this thing could either materialise and disappear from thin air or it was stopping them from seeing it somehow. Wracking their brain, Winston tried to come up with a solution to their current predicament but with less luck then they would like. It occurred to them that having a third eye should’ve been helpful in this situation but they were more preoccupied by the blood. They remonstrated with themselves for not having learned healing magic more thoroughly before standing to their feet. “I think - what if this thing is like the light and we can only see it with our … other eyes.” Winston pulled the bandage from their hand and closed their eyes, a blurry and distorted vision of the dark clearing came into view and Winston was distressed to see a truly eldritch horror in place. “Close your eyes,” Winston said, summoning magic, this was going to be a fight and they really weren’t sure that they would win.

Doing as he was bidden, Adam closed his eyes.

The Medusozoa creature was luminous and might’ve even been called angelic if the sunray-like spray of its tendrils were not bristling with stingers and barbs. It appeared as if several immense Lion’s Mane jellyfish had merged with one another, drifting on currents of light rather than water. The central mass of the numinous demon was a pulsating and translucent mesoglea within which shone orbs that seemed to be made of stella plasma or solidified light. They churned and writhed within the creature as if they were some kind of organs, an alien anatomy composed of celestial phenomena rather than flesh and blood. Its tendrils swayed and undulated like a thick field of white-golden vines that snaked around trees and stones. Each of tentacles seemed graceful and soft as gossamer, yet the surgical wounds bleeding down Adam’s side proved the thorn-like nematocysts bristling along those tendrils could slice through flesh and kevlar effortlessly.

Adam opened his eyes again experimentally. Just as Winston had surmised, the grove in front of Adam was completely empty and dark, devoid of the immense predator and the surreal sourceless light.

“Good call…” But when Adam glanced to Winston, they seemed to be in the midst of concentration. A real combat situation only gave seconds to think, and it was clear that those tendrils were snaking back to take another lunge. Adam had no clue what Winston was doing, but it didn’t matter because they’d be impaled standing still like that.

In the split second afforded to him, Adam decided he needed to draw the eldritch thing’s attention and either give Winston a chance to retreat or hopefully prove that the “stuff and things” they’d mentioned earlier wasn’t just empty bluster.

With the alacrity of oft-repeated reflex, the Hunter closed his eyes and unshouldered the rifle. Sprinting away from Winston along the grove’s edge, Adam sent cracking bursts of gunfire towards the nearest shining tendrils. The whip-like recoil signaled that, even though it was unclear if any real damage had been done, Adam’d at least gotten the thing’s attention. Trying to fight back the growing pain in his side, Adam continued to engage in a guerrilla battle of firing short barrages before running like hell as lancing tendrils eviscerated the spot where he’d just been seconds ago.

It was a giant jellyfish demon. Fuck. Winston had already been incredibly disappointed with the fact that their main enemy was a giant kraken thing or demon or whatever, calling it Squidward made it a little less terrifying to deal with but that didn’t mean that Winston liked this anymore. It’s luminous body seemed to radiate light when Winston looked at it through the eye in their hand and Winston kept their normal eyes closed.

Adam seemed to be back up and moving and with the amount of blood that he had lost Winston was amazed that they were still going. But they weren’t about to let anything happen to their new friend if they could help it and as the creature shot tentacles in every direction, Winston summoned as much power as they possibly could and focussed on providing some kind of protective barrier. Between themselves and Adam and this thing.

For a second, Winston held their breath, hoping and praying that this wasn’t one spell that they would inevitably mess up.

The tentacles surged forward, invisible light flooding the clearing. Winston could see the luminous barbs and thorns pulsing towards them, getting closer with every second. Then they stopped, as if an invisible force was holding them in place. “Fucking shoot the thing,” Winston grunted as the tentacles drew back and slammed against Winston’s barriers.

“Oh fuck,” Winston grunted with exertion as sweat began to pour down their face and a small trickle of blood pooled at the corner of their left nostril, “this things fucking strong.”

In retrospect, as he looked at the myriad lanced tendrils poised above him many Swords of Damocles, Adam would note that Winston had just saved his life. Adam was superhuman yes, but not immortal. The bloodloss had been progressively slowed his reactions times down while the luminous demon’s unceasing barrage of piercing tendrils had been tearing apart the trees and stones just behind him. But sprinting and firing the rifle only made his wound bleed faster, There’d come a point where the numbness spreading up the young soldier’s side had caught up with him. Spines and shining stingers came down in a rain of blades from all directions.

But just before Adam was torn to shreds by all these living plasma cutters, they all just...stopped.

Adam’s sight darted from the horde of bright death stopped in midair, before opening his brown eyes to look over to Winston, who strained against some unseen burden as a rivulet of blood slid down their face.

Was Winston a Spellcaster? Were they a Medium with crazy Jean Grey psychic powers? Adam really had no idea, and didn’t have time to spare the matter any thought.

Adam used the precious seconds to retrieve one of the grenades he hadn’t had time to arm while running. He didn’t carry ordinances like these into town as the risk of civilian collateral was too high. But coming out here Adam hadn’t known what to expect, and like many Hunters, Adam reacted to unknown variables by scaling up the firepower. Unlike the harmless Dispellates he also carried, this particular explosive much resembled the standard issue M67 fragmentation grenade, though the United States Military would've looked askance at the bizarre materials and esoterica that comprised its payload.

The Hunter wound up into a pitcher's throw that sent the grenade sailing towards the demon’s central bulbous mass. Cold iron shrapnel blossomed from an explosion silver fire, the gleaming metal glittering starkly against the creature’s bioluminescence. Adam moved with the alacrity of training and pretanatural reflexes, sending spheres of jagged death sailing towards the creature in a steady rhythm until he hadn’t any more left. For a few seconds the far side of the grove was a confusion of shredded gelatinous flesh, smoke, and a crisscrossing hail of sagittal cold iron.

The following silence lasted until the tangled, hemorrhaging masses of luminous gelatin rose from where they’d lain lifeless on the ground like dandelion seeds taking to the air, each new being bulging as glimmering new celestial sphere-organs underwent cellular mitosis in their center.

“Hey...uh, Winston, think we need to get the fuck outta Dodge.”

Fuck. This thing was strong. Winston could feel the blood slowly trickling further and further down their face. It didn’t take long for it to reach the edge of their chin and drip slowly onto the leaves below their feet. The exertion that it required for Winston to hold this thing in place was staggering and they knew they wouldn’t be able to do it for long.

Even now, as they struggled against its immense strength, Winston could feel their own failing.

They were way more then out gunned here. It felt like they had brought a knife to a gun fight and Winston knew that at such a violent disadvantage there was very little they could do but eventually lose this fight.

Fortunately Adam had brought grenades to the gun fight, and as the explosions rocked the ethereal creature that they’d encountered, Winston couldn’t help but recoil as they let their magic fade away and staggered slightly.

Reaching up and wiping the blood from their chin, Winston blinked a few times somewhat obliviously. They could see Adam saying words, but it was taking them a little too long to translate those words from sounds to semantic meaning.

“I agree!” they stammered as their feet finally remembered what they were meant to do and began backing away from this, they would have to find their answers somewhere else, “Let’s run. Running seems like a really fucking good idea.”

Adam wasn’t capable of much magic beyond the alchemical processes for monster venom antidotes and warding sigils to hold off your average Ghostbusters bullshit, a combination of sketchy science and religious ritual that kind of went hand in hand with the Hunter gig. However he did know that sorcery on any scale always came with a price.

Now, Adam wasn’t sure what the cosmic exchange rate for “Saving a dumbass from a giant invisible demon” currently was. But looking at the state Winston was in right now, Adam guessed he owed them way more than some beers and a “thanks bruh.”

He offered Winston a shoulder to throw their arm over to aid in walking if they cared to. Either way, Adam tried to forge ahead up the wooded hill they came down, trying to leave the valley of unseen light and its rejuvenating bloom of newborn Medusozoa demons behind. Unfortunately he had to keep his eyes open to actually see the precarious trail and its maze of stones and roots, during which time he couldn’t see what the invisible entities were up to. Between mounting injuries and having to close his eyes occasionally to keep track of the enemy, progress up the hilltop going at the agonizing pace of a dream, where you want to run, but are stuck in a slippery slow-motion.

Part of surviving as a Hunter is an instinct for when the monsters have been a bit too quiet and heinous shenanigans were incoming. Sure enough, the distinct lack of being impaled during the last few minutes made Adam suspicious that something was up. Paranoia was rewarded with catching sight of one of the newborn shining creatures beginning to pulsate unsettlingly as its biolomunience built to a feverish incandescence. The Hunter’s mutant senses felt the energy discharge begin before he saw it.

“Hit the deck!”

Adam threw himself, and hopefully Winston too, flat against the dirt of the rabbit trail. A beam of pure concentrated photons lanced overhead, boring through nearby boulders like a knife through butter and scissoring through some trees ahead. The wood burst into eerie multicolored flames that burned bright but gave off no heat.

As a test, Adam opened his eyes and had his suspicions confirmed. The prismatic flames were completely invisible to the naked eye. Branches and roots were blackening and charring without any visible source of conflagration. “Shit shit, c’mon let's go this way, can’t let the fire cut us off,” Adam said to Winston, huffed with exertion as he tried to find an alternate route through otherworldly flames and demonic photon beams.

Hands still covered in their own blood from wiping it off of their face, Winston allowed Adam to lead them away from the demon that was fucking with them. They were going to start making signs for themselves. Things that said things like “Don’t go into that dark hallway on your own,” “don’t walk down that dark alleyway without your friends,” and “don’t fuck with giant floating jellyfish demons you have no chance of beating in a fair fight.”

They were barely away from the original scene of battle when Winston spotted the beam incoming. Fortunately Adam had spotted it even before they had. “Fuck, ow.” Winston grunted as they hit the dirt and rolled away from the laser beam.

“Thanks for that,” Winston said as they spat out blood and gravel, scrambling to their feet they followed Adam through the forest.

Reaching into their bag, Winston pulled out a lightbulb that they had heavily edited and enchanted. Winding it back, they hurled it at the Medusozoa Demon and watched the light bulb sail through the air before smashing against the jellyfishes’ cap.

A second later there was an electrical discharge as the micro-emp grenade that they had been testing exploded with a bright flash of electrical energy.

“I don’t know if that helped,” Winston replied honestly as they turned on their heel and raced after Adam, blood still pouring -- though more slowly -- down their face. “But we should definitely run faster and not stay to find out.”

Adam didn’t need to be twice and tried to hussle it over the hill. There were tense moments as beams streaked after them, sending that strange multicolored flames cascading through the trees in brief conflagrations the naked eye couldn’t perceive. However whatever crazy discharge ordinance Winston had let loose seemed to have wounded or at the very least disoriented their closest pursuer, and their very painful trek amongst jagged stones, thick brush, and eldritch energies finally crested over the hill.

Eventually Adam signalled for a stop after they’d put some distance between themselves and the valley where that strange light that only flared when the sun's eyes closed had first been sighted. “Just a sec Winston...wanna check something.”

Trying to push the pain in his side away, the Hunter closed his eyes and leaned a nearby tree. Adam let his Hunter sense drift, clearing his mind of distracting thoughts as best he could. After a minute a dim impression surfaced. Adam waited, but those presences in his Hunter senses didn’t draw any more intense or draw near the hill they’d just cleared. Eventually the clairvoyant feeling of the demons faded as they drifted beyond his range.

Whether the valley was their ‘territory’ or those creatures maybe couldn’t even exist outside that unseen light, Adam couldn’t really say. But those were questions for later.

The Hunter opened his eyes. “They aren’t following us….hey uh, thanks for having my back there Winston. You saved my ass,” was Adam’s awkward foray into gratitude and he continued along the last part of the trail towards their cars. “Owe you big time.”

#wickedswriting #para #p: adam #catchlight #// this was honestly such a time #please watch tapir strap me to their back and carry us through this chatzy

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wafflewarriors · 5 years ago

Text

A Shot in the Dark

The hallway was dimly lit. The luminosity was questionable; it forced you to squint your eyes and wonder if a shadow was a lurking foe or a fault in the bending of light. You were constantly at edge as you crept around the corridors of the abandoned hospital. You were timid, hesitating and doubting yourself at every suspicious figure. You had always been the type of child who turned off the light in the basement and scurried upstairs while picturing something behind you.

Of course, Sherlock insisted you split up.

You could chase a suspect across rooftops and fight a man twice your size, but you could not do so blindly. The assassins were waiting for one of you to peep around the corner, knife ready.

Your heart pounded against your ribs. Breathing was difficult to rein as it hitched and sighed. The palms of your hands were slick with nervous sweat. Your heart rate flew when something shuffled and instinct kicked in. The gleam of a polished blade swung out, impaling your rib as you stumbled back. As your skin ripped open, an excruciating burning sensation spiked up your chest.

Through the adrenaline, you elbowed the enemy in the nose and punched him in the throat with your knuckles. You kneed him in the gut, to which he sank to the floor. In a brutal and morbid haze of fear, you kicked at his temple with the toe of your boot, expelling all motion from the newly beaten attacker.

Adrenaline drained as quickly as it’d come. You floundered your way backward until you were leaned against a pale yellow doorway. Nausea, which had been overridden by the adrenaline before, was now all that collected in the pit of your stomach. Truth be told, you had no idea why Sherlock Holmes had ever become your friend. You were scared of the dark, you froze when haste is vital, and lastly… you become queasy around your own blood. The source of your nausea came from a very specific distressing detail: it needed to be your own blood.

You regularly helped John with patients at the clinic and hovered as Sherlock observed crime scenes and dead bodies. You had no problem with blood when it wasn’t your own.

Woozy, your eyes were sealed. You inhaled slowly, failing miserably to dispel the sick feeling. You were required to look at the wound to address it, but you couldn’t without nausea boiling in your gut. Your imagination was too wild and the thoughts that sprung at you were not welcomed. Peeling your eyelids open, you stared at your battered stomach.

The wound was leaking blood that bubbled with miniature streams of crimson that trickled downward. Red soaked your cotton shirt, causing wet warmth to pool up to your neck. It reeked of copper. Half of your stomach was skinned, the belly button spared, while the excess skin hung wetly. You could definitely see tendons, possibly bone; you weren’t a doctor.

At the last observation, you felt sick. An acidic rumble twisted within your stomach, forcing you to stumble onto your shaky feet. Fortunately, there was a bin nearby. Your knees buckled as you retched with your hands clutched at the plastic siding. You heaved, your stomach rolling and contracting.

Once it was safe to open your mouth without projectile vomiting your dinner, you bellowed hoarsely for your friends and roommates. “Sherlock! John!” You cried out in panic, throat raw. You held your stomach, thankfully out of view from your eyes. It’s only a graze, you attempted to convince yourself. John will help. Sherlock will know what to do. Butwilltheybutwilltheybutwillthey-

“Hey!”

Your arms were numb; a fading receptivity of nerves causing you to feel unbalanced. Your knees wobbled, barely able to support themselves. You tumbled backward, cradling your chest while you swallowed bile. The shock was affecting your mobility and reaction time. Your judgment was cloudy with fear. By now, your vision was unfocused. You blinked, yet the two people racing toward you had taken the shape of fuzzy silhouettes.

“Oh my god.” John’s voice was concerned and disbelieving. He crouched, instantly examining your injury with a doctor's determination. He noted the wound wasn’t clotting.

Sherlock, clueless as ever, was fascinated by your work. “Remarkable. The murderer has a concussion from such a blow to the head. Consider me impressed. Where did you earn such an accuracy and brute force? Surely your physique-”

“Sherlock, forget the bloody body! She’s bleeding out!” John tugged your jacket off your sluggish self, wrapping it tightly against the open wound. John perfectly understood your state of delirium, so he pinned you as you protested. He had seen many soldiers die in a state of shock from struggling against medical help. He wouldn’t let that happen to you.

You squirmed against his firm hold, trying to escape the throbbing pain. “No- that hurts that hurts-” You whined while breathing heavily to prevent nausea from rising. You squeezed your eyes as burning tears pooled behind them. “That hurts. John, stop.” You pleaded miserably.

Sherlock, having already observed the vomit in the bin a few steps away, was curious as ever. “I never pinned you as squeamish.” His tone was low and comforting, despite the blunt comment.

You exhaled in a pained breath, “Not.” You inhaled through your teeth. “Just… my own. Can’t- handle my own… blood.” You wheezed.

“Strange. There must be a reason for it. Anxiety? Are you sensitive? Maybe shock is affecting-”

“Sherlock, focus!” John snapped, putting pressure on the wound. “Call an ambulance for heaven's sake!”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “There’s no signal. We’d have to go outside for service. Is it serious?” Finally, Sherlock inquiries had sobered into silent hovering.

“No. It’s a shallow cut, but we can’t just leave her here. It’s enough to kill in about two hours without attention. Sherlock, you’re the only one who knows the way around. See the issue? I can’t fend off an assassin and put pressure on her wound at the same time while you run off.” John growled in frustration, impelling him to press harder to the wound. You whimpered.

“Then we’ll bring her with us. We’re currently on the fifth floor, and there should be seven other murderers within this building.” Sherlock studied the poorly lit hallway and spewed out his opinion.

John looked horrified for you, doing the math. “Five floors? How are we going to get her across five floors and avoid seven killers?”

Sherlock seemed disappointed of John’s lack of observation. “With the bed, John.” He pointed to the narrow cot with a faded blue fitted-sheet sprinkled in polka dots. The fabric was wrinkled and scrunched. Sherlock tugged at it and the wheels creaked.

John gritted his teeth. “That will totally give us away.”

Sherlock scowled, glancing nervously at you. “But wasting time will do us no good. We don’t have that long.” He rolled the cot to John. The wheels shrieked at the jerky movement. “There should be seven assassins within the building. Some of which may have already left. There are eight floors, allowing us at least one floor with nobody on it. However they could all be on one floor-" He gripped his forehead. “There are too many variables. We need to take the most precautions while escaping the building as quickly as possible.”

“Can’t we just shatter a window for service? We don’t have time for escape, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shook his head, “Bulletproof and tinted.”

Defeated, John sighed. “Nothing’s simple when it comes to you, is it?”

“Unfortunately.”

In the silence, they observed you. Your posture was deflated. You resembled a dying spider with your limbs curled inward. Exhaustion weighed down your eyelids while they drooped.

“Hey!” Sherlock whisper-shouted as much as he could whilst murderers roamed the building. He was quickly at your side and clasped your face in his hands, shaking it. “You mustn’t go to sleep yet. It seriously declines your chance of survival.”

You groaned as your ribs panged. Your stomach felt like slippery marbles were sloshing around, causing you to feel ill. “So... t’red." You slurred lethargically. “Hurts.” You squinted up at their distorted faces above you. “John… ‘m going to die, aren’ I?” A headache, only intensifying with nausea, throbbed behind your eyes.

John’s face pinched in worry. “We’re going to get you out of here.” He licked his lips anxiously, “Sherlock,” His attention moved to the consulting detective. “We are in a hospital, abandoned or not. There’s got to be an old med kit somewhere. It won’t fix the problem, but it may keep her fighting for longer than a couple hours.”

Sherlock hesitated. “I’ll stay in the area.” And with that, Sherlock’s nimble silhouette blended with the darkness, his long coat flapping behind him.

You twisted as the wound shook against the jacket. It was rubbing it raw; the scratchy fiber brushing against open flesh. Your pained grunting didn’t cease as you eyed the wound. “It looks like a fish gill.” You sobbed in agony. “I look like a fish.”

John fidgeted at your graphic and perturbing comparison. He fussed, gingerly searching for other abrasions and bruises. “Try to calm down. Panicking won’t help you.” He soothed, brushing the sweaty hair from your face.

“John, ‘m going to die in here.” Your anxiety had always been one of your inferior qualities. In moments of weakness, you blubbered in fear. It was your worst enemy; it installed fright and based your actions off of it. It compelled you to falter and cower in the face of danger. Being a friend of an unpredictable detective, that wasn’t favorable.

“We won’t let that happen.” Sherlock had already appeared out of the dark while clutching several medical kits of varying sizes. Sherlock extended his arm to John, who reached for the kits and took them gratefully.

John leaned in carefully, pressing a damp towel across your wound. You stiffened and gasped spasmodically. A crippling sting flared and you smacked John’s shoulder repetitively while kicking and twisting. It felt like acid was pouring onto your broken skin. You stifled a wail, clamping your jaw with a sharp clack.

Sherlock kneeled beside you, patting at your hair and resting a hand on your shoulder in an effort to comfort you. “John needs to clean the wound. We don’t want an infection.”

You went slack against the cold flooring, the pain now dissolving into a simmering static. Your vision swam and your ears vibrated when you turned your head. You managed to pant, “What... was that?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Rubbing alcohol.” He pivoted, his fingertips resting on your shoulder in consideration. His attention was now veered toward John. “We’ve wasted enough time tending to her. If we don’t start moving now we’ll have wasted it.”

John nodded in doleful understanding, “Of course.” He was swift to apply thick bandages around your middle, wrapping them tight and thoroughly. “Should we move her to the bed, then?”

“Please do.” You murmured, shivering on the frigid tile.

Sherlock grasped your upper body with his palm supporting your head and spine, while John scooped up your legs and lower back. It was an effort not to yelp as they positioned you on the creaky mattress. The cushion sank under your weight like a soggy pancake.

John rotated toward the pits of the corridor. “I suppose this is it then. You think this will go smoothly?”

Sherlock’s mouth was thin and pinched in distaste. “Likely not.”

John glared at Sherlock, annoyed by his low spirits. “Can you never be optimistic?”

“Would you like me to lie?”

John stared at Sherlock a moment. “No.”

“Good. I had the impression that wouldn’t be of use.”

This moment was the tip of an iceberg, just above the surface. Sherlock and John had halted all morals to beam a glare, the silence telling of their progressing irritation. Neither man enjoyed conflict, yet here they were. Two friends unable to express to the other their logic, for the other would only counter it. They would stare, and then return to a temporary harmony. Except for this time, the contest between two contrasting minds ended without conclusion.

Sherlock’s constantly active watch for danger was a significant advantage. Within the abyss behind the doctor, a flash of a glossy shank and predator-like eyes caught into Sherlock’s peripheral vision. He dove, knocking John’s build out of harm. His martial arts kicked in, and soon he was ducking and landing blows on the snake-like assassin.

John scrambled to his toes in bewilderment, scarcely regarding the tussle between Sherlock and the nimble assassin. He wasn’t much for martial arts, but he was a soldier. Thank god he’d brought a gun.

The fighting style of the killer a far cry Sherlock’s. His moves were clean and witty, while the murderer was scrappy and feral. Sherlock had to dodge and avoid teeth from sinking into his arm. Finally, Sherlock had gotten them into a vulnerable spot. Behind him, John’s arm held his Browning steadily.

The assassin’s body shape hinted toward female, despite the thick leather jacket hugging her frame. A ski mask hid her facial features. A simple dagger was loosely gripped in her left hand, the blade glistening and sharpened. However, the assassin no longer seemed interested in stabbing the detective.

Sherlock’s frown was grim. “Lower your gun, John.”

John’s aim wavered, “Why?”

Sherlock glowered at the assassin, disapproval clear. “Mary has some explaining to do.”

An adept hand slipped the knife in their pocket as if it were a casual thing to do. “I didn’t mean it to involve you,” Mary said gently, removing the ski mask, revealing her lying face.

John was torn. It was maddening. He would have demanded answers, yet he held back his rage like a trained soldier. He grabbed the metal of bed and began forcing it to roll with a shrill scrape.

“John-"

The doctor marched on. “I really don’t want to hear it right now,” John growled, his teeth bared.

“John, it’s not what you think-"

“Then what is it?! What in God’s name, are you doing here?” John boomed. It’s livid temper echoed along the concrete walls.

Mary took a step forward, not hindered by his outburst. “If you don’t want to attract dozens of serial killers, I suggest you lower your voice.” Mary bit out evenly.

Sherlock’s eyebrows furrowed. “Dozens?” He inquired.

Mary spoke earnestly, “Yes.” Her eyes were mournful. “I came here to warn you and help disassemble them.” He shoulders dropped, “It’s too dark; otherwise I wouldn’t have fought you. I swear it, John.”

John looked to Sherlock, who nodded solemnly. Mary’s genuine explanation met truthful human behavior. Mary was an expert liar, but even she couldn’t have cooked such a confession on the spot. A lie would not go unnoticed by Sherlock.

“H’llo?” You mumbled, faintly aware of the conversation. You felt faint and on the verge of passing out.

Sherlock popped up onto the balls of his feet. “We must get going. We’ve wasted the maximum amount of time possible for her survival. She needs medical attention.” He was uncharacteristically anxious.

When the squealing of wheels first sounded throughout the hospital like a rusty shopping cart, John had winced. Now, his irritation was at a tipping point, and a suspected serial killer would do just fine as an outlet. His fists itched for something to pummel.

“John, I’m assigning you full responsibility over her,” Sherlock announced, striding alongside him.

John did not accept his role. “And what will you be doing? Watching?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied seriously. “Mary and I will take to disarming the serial killers along our path. You will protect her. You’re the doctor, John.”

John’s stubbornness had always been a fault of his. He hid his darkest emotions and trusted those he’d barely met. John was a doctor, yes, but he was also a soldier. He was addicted to the adrenaline. Although he ached for a fight, Sherlock’s statement put him in his place.

“Alright.” He said finally.

At his clipped and vague answer, Sherlock observed him. “You disagree.”

John pondered it. “No.”

Sherlock was unconvinced. “You’re tense. Lying.”

John bit his cheek.

“You’re hesitating, John.”

Sherlock had a knack of not knowing what good timing was, and this was one of those times. John was definitely not in a good enough mood to deal with this. John remained silent.

“...not good?” There was a pause. “Ah.”

Sherlock stayed quiet after that, looking similar to a dejected puppy. They all stepped along, dispirited and mopish, while Mary trailed behind. The ghostly halls and disfigured shadows didn’t discourage them any longer. They marched along the tile, determined to reach the stairs of the lonely hospital.

Sherlock and his long legs took the front, his sharp eyes soaking in every visible detail. Then, abruptly halted. He held a hand out from behind him, motioning to quit walking.

Sherlock’s ‘detective mode’ wasn’t like a switch. He was constantly thinking, watching, seeing- and this was a moment John was glad Sherlock was an expert in his job field. Sherlock’s head was poised, a hound on the trail of a raccoon. His metallic eyes skimmed darkly over the scene. A couple of paper plates sat on the floor, a gnawed bones from a chicken rested on the plates. “Two of them have been here.” He poked the meat of the poultry. “Still warm.”

John frowned. “Are you sure it’s only two?”

Sherlock cast his eyes about, trying to locate clues. “Two plates. It’s enough to satisfy two large men.”

Mary was behind John, dagger in hand. She was cautious, straining to detect the movements of a nearby killer. In low voice, she breathed, “John, I need your gun.” There was a rustle of a coat, and a tense hand held a gun behind his back. She took it in anticipation, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. She paused, exerting her sensitive ears for the crackle of leather or the patter of an untrained foot.

Sherlock was doing the same, calculating the hospital architecture and formation of the walls. He judged the best angles for a precise bash to a head. He constructed a strategy in a mere two seconds before becoming very aware of where the men were hidden, despite his lack of vision in the murky light of the hall. They all held their breath when they heard a faint click of the tile floor against a well disciplined foot.

When Mary extended her weapon, the silence broke.

From opposite directions, two solid masses of black emerged, slamming into the trio. The largest man had taken to Sherlock’s end, muscles visible against his tight leather jacket. A slimmer man, although extensively livelier and additionally more punctual with attacks, chose Mary. They were enhanced in their talents, for they nearly matched the cleverness of Sherlock and Mary.

John had taken to you, rolling the bed with a deep screech of grinding metal. Fortunately, the hallway was broad and spacious. It allowed John to slip by, and defend the weak link.

To add to John’s growing headache, you were unconscious and the bandage he’d applied was now a damp pink. John huffed. Ditching the bed, he began dragging your limp form into a narrow hospital room doorway. He was swift, laying you across the timeworn mattress. It’s springs rattled at the new weight. He barricaded the doorway with heavy cabinets so that only a few inches of the door’s window was visible.

There was a gunshot that vibrated through the floor. Mary never misplaced her aim. She towered over the body, his bullet-blown head staring up at the ceiling. She huffed for breath, swiveling to analyze Sherlock’s work.

Sherlock had easily managed to take down the brawny man. While the man was double Sherlock’s size, Sherlock was dexterous and deft on his toes. To his perspective, it was child’s play to outwit the flying fists. Albeit capable of damage, the assassin’s aim was off by a mile. Sherlock judged that his hand-eye coordination was poor. All it took was an elbow to the throat and the killer’s trachea broke.

Now with the two murderers defeated, Sherlock exposed John’s hideout and knocked at the door. “John. They’re gone now.” He peeked in the visible window, a bush of raven hair and criticizing silver eyes sprouting up into John’s view. “If you don’t open the door, the sheep nostrils in the fridge will find their way to the microwave.”

John trusted Sherlock’s threat. He shoved at the bulky cabinets. He forced a grunt, “It’ll be open in a second-"

Sherlock propped the door open. His eyes landed on John, offering silent empathy for his troubles. John resembled a shell of a man, exhaustion clouding his eyes. Sherlock’s eyebrows dipped in concern for his flatmate, “Why don’t you sit down, John? You look rather pale.”

John did so.

Sherlock assessed his situation and judged the best plan for action. Looking out the window, a spark of hope lit him. “We need to get her out of the building.”

John was cradling his pounding headache within his palms. “We don’t have enough time. We might be able to get her out of the building, but how long will it take for people to arrive? It’s too late. If she loses enough blood, she’ll go into hypovolemic shock. I would cauterize the wound, but there’s nothing I can use except bandages right now. We’re in such an old hospital; the equipment looks like torture weapons. There was a saw in the drawers for amputation.”

Sherlock crouched down so he was eye-level to John’s slumped form. “There’s no need. We’ll get her out in time.”

“How do you know?”

Sherlock pointed out the tinted window, grinning wildly. “My brother’s here.” It was true. A hazy light glowed against the chalky window as flashlights were swung about. A sleek black helicopter and armed men had invaded the grounds, already searching and barking instructions and orders. Sherlock whipped his head away from the window and glanced to John and Mary. “She will make it.”

Sherlock leapt up. His posture was confident, as if he'd already constructed a cunning scheme. He cast his eyes to Mary. “Mary, firing John's gun has brought Mycroft here, yet it has likely drawn a majority of murderers our direction. Going down the stairs, we would run into them. Barricade the doorway.” He turned to his roommate. “Now, do you have a flashlight, John?”

John did have a flashlight. In fact, he always did. It was with him constantly, as often as the gun was. However, he did not see how this had anything to do with their predicament, except for making John feel like an idiot for stumbling among the dark halls without thinking of the source of light he had in his pocket. This is why he wasn't a detective. “...yes.” He said simply, allowing the detective to explain.

“Brilliant, John. I need you to flash a message to my brother in Morse Code: ‘Room 502’. My brother's surveillance men will likely see it.”

“But you said the windows are tinted.”

“Yes, they are, but they still allow light through. What would be the purpose of a window if you couldn't see through it?” Sherlock explained, “While they cannot see us, I assure you they will see our message.”

John stood a bit unevenly and fetched his flashlight, stamping it against the window. He recalled his Morse Code lessons back in the military. He flashed, ‘.-. --- --- -- ’ and ‘..... ----- ..---’ just as Sherlock had instructed. ‘Room 502’. After waiting a few seconds, his paranoia caused him to flash the message repeatedly in fear no one was watching.

John's hope and anxiety washed away when he received a message back. ‘... .- ..-. . ..--..’ which John read as ‘Safe?’.

John gave a relieved sigh. ‘.----’ and ‘.. -. .--- ..- .-. . -..’, he tapped at the flashlight's button, ‘1 injured.’.

Sherlock calculated the trail to their room. “My brother is doubtlessly impatient. I have faith his search team will effortlessly ambush our petty, fellow serial killers. If I know of my stalking brother's habits, I expect a knock at this door in seven minutes.”

John had plastered himself to the window in a new fascination and inspiration. He continued to flash messages, satisfying his hungry curiosity. John chortled, “Count on six.”

///

Mycroft was more than impatient. He was demanding to see his brother and his condition, as John had never specified who was injured. Imaginably to encourage their rescue. And it did. He was in constant communication with his men; he commanded them to hurry and reach the fifth floor.

His men plundered and swarmed the area, arresting the serial killer gang members Sherlock had been after. They lashed out like frightened animals and they fought like barbarians. They reminded Mycroft of savage rats that ran over your toes in a bad part of the cities.

He nearly leaped out of his guarded helicopter when he recognized the humble figures of Sherlock and his friends. His security team advised him not to, however, and he was escorted over.

Oddly enough, there was no quarrel. He met Sherlock's gaze and they shared an equivalent look of fulfillment. It was a courteous appreciation of each brother. No words were expressed, just the serene murmur of silence as a thank you. That was sufficient enough for Mycroft.

Mycroft was only convinced of their safety once he’d witnessed everyone go under the hands of his personal medical team. While most of them remained unscathed, you had required transportation to the hospital, so Mycroft assigned a limo for your friends' travel.

Sherlock, John, and Mary sat awkwardly, each uncertain as of how to fill the silence and initiate conversation within the luxurious ride. Feet scuffed and tongues clicked until John cleared his throat. He seemed uncertain, peering out the window as his stomach thundered viciously. He was hesitant, “Would anyone like Thai food tonight?”

#sherlock #sherlock holmes #one shot #sherlock fanfic #sherlock fanfiction #reader #reader insert #sherlock x reader #platonic #john watson #fanfic #fanfiction

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fallingstarstuff · 5 years ago

Text

Chapter 25 (WIP)

This is a preview of Chapter 25 (well, more like the first 2/3rds of it) and it is a work in progress, so some wording may change in the final cut. Also Tumblr ate all the formatting and I’m to lazy too put it back in, so just imagine italics in all the right spots.

Full fic on AO3: From the Mouth of an Injured Head

For @cipher-the-sidhe

- - - - - - -

You had so many questions.

In that moment, none of them mattered.

Gaster shuffled inside your apartment while you clung to him with your legs dangling, his arms wrapped securely around you while nudging the door shut behind him with a foot.

Gaster had feet.

The hand that wasn’t holding the bundle of weeds rubbed soothing circles on your back, but you could not stop crying. Your joy at seeing him was a very fragile and perilous thing, made of spun glass and inches from turning to dust. Part of you was convinced this wasn’t real.

Stars, let this be real.

You could feel hard bones pressed against your body under the lab coat. No longer was he an amorphous dripping mass of shadows. Skeletal arms, ribs, the knobs of his spine, all of it so strange and unfamiliar. He even smelled different, or rather you registered a scent where there was nothing before. He smelled of ozone, old books and magic.

Your sobs waned, hiccups taking their place and you felt Gaster bend down, his spine bowing, to set you on the floor. Your fingers tightened their grip on his lab coat, not wanting to let go. His head turned, reassuring kisses dusting your neck, and after a few moments your arms slowly unwound, falling back to your sides.

Gaster straightened up, smiling down at you in an abashed way that didn’t reach his eye sockets.

You shook your head, still trying to take him in with wide eyes, “I don’t understand.” you whispered. “It worked?”

<Yes, perhaps not precisely as intentioned, but as you can see...> He gestured almost grandly to himself, the success of the extraction process self-evident, he glanced around your apartment, noting the machine that was ripped apart in your hallway and the huge chunks of wall missing as well as the scorched and warped platform. The scene of destruction curved his mouth into a confounded frown.

Despite the litany of questions you meant to ask, somehow the first one out of your mouth was: “Why do you have a bunch of weeds?” you rasped, pointing at the greenery. There were dandelions, queen anne’s lace, and buttercups, all slightly wilted clutched in his hand.

Gaster flushed, and you noted that the color blooming on his skull was not the muted lilac you were used to, but a several shades closer to violet.

He held out the bunch of foliage, and you couldn’t help the broken laugh that escaped you, nor the slow, tired smile as you accepted the hastily constructed “bouquet”. “Thank you. You are too sweet. I don’t have a vase or-” you blinked, your exhausted mind sluggish to process his words. “What road?”

<The road down from Mount Ebott. I will speak with Doctor Alphys but clearly the procedure did not go entirely as planned and the convergence point collapsed. When I was ejected from the void I was flung out of the most proximal convergence point to this one.> he paused, waiting for you to find the answer, like his favorite pupil who always knew just what to say next.

You didn’t.

You were so tired.

Your head throbbed.

You SOUL hurt.

<...I exited the grey door in the Underground.> he provided the answer when you did not respond, eye sockets narrowing. His phalanges gripped your chin, tilting your head up so he could examine you closely and critically for the first time since he arrived. You were sure he was alarmed by what he saw. You could hardly stand to look at your own reflection, skin paler than ever, bloodshot eyes, and bruises under them. Chapped lips, wild-maned, broken.

“I look like shit.” you supplied, knowing he would never say that, even if he concurred.

<You look like you haven’t slept.> he signed, concern growing.

“‘Cause I haven’t.”

<Alex, it’s been two days.> His skull contorted with dismay.

“I thought you were dead!” you cried, voice splintering as fresh tears spilled down your cheeks. Gasters eye sockets widened, taken aback. “Everyone thinks you’re gone. I couldn’t feel you and there weren’t any readings and Sans said I killed you!”

He dropped down to one knee, lowering himself so he could hug you again as you broke down into tears, pulling you against his ribcage and softly stroking his phalanges through your tangled hair. Your weeping almost instantly slowed, soothed by his presence alone. He wasn’t dead, he was here, he was out of the void, he was here with you.

he signed as he reluctantly pulled back.

You nodded, wiping your eyes with your palm and bracing yourself. The embers in your chest flared like they’d been exposed to fresh oxygen as you drew your SOUL out, hissing in pain through clenched teeth.

Gaster gasped, his bones rattling.

It was worse than you could have imagined.

The normally vivid blue was dull, no longer the bright glowing radiance that made your surroundings seem dim in comparison. Instead splotches of ashen grey mottled the surface, obscuring the usual luminosity giving your SOUL the appearance of being diseased. Of course it felt like it burned, but you hadn’t expected it to look like it too.

<What did you do!?> To say Gaster was horrified would be an understatement.

You shrugged, “Pulled you out of the void, apparently.”

There was an incredulous pause, then, <...What!?>

“The machine broke,” you gestured at the mangled device, “So I guess I got you out myself. Things got really foggy there at the end. I think I hit my head.”

He shook his skull, utterly dismayed at your flippant response. Swiftly, he took the flowers from your hands, dumping them on the counter and without warning, scooped you up, one long arm under your back, the other tucked under your knees as he stood back up and held you in an effortless princess carry.

<Have you any idea how much I’ve wanted to do this?> he signed with summoned hands, looking rather irate as he walked towards your bedroom, stepping over broken machinery.

“Carry me off to bed?” you said with an attempt at a cheesy grin, the expression marred by your exhaustion.

<Hold you, like this,> he corrected, <and I wish it were under any other circumstances. I have not seen a SOUL Burn so severe in all my years, how are you still standing!?>

“Alphys didn’t seem too worried.”

<Had she misplaced her glasses!?> he signed, outraged.

“Nah, I did actually, couldn’t find them anywhere... I didn’t give her a chance to look at my SOUL. Kicked them all out. Started cleaning. Didn’t stop.” you muttered.

“It does hurt. Feels like fire in my chest.”

“Sorry.” you murmured, leaning your head against his bony shoulder.

<No apologizing.> he tutted, shaking his head, <Humans are truly remarkable creatures.>

He laid you down on the bed, propping pillows under your back so you remained upright. Part of you wanted to object to being coddled but another part would have let him do whatever the hell he wanted. Let him dote on you, let him fuss. Whatever made him happy, whatever let him stay.

Which was why you tried to get out of bed to chase after him as he attempted to depart your bedroom, and he rounded on you with an uncommon amount of anger.

<Stay.> he signed sharply, pressing you back down against the bed, one large hand splayed over your chest. His expression softened, <Rest, please. It is my fault you are in this state->

“This isn’t your fault!” you yelled.

“Please don’t leave me, I don’t know if this is real, I can’t feel you.” your voice was trembling now.

He leaned down, kissing your forehead. <It is very real, I assure you. I will be right back. Please, stay here.>

“...Kiss me first.” you ordered, eyes hard.

He arched a brow bone at you.

“No, properly.” You were never like this. Needy and burdensome, sure, but it was rare you demanded something of him. But you needed to feel him, to know this wasn’t just a particularly vivid dream. And if you couldn’t sense him with your SOUL, well, this method would suffice.

Gaster was never one to deny you, and so his long fingers slowly curled along your jaw, tiling your face towards him and his skull lowered to meet your lips with his. This was the same, familiar in all the ways his restored form was not, soft lips against hard bone. And when your lips parted in an open invitation he did not waste a second, his tongue delving into your mouth, heatedly gliding over your own.

This was very different.

There was no icy cold. No strange shifting shadows, but a solid warmth, his tongue slick and buzzing with the unmistakable frisson of magic. Like fire whiskey, like a tingle of electricity, lighting your nerves, even your charred SOUL lurched in your chest from shock.

You squealed a surprised sound at the unexpected sensation, and before you could manage to pull away, his hand swiftly snaked around to the back of your neck, fingers woven through your hair as he cradled your head and kept you firmly in place. Insistently, yet not without tenderness, he kept kissing you, allowing you to feel and understand that he had changed. Even this act, this thing you had loved and found comfort in, would not be the same as it once was. But it was him. Undeniably, it was Gaster, he was here. A tension in your frame relaxed and you finally reciprocated, a tangle of tongues and lips and breath as you felt him sigh in relief.

Slowly he drew back, looking into your eyes, searching for a sign of alarm or discomfort. He wouldn’t find even a hint.

<Please, let me take care of you.> he signed, fingers carding through your hair.

You relented with a nod, and true to his word Gaster was gone and back in short order, fussing over you once again. He had water that he made you drink, and some nearly expired granola bars he’d raided from the very back of your snack stash, probably the only pre-packaged food he could manage to find that was remotely healthy.

“I’m not hungry.” you murmured.

<You need food if your SOUL is to heal.> holding the opened package out to you sternly.

Reluctantly you ate, the food flavorless and tasting no better than ash.

he signed, sitting next to you on the bed.

“Your magic is back?” you asked. It should have been obvious, if he was no longer in the void, it would stand to reason his magic would have returned to him.

he signed with a wry grin, <May I?>

You nodded, and with a wince, drew out your damaged SOUL again. He examined it closely, phalanges hovering over the surface but never making contact with the core of your being.

The ring-shaped pupil in his left eye socket lit up a brilliant ultraviolet shade.

Then, for the first time, you felt Gaster’s magic.

It was completely novel. You were familiar with Sans and Papyrus and how their magic wove about them, but Gaster’s was very far removed from theirs. Very far removed from your own. If Papyrus was a steady stream, you a flame, and Sans a veritable firestorm, Gaster was...highly structured. Rhythmic and orderly. Layers of magic that conformed to perfect, precise arrangements.

It was like music.

Warmth and green light spilled forth from his fingers and you gasped, shuddering as his magic poured directly into your SOUL. Stars that felt so good. Like your SOUL was submerged in warm water, seeping in and soothing all of the damage your outburst of magic had inadvertently wrought. There was a sort of pressure there too, like a firm hug, or being swaddled in warmth. It was hard to translate what your SOUL felt into physical sensations, that magical core just too far removed from the physical matter of nerves and flesh. Those sensations were overwhelming after only a few moments, and you felt Gaster’s hand hold yours after you screwed your eyes shut and tried to remember how to pull air into your lungs properly.

It could have been a few minutes or a few hours by the time his magic abated, your SOUL slipping back into your chest and your breaths a shaky series of pants.

“Mmmelty...” you slurred, “Like goop...”

He smirked, then stifled a yawn behind a hollow hand, and you watched him, fascinated.

“You’re tired.” you said, awed and wide-eyed.

<It would appear so, yes. I believe I am long overdue for a nap.> he grinned.

You matched it, perhaps a little more conniving. “You’re sleeping here with me.”

he quickly retorted, his grin slipping quickly into a frown, <You need your rest. I’ll sleep on the couch.>

“Like hell you will.” you responded hotly. You doubted he would even fit without his feet hanging off the end, “You’re staying with me. My house, my rules, and tonight I need my boyfriend here with me.”

He stared with raised brow bones at your declaration, as if waiting for you to correct yourself.

You did not.

he weakly objected.

“So?”

“So take it off.” you said, like it was obvious.

“Oh.” Was he shy?

...Stupid, stupid skeleton.

“Gaster I swear to god, if you don’t get in this bed in the next five seconds I will use my magic on you, I don’t care what state my SOUL is in.”

He sighed, hastily unbuttoning his lab coat, unbuckling his belt and kicking off his slacks, both carelessly tossed to the floor to reveal boxers with a little bone print pattern. It also revealed his bones, and you couldn’t help your eyes roving over his new (or perhaps old) form. He looked just as one would imagine, an animated skeleton with a broken skull, but it was so very strange to see the monster you’d fallen in love with appear this way.

“Cute.” you commented pointing at his boxers, and he rolled his eyelights.

He crawled into bed with you, mattress dipping down with his additional weight, and you situated yourself against him. You didn’t have much choice, he was huge, taking up much of the space.

“Does this bother you?” you asked, glancing up at his wary eyelights.

“Am I offending your modesty?”

“Not this one.” you answered simply, fingers lazily trailing over the bones of his arm in a tired sort of fascination. “Never you.” He wore the fondest of smiles then, carefully running his fingers through your messy hair, and you felt your eyelids grow heavy.

“Wanna make it even?” you murmured, words slightly slurred as you fought to stay awake.

You heard him make a sleepy ‘Hmm?’ sound, and felt it through his ribs, a low and deep hum that made a strange heat curl in your belly.

You reached for the hem of your shirt, grabbing a fistfull of the fabric and tugging it up your body--

Quicker than you could track, his bones clamped around your wrist, pulling your hand right back down, your shirt along with it. Gaster’s skull was a blazing amethyst, and his eyelights were dim little pinpricks.

<No. That will not be necessary.> You could hear his breath shuddering slightly, and you thought you might have heard a quiet rattle of bones.

“No fun.” you mumbled, rolling onto your side and tucking yourself securely against him. He was, well, bony. Hard and solid against you, perhaps not the most comfortable bedmate. You hardly cared, he was here, you were not alone.

<Will you please sleep now?> he asked, perhaps a little amused and exasperated at your antics.

“‘s long as you’re here, yeah.” you drowsed, words thick. “Thought I lost you.” Your eyes slipped closed and you could no longer read his signs, but you could feel unfamiliar arms made of bones wrap around you, and very familiar lips pressed against your temple.

“...Love you.”

You were asleep within seconds.

You did not dream.

#My writing #fanfiction #fanfic #undertale #w.d. gaster #gaster #from the mouth of an injured head

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ohmeohmayohmy · 5 years ago

Text

With the Slightest Smile, Chapter 11

Taglist: @reedusteinrambles @juxt4p0siti0n @kurtnehhhh @chlobo6 @reavenedges-lies @livcaper @singularpurplepansy @geek-and-proud

Notes: Alright folks, here she is in all her glory. I had to take so much out, it was originally like 17k or something ridiculous, but she’s still pretty lengthy. I hope it was worth the wait. I’m sorry for my impromptu hiatus, hopefully something like that doesn’t happen again. I am very grateful for the patience and kindness you have shown me in the last few weeks. The vibe of the chapter is very different to me, for some reason. So I hope you enjoy it, even if it’s not what you expected. But maybe that’s part of storytelling anyway. 🤔

Warnings: Language, illness.

Words: 14.1k+

___________________________________

February 23, 1974

It was a bleak day, greyness settling into the room.

A hazy beam of light shot through a slit in the curtains. You groggily moved your head so you were able to face away from the brightness, trying your best to ignore the morning.

It took the first few moments of your waking to remember that you were not sleeping in your own room. The walls were stark white, the bedspread was a dark striped quilt, and there was nowhere near the same amount of clutter strewn about the floor. You felt a vague warmth from the spot next to you, with only an indentation in the sheets. It was enough to rouse you to sit up, jolting you from the daze that had befallen you mere moments before.

Streaking sunshine striped across your face more freely in your upright position. It filled your eyes, making any sense of sight difficult. The glass from the single framed picture on the wall reflected the luminosity. The dull tones in the room gave you an eerie feeling, uneased by the lack of colorfulness.

Even the photograph in the frame was in black and white, depicting a lovely forest without its liveliness.

You shivered, pulled the covers up to your bare chest, and settled into the foreign blankets. Is it always going to be this strange?

Behind the door, you could hear water running, assuming it was coming from the kitchen. With a mumble, you slipped out from the sheets and onto the floor, searching for anything resembling clothes. Eventually you recognized that your dress from the night before was crumpled at the foot of the bed. You tiptoed over to it and slipped the loose garment over your head, looping your arms through the sleeves. The frock was wrinkled, but you decided to ignore the fact.

You walked across the carpeted floor, suddenly thankful that they weren’t cold and wooden. The door was left slightly ajar, so you gave it a gentle push and entered into the space beyond it.

It led directly out into the living room, which was just as starkly white as the bedroom. The sofa was a light grey, thin linen curtains covered the wall which had small windows. You ran your fingers along the large white bookshelf lining the wall nearest you.

You found it odd that it only housed books. No knickknacks. No decorations of any kind. And absolutely no music albums.

Then it hit you, there was no music playing. Which was a strange occurrence in your home. Brian would always play a record while doing anything, especially washing dishes.

You removed your hand from the bookshelf immediately, once Brian sprang to mind. He had tried to apologize for not calling on Valentine’s Day, saying that he had every intention to tell you he wouldn’t be coming home.

But he never tried to apologize for not showing up.

And that hurt a hell of a lot more.

You inched your way to the kitchen, almost dreading the sight that you knew you would be met with. Not because of who it was, but who it wasn’t.

The steam from the hot water sizzled on the freshly cleaned pot, which you guessed had been the vessel for cooking food. The faint smell of oatmeal wafted through the air. To your left, you could see the pristine white bowl that held two servings’ worth sitting on the counter, placed neatly next to a small container of brown sugar and a strainer of recently washed fruit.

The sticky sound of bare feet on the tile came up from behind you, and a pair of arms wrapped themselves around your waist. You could feel a warm breath through your hair, and leaned back into the embrace. If you closed your eyes, you could almost imagine you were at home. With your best friend.

“Good morning, sweetie.”

Sweetie.

And just like that, your daydream was shattered.

“Good morning, Paul.” You forced cheer into your voice, and twisted around to press your face into his chest. “How long have you been up?” You knew it hadn’t been a considerable amount of time, but the question was more of a pleasantry than anything.

Paul hummed into your forehead before planting a soft kiss. “Not too long.”

You groaned, muffled by his shirt. “Well, I’ve been up much too long already.”

He scoffed at your comment and pulled away from you enough to meet your eyes, beaming down at the frizzy hair that haloed your face.

“Something on your mind, sweetie?”

That word again. It bothered you.

It bothered you a lot.

“Not at all.” You shook your head, honeying your tone. He grinned before releasing you.

“I made breakfast.”

“I can see that,” you motioned to the counter where the food was lined up perfectly. “But it doesn’t look like you made anything for yourself.” He scoffed again, amused by your dry comment.

“If you’re that hungry,” Paul responded, “I suppose I could get something else.” He paused. “Is your cake from the restaurant still in the refrigerator?”

You scowled. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Too late. I’m already thinking about it.” He placed his arms around you again, this time bringing your head closer to him rather than your waist. Even his scent, which you should’ve been accustomed to by now, was unfamiliar. Or, at least, it wasn’t what you had come to expect.

“Can I eat now?”

Paul laughed down at you. “As you wish.”

You playfully pushed him off of you so you could turn around and grab some of the food. He grabbed the largest of the three dishes, which held the oatmeal, so you grabbed the sugar and fruit.

“Should I grab some spoons and—”

“Oh, I already set the table.”

Of course he did.

“Oh, nice,” you smiled.

You put the things you were carrying down next to the big bowl and moved to sit in your recently designated seat.

“When do you have to go to work?”

“‘Ve got the whole weekend off.” You leaned back in your chair with a boastful manner.

“Lucky girl,” Paul grinned. He rose up halfway out of his seat to place a peck on your cheek. You scrunched up your face at the affectionate contact, feeling a slight blush forming on your skin. He pulled away to return to sitting, and scooped a sizable portion out from the large bowl to relocate into his own. You took the ladle from him and helped yourself to the warm oatmeal.

“What about you?”

“You know I have to go later.”

You groaned. “Do you though?”

Paul squinted, teasing and taunting. “It’s not like I save lives or anything.”

“That’s for sure,” you giggled, taking a blueberry into your mouth. “We can’t all be heroes.”

“No. Just you.”

He gazed at you with an adoration that you were certain you had seen before. But the face looked off. The hair was wrong, the features warped. You couldn’t shake the sense of untrueness that had settled in the pit of your stomach.

The discomfort must have broken across your face, because the jolly gleam that radiated from his face faded away. “Something wrong?”

Yes.

“No.” You rubbed your thumb across his hand.

“If you say so.”

“Thank you for breakfast, by the way.” You changed the topic quickly, motioning to the table.

Paul nodded and shrugged. “It’s the least I could do.”

“I’m sure you could do less,” you quipped. “In fact, I’ve seen it.”

He pouted. “You come into my home—”

“Is there a problem with that?”

Paul snorted, the wrinkles around his smiling eyes deepening. “Not at all.”

“Good.” You gave him a side eyed glance, acting suspicious.

“Though,” he continued, “if you’d have me, I would really like to spend more time at your flat—”

“Oh.”

“And meet your friends?”

“You’ve already met most of my friends.” You tried to play off your discomfort as confusion.

“But just as some bloke, Y/N, not as your boyfriend.” You visibly shuddered at the mention of that word. He contorted his face, stretching it into an expression of befuddlement. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Paul.”

“You look troubled.”

You lowered your head, sheepish. “I just…I didn’t realize that’s where we were.”

“What do you mean?”

For an intellectual he’s incredibly thick.

“Boyfriend…girlfriend…”

“Oh.”

Neither of you said anything for what seemed hours. At most, it was really only three minutes.

Paul cleared his throat, signaling that he was prepared to speak. “I only figured, y’know, since you’ve been staying over so often.”

It was true. You had only spent a couple of nights at your own home since Valentine’s Day, which was more than a week ago, and that was only when you could be certain that Brian wouldn’t be there. Let alone his new lady love.

“No, I understand why it feels that way,” you nodded slowly. “We just never had the talk.” Pause. “That’s all.” Your mind was frozen from the sheer awkwardness of the situation. You wanted to be in control of where this thing with Paul was headed, but he caught you blindsided. He knew you didn’t want to get too serious with anyone, which he attributed to your getting over someone else. You made it clear that wasn’t the case, many times. But neither of you fully believed it.

“That’s all?”

No.

“Yes.”

Paul inhaled deeply, suddenly very invested in his silverware. “It’s not too much too soon, right?”

“Hmm?”

“I mean, given our timeline, it’s not going too fast for you, is it?”

“Paul, I’m not as fragile as you might think,” you tried to tease, but it might have come out more indignant than playful. “I took you home literally the day we met.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Technically, the day after…”

You rolled your eyes. “New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day, what’s the difference?” He opened his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. “It was a rhetorical question.” You narrowed your eyes, recognizing the perfect snarky comment you had set up for him. “That was nearly two months ago. I think our timeline is a little unconventional, anyway.”

“I suppose.”

“And we’ve only been seeing each other regularly for about…”

“Nine days?”

Someone’s precise.

You nodded in confirmation. “So, there really hasn’t been a time to have the conversation.”

Paul glanced down at his wristwatch. “I’ve got some time now.” You gave him a withering look. He noticed, almost startled. “Or not. Some other time.”

“You know it’s nothing wrong with you, right?” Your voice became softer, gentler, tapping a hand on his chin.

“I think you’d have said something if it was,” he smiled, before kissing your hand. You scoffed and didn’t attempt to argue. He brought out the opinionated side of you.

But you also didn’t want to say what was “wrong” with him, because it fundamentally wasn’t wrong at all. It would be unfair to say that.

He just wasn’t Brian.

But you couldn’t admit that. Not to anyone. Not even yourself.

In a desperate attempt to move your mind away from anything that might make you say something you regret, you blurted, “You’re welcome to come to dinner tonight.” But your tongue instantly burned with regret anyway.

Paul hesitated. “Are you sure?”

“Stella insisted that I ask.”

He grinned. “The infamous Stella?”

“The very same.”

“It’s an honor.”

You laughed, genuinely. “I’d say so.”

“Just the three of us? That’s a lot of pressure.”

You laughed again, but in a more reassuring manner. “Odette will probably join us, and that would soften the blow. And I think John and Veronica will be there, if she can get him out of bed.” You felt cheeky making your remark, but it seemed to go over Paul’s head.

“Oh good, I’ll know someone, then.”

“Mmhmm.”

“Will the rest of the band come too?”

“In that case, it depends if Fred can get Roger out of bed.” You didn’t want to make the same insinuation, so your intonation changed, and this time it landed.

“For dinner?”

“You’d be surprised.” Your comment made Paul chortle.

You carefully avoided saying anything about Brian. You just hoped he wouldn’t be there.

The emotional distance that had befallen your relationship in the last few months was killing you, but a public dinner starring your new beau didn’t seem the best place to air out anything between you and Brian.

And something about bringing Paul made you feel preemptively ashamed.

“Is it somewhere nice? Or should I wear something more casual than my work attire?”

“If Freddie’s got any say in the matter, it’ll be somewhere a little too posh for the mood.”

“So, a suit should suffice?”

“That would be your safest bet, I’m sure,” you answered sweetly. It was like you were trying to cover up the guilt from the thoughts that were invading your mind.

Once the two of you were finished with your breakfast, Paul stood up and grabbed the dirty dishes, taking them into his large arms. You picked up the utensils and the cloth napkins that weren’t even soiled.

“Should I pick you up from your flat, then?” He asked while wiping down the bowls.

The simple act of him doing the cleaning of the dishes threw you off, as it would usually be you while someone else was drying them. “Huh? Oh, yeah. That’d be great.”

“What time?”

You looked up from your fixation on Paul’s soapy hands. “The others agreed to meet around seven-seven thirty this evening. If that works for you?”

“Lucky for me, I get off at six.”

“Perfect. Stella and Odette will probably be there when you drop by.” You took a rag to dry the bowls, but he put up a hand to stop you, gingerly taking the fabric from your grasp. “I can help, you know.”

“Yes, I know, but is it wrong for me to want to let my girl relax?”

Paul’s response made your heart swell.

“Guess not,” you simpered, standing on your toes to kiss him on the cheek.

“So,” he reverted the conversation back to its former subject, “will Stella and Odette need a ride too?”

You took a half-step back. “Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Paul’s voice emitted kindness. You felt a sense of giddiness rolling in. It was unexpected.

“I don’t know what I would do without you.”

But the words stung as you said them to the wrong man.

* * *

“Are you comin’ to dinner tonight?”

Brian flicked his eyes up to look at Roger, without moving the rest of his face. “Wasn’t aware of it.”

Roger furrowed his brow. “Y/N didn’t ask you to come?”

Brian’s expression softened. “No.”

“She’s bringing Paul, Stella wanted to meet him.”

“So everyone else has to go?”

“Guess so,” Roger shrugged. “At least Deaky does. He and Paul are mates, or something. Y/N thought it would be best, so it didn’t seem like everyone was against ’im.” He grinned. “Fred and I are just going to see Stella in action.”

“I’m sure it will be nice for you to be on the same side for once.”

“We used to get along! And ’ve been quite civil.”

“You’re not the one who has anything to be discivil about.”

“Eh,” Roger swatted a hand at his companion.

“Haven’t you met Paul already, anyway? At some concert or party?”

“Yeah, but that was just as Deaky’s friend. Besides, ’m more interested in what Y/N sees in him, aren’t you? I mean, if I were in love with someone, I’d want to know what they like. Wouldn’t you?”

Brian hadn’t thought of it like that.

“I’m not in love with Y/N,” Brian grumbled.

Roger’s mouth dropped in objection. “You’re gonna let this little fling with Almost Perfect erase the last twelve fucking years of your emotional development?”

“Her name is May.” Brian glared. “And since when do you care about my emotional development?”

Roger ignored the question, finding the opportunity to aggravate Brian too tempting. “Why’d you call her Almost Perfect, again? Because she wasn’t quite what you wanted? Who you wanted?” His eyes grew devilish. “What makes you think it’s gonna be different this time?”

“Because it has to be,” Brian answered with a barely perceptible whisper.

Roger swallowed a thick breath, studying Brian’s angular face. He looked completely disheartened. And the enormous dark circles under his eyes did not help.

“I can’t keep holding out for something intangible.”

“How do you know it’s not worth it? If she means the world to you, then you should give it to her.”

“She doesn’t want me, Roger. Never has.”

“Don’t pretend that she spurned you, Brian. You never said a bloody thing. Could’ve been you shagging her on New Year’s, but it wasn’t, because it was too overwhelming for you. You just had to step outside for some fresh air, leaving Y/N alone.”

“It’s the same every year. And the one time I decide to not wait around to watch her snog some random person she just met, she comes looking for me.”

Roger was losing his patience. “Get over it, man. It was two bloody months ago!” He sighed. “Just be with May, enjoy her while she sticks around. Not every woman is gonna sit by and watch you fall in love with your best friend.”

Brian sunk his head into his hands. “Oh god.”

“What?”

“May. I feel awful.”

“Well, yeah, some part of her must know, right?”

Brian disregarded the question, not wanting to answer. “She’s great, doesn’t deserve me treating her this way.”

“You mean completely ignoring her?”

Brian nodded timidly. “I should do something. Something big.”

Roger phased out of his therapist role, and took on a much more devious one. “For starters, you could bring her to dinner tonight.”

* * *

“What time did he say he’d come to pick us up?”

“Sometime after six, he gets off then.”

“Good, maybe then you’ll not be throwing clothes on at the last minute, like every other time, ever.”

You snickered at the overly-Americanized drawl.

Stella hadn’t looked up from her magazine in at least half an hour. She flipped through with high enthusiasm, scouring for ridiculous trends to gawk at. Odette had fallen ill at the last moment, plagued by migraine. When Stella suggested to stay with her, she only dismissed it by saying “You have to give this Paul guy twice the interrogation,” or so Stella claimed. You sincerely doubted that Odette would ever say that, but you secretly loved when Stella got protective. You just felt bad for the unsuspecting victim of her intensity.

“I always manage to look presentable, don’t I?”

“Always is a strong word, honey.”

You sighed and joined her on the sofa. It caught her attention.

“You know I just mean it in fun, Y/N. No need to get huffy.”

You snapped your head to look at her, confused by her conclusion. “I’m sorry, I wasn’t even listening, Elle.”

Stella put her magazine down on the coffee table. “Are you nervous about dinner or something? It’s not like you’re introducing him to your parents.”

“No, it’s much worse.” You winked at her. “You are much worse.”

She mocked flattery. “Oh, stop it, you.” You gave her a toothy grin before letting your face droop into its previous state. Stella watched you fade away. “Seriously, babe, what’s wrong?” Looking off into the distance, you ran your tongue along the top row of teeth, zoning out. “I didn’t put down my entertainment just for you to ignore me.”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know what?”

“I don’t know what’s wrong.”

Stella affectionately placed one of her large, warm hands on your shoulder, stroking you with her thumb subtly. “Is it work?” You shook your head. “Paul?” You shook your head again. “Is it Brian?” You hesitated before repeating the motion. The brief pause gave Stella all the information she needed. “Did he hang up on you again?” Her words were teasing, but she didn’t let a wisecracking inflection slip.

“No.”

“Did you get in another fight? Seems to be happenin’ quite often.”

“Not really.”

“Not really a fight, or not really often?”

You just nodded.

“Y/N, can you please be direct with me? I’m asking so I can help you.”

“It’s not your job to fix everything, Elle,” you met her dark eyes, smiling at her intentions. “Sometimes Brian’s a stupid little idiot, sometimes I’m a little bit of an idiot, too. I think we’re the ones who ought to do the fixing, yeah?” She didn’t say anything, which you found strange. “No offense,” you quickly added.

Stella looked amused.

“I appreciate that you find me so intimidating that you’re scared your own self deprecation personally offended me, but I promise you, I am okay.” Her face grew sterner. “Although, I don’t condone you calling yourself an idiot.” You smiled meekly. “I was just thinking about how easy it would be to snap his little twiggy body.”

“Stella, please leave Brian alone. I’m sure he has a good explanation for what happened.”

“If you’re so sure, then why haven’t you asked him?”

You knew she had a good point. And you knew the answer to her question: Because I’m afraid to know.

“Haven’t had the chance to talk,” you mumbled begrudgingly.

“Maybe tonight you could pull him aside or—”

“Brian’s not coming,” you spoke more aggressively. It caught her off guard.

“He wants nothing to do with Paul, eh?” She tried to fight back a grin, but it wasn’t working. You just weren’t paying attention.

“No. I didn’t tell him about dinner.”

“Really?”

You lowered your eyes. “Like I said, we haven’t had the chance to talk.”

Stella was no longer amused. “So what? Are the two of you just finding replacements for the other or something?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Really, Y/N? You’re not just using Paul as a distraction?”

“I’m not using Pa—”

“Can’t handle the fact that there’s something wedging itself between you and Brian that you had to go out and find someone else to give you attention?”

“Stella, you know that’s not it.”

“You sure? Because I’ve seen how the two of you dance around each other, for years. I thought it was worse when you were in Finland, but I was wrong.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, eyes swimming. You didn’t know how to retaliate, or even how to respond.

“Almost Perfect has been in the picture before, but even when you were out of the country you made it all work.”

“He’s made it very clear he needs space,” you managed to spit out.

Stella frowned. “He said that?” Her tone was hushed, like she was suddenly expecting Brian to burst in from the kitchen.

“He didn’t need to.” The thought of it brought small tears to your eyes, but you fought against them, leaving you only a little glassy eyed.

This was not the conversation you wanted to be having.

Stella could tell.

“So, what time are we getting picked up, again?”

You broke, allowing a tiny smile to form on your otherwise sullen face. “Shut up,” you croaked. It made Stella give a hearty laugh, roping you into the humor as well.

The room felt airier, as if whatever was looming overhead had dispersed into the atmosphere. Stella’s good for that. Chiming sounds of giggling echoed through the flat, filling it up with happiness that hadn’t seemed to be there in a while. The music that had been softly playing was a welcome addition to the symphony. You were glad to be somewhere full of life, of pleasant sounds. You were glad to be home, even if it was just for a little while.

* * *

The restaurant was nicer than you were expecting, and you felt a little underdressed in your blue frock. As you came in through the entrance, you were greeted by the sight of Freddie, John, Veronica, Mary, and Roger, who were all standing around waiting to be seated. You twiddled with the fabric of your dress, standing still for a moment. Veronica was the first to see the three of you by the door and smiled. The others quickly turned their heads to see you, beckoning for you to join the group. Stella led you and Paul to the others.

“You look stunning, dear,” Freddie cooed as he pulled you into a gentle embrace.

“You always say that,” you whispered playfully. He laughed. You stayed in his arms for a moment, finding his touch comforting.

“It’s always true.”

After the release, Mary smiled politely from behind his shoulder. You shot her a larger grin, but it was mostly for your own benefit.

“How was the drive over?”

“Paul’s still in one piece, so I’d say pretty successful,” Roger sneered. Stella rolled her eyes and glared at the slightly shorter man.

Paul timidly cleared his throat. “It was nice.”

“If you say so.” Roger sounded unconvinced, but the twinkle in his eyes made it clear that he was just poking fun.

“How long is the wait?” Stella asked.

“I thought we had a reservation.”

“We’re a bigger party than expected, they estimated about twenty minutes,” John answered. He looked almost apologetic.

You smiled at Deaky, confused by his demeanor. “Good thing we’re in no rush.”

The sound of the door opening came from behind you, but you didn’t think enough of it to turn around. Footsteps echoed through the foyer.

“Room for two more?” A soft, warm voice lilted.

Your heart skipped a beat at the sweet sound.

Brian appeared next to you, wearing a dark blue blazer and layered silver necklaces. His arm was wrapped around May’s waist, who stood on the other side of him. Neither of you looked at each other.

You swallowed and moved closer to Paul, inching away from the pair.

“Glad you could join us,” Freddie’s tone dripping with sarcasm.

Brian smiled uncomfortably. He scanned the faces around him, eyes landing on Paul before he had the chance to look at you. “Paul, is it?”

Paul’s response was much more genuine. “Yes! Nice to see you again, Brian.” He stuck out a hand to shake, which Brian proceeded to take reluctantly. Everyone could feel the tension, even if they didn’t know why it was there.

“You too.”

“Crazy that Y/N’s your roommate, yeah?” Paul laughed to himself. “Small world.”

Brian looked at you for the first time since he came in. Your eyes met for a split second before you broke away. His gaze lingered.

Roommates.

The time spent waiting did not last much longer, they called your party over to a more private part of the restaurant. You were sat at a long rectangular table. Stella took one end and Roger sat at the other, with the couples filling in at the spots along the sides. Paul sat at Stella’s end, with you on his left. Veronica and Deaky were next to you. Freddie took the end near Roger, with Mary beside him. That left Brian sitting directly across from you.

The worst place imaginable, you complained internally. But you were going to be the bigger man, so to speak, and not give him a dramatic confrontation.

Brian’s eyes were glued to the cloth napkin placed neatly in his lap. He could hear May speaking to him at a low volume, and nodded occasionally to simulate interest in what she was saying. She sounded flustered, nervous, even though she had already been around his friends plenty of times before. Brian already regretted the evening.

Across the table, he could see Paul leaning in to whisper something in your ear. Your eyes would widen, or you would giggle at whatever was said. Enchanted—charmed—by this man who was, quite literally, taking his place.

It killed Brian to be sitting on the other side of the table.

But from where you sat, all you could see was some beautiful girl’s hand placed gently on Brian’s arm, speaking in hushed tones as she stroked calmly.

It angered you.

It angered you that he chose her over you, on the night that was always just about the two of you. It angered you that he came without invitation, and brought her along. But mostly, it angered you that he could sit there and act like none of it happened.

Brian was supposed to be your best friend, but lately, he wasn’t much of a friend at all. Too distant, physically. Emotionally.

You were startled by the server asking for your drink order. “Water, please.” The waiter nodded cordially before asking John for his, and so on. You decided to stop obsessing and redirect your focus on your date, who appeared to be getting along with Stella quite well. You rubbed Paul’s shoulder that was closest to you and let a smile cover your face.

“What do you think you’ll order?” Stella asked.

You realized you had forgotten to look at the menu.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you grazed your eyes over the open menu in front of you. “Not in the mood for salad.” You leaned in closer to Paul. “I always have to get a salad.”

“Occupational hazard,” he joked.

“It comes with the vegetarian title.”

May’s ears perked at your comment. “Are you vegetarian, too?”

“Mmhmm, I’m an even better one than Brian,” you snarked. She laughed, maybe a little too hard, but you didn’t say anything.

“It’s true, I confess,” Brian responded. “I do enjoy prawns from time to time.”

“A prawn-etarian, perhaps?” May attempted to riff off the pair of you.

Brian gave a courtesy scoff. “Perhaps.”

You just smiled.

“So, Paul, how did you meet Y/N?” May turned to look at your companion, who was gazing at you intently.

“Oh,” he breathed as he spoke. “I was visiting my little sister at the hospital, and who should work there but this one.” Paul wrapped an arm around you, pulling you closer to kiss your forehead. “And then later that evening, we happened to be at the same New Year’s party, because it turned out her friend John was also my friend John.”

“Small world,” you added in a short manner, reiterating his words from earlier.

“Sparks flew, and I just knew something was going to happen. Or maybe it was just wishful thinking,” Paul paused. Both he and May laughed. “What do you think, sweetie?”

You tried to shake off the impending grimace.

“I’d say it was almost mutual.”

The coy comment earned a burst of laughter from several people around the table as the waiter came back with your drinks. You smiled and mouthed “Thank you” as he handed you a glass of water.

“Nothing stronger, Y/N?” Freddie called from the other end of the table. He sounded personally offended. You gave him an unamused glare, followed by you sticking your tongue out at him. He returned the favor. So far, Freddie has been the only one to make you genuinely smile.

May offered Brian a taste of her wine, which he accepted. He had also ordered water, planning on driving home himself, but he figured one sip wouldn’t hurt.

You turned to look at John and Veronica, who were conversing quietly. You could feel a sweet energy bouncing between them, so enamored. It made you sad that you didn’t have the same experience.

At that moment, Paul’s hand rubbed your back as he struck up a conversation with Stella and May. You appreciated the gesture, small and intimate. It made up for the momentary blues. I have someone.

But you didn’t know if he had you.

* * *

The food was delicious. You ended up getting some kind of fancy flatbread, and were looking forward to dessert, eyeing the red velvet cake on the menu. Brian gave you a meaningful look, almost as if to say, “I know what you’re getting.” It was the second time someone had made you genuinely smile all evening.

Paul leaned into you, asking, “Would you like to split the chocolate torte?”

“I kind of have to get the red velvet.” You emphasized it in a way that made it sound like you were being forced against your will. Brian snickered inaudibly. You didn’t detect it.

“Oh? Is that so?”

“Sorry,” you teased, “I don’t make the rules.” You held up your hands in defeat. Paul smirked, and shook his head.

“What a terrible fate.”

Finally, you thought. He’s being sarcastic. Since you’d started seeing each other, you noticed that Paul was acting more docile, more nurturing. You wanted the humor, the sharp comments. It’s only the honeymoon phase. That’s one of the reasons why you hated beginning new relationships.

They never feel real.

“Red velvet is the way to her heart,” Stella joked, flashing a wink at Paul.

Brian scoffed to himself, but this time you could hear it. You looked at him, but when you did, he was just enjoying his food. With an arm around May.

“Got something to say?” You asked him, pretending to be jocose, but you meant to be interrogatory.

Brian looked up at you, giving doe eyes. “Hmm? No.” He touched his throat. “Just a little cough.”

You didn’t buy it, but decided to ignore it anyway.

“I guess I’ll know better than to ask about chocolate tortes next time.”

You looked at Paul, who was already watching you. You planted a kiss on his cheek, smearing a thin layer of lipstick on his face. He was pleasantly surprised.

“I appreciate the offer though,” you tapped your hand against his chest lightly.

The gesture made Brian tense up.

“Well, I appreciate your appreciation,” Paul replied in a cheeky manner, wiggling his eyebrows. It made you laugh.

Roger saw the interactions from a farther distance. He saw the way Brian’s head drooped when you tapped Paul’s chest, the way your jaw tightened when you saw Brian’s arm around May. In the process of it all happening, he was uncharacteristically quiet.

Freddie noticed Roger’s silence and followed his line of sight, then nodded in understanding, picking up on the tension. Paul and May were blissfully unaware, too wrapped up in their partners to see the little things.

And you and Brian were too wrapped up in your fixations to really pay attention to each other.

Feeling the need to do something, Freddie began to tap his glass and stood up. Everyone’s gaze fell on him. His eyes glittered beautifully.

“I would like to say that it’s wonderful to see a group of such darling people come together.” He beamed at the faces of his friends surrounding him. “The amount of affection in this room is astounding, and I adore every single one of you. For being open and emotional and kind.” His smile broadened. “As well as for a number of other reasons. So, thank you all for being here to share it with the rest of us.”

Freddie looked down and rubbed his nose, like he was trying to think of what to say next.

“To relationships,” he raised his glass a little higher. “Both old,” he gestured to Mary, “and new,” he scanned the cheerful faces of the other couples in acknowledgement.

“To finding the love of your life,” Freddie winked at Veronica and John, who were tangled up in each other.

He moved his attention to the other end of the table, where you were seated. Brian’s eyes glazed over as he realized where this was heading, and heard the last words depart from Freddie’s mouth: “To falling in love with your best friend.”

Brian’s cheeks grew rosy, his mouth dry.

He hoped it would go over your head. And it did, but for a different reason.

Because it never occurred to you that, in all the years since you left for Finland, you could still love Brian May. You had missed the moment, it was the end of the story.

You couldn’t even think about it. Still too sore a subject.

Especially since Almost Perfect was sitting across from you with her hand holding his.

“Cheers, dears,” Freddie held out his glass. The rest of you did the same, followed by an echoing chorus of “Cheers”.

Paul tenderly brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. You closed your eyes and leaned into his warmth.

“I think I want to be your girlfriend,” you mused aloud. While it was said at a low volume, Brian heard every word.

And with every word, his heart broke a little more.

“If you’ll have me,” you added, opening your eyes.

Paul hummed into your hair as he placed his lips at the top of your head. “You don’t want to talk about it?”

With a short pause, you came to a decision.

“I don’t need to think about it anymore.”

You sat up and stroked his face.

“I just need you.”

Brian was slain.

_______________

March 8

You groaned at the sound of your alarm.

4 a.m.

Too fucking early.

The coziness of your own bed was too enticing.

It had been one of the rare nights where you slept alone, in your flat. Paul had been spending time with his family out of town, which you happily embraced on his last night away.

Not that you didn’t want to spend time with him.

But he couldn’t compare to home.

You wrestled with the blankets for half a second, before finding yourself falling out of bed. It wasn’t a long drop, but it did make a loud sound. Thank god I’m alone.

However, Brian was awoken by your tumble. He jolted up and shuffled down the hallway to locate the source of the sound, but was certain it came from your room.

Silently praying you weren’t with Paul, he swung open the door, and saw you laughing to yourself as you were pulling your body up, with the bed as your support.

You looked up at him. His eyes sparkled in the darkness.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Brian’s voice was scratchy from lack of use, but it still maintained its softness.

“I’m okay. Just fell out of bed.” You hoisted yourself into a standing position. “Sorry to wake you. Didn’t know you were here.”

He took a step closer to you. “You make it sound like you fell on purpose.”

You smirked at him. He smells nice.

“What?” He asked, almost defensively.

“Nothing,” you answered, feeling a wave of breathlessness. Tearing your eyes away from Brian’s face, you pretended as though you’d just thought of the question, “No May?”

Brian didn’t respond verbally, but rather with a quick shake of the head.

The air fell dead for a few moments. It wasn’t awkward, which gave you a small amount of joy. Things felt normal between you two.

Brian cleared his throat. “Are you coming tonight?” He asked weakly, referring to the first concert promoting their second album.

“I want to.”

He smiled in a way that made your heart ache.

“But I don’t know if I can.”

“Work?” He tried to cover up the hurt.

You nodded “I have to be up early again tomorrow. And the show’s out of town…”

“Right.”

You took a step closer to Brian. “You know I want to be there for all the big moments. And the little ones.” You could feel yourself tearing up, but you didn’t know why. “But I can’t always be. I’d love nothing more.” A tear slipped down your cheek. “I just can’t.”

Suddenly it felt like you weren’t talking about the concert anymore.

“Hey,” he whispered, reaching out to wipe away the droplet. “Don’t—”

“I’m sorry,” you choked. Brian pulled you to him, keeping you close. Safe in his arms.

The smell of sage filled your senses. The smell of home.

--January 11, 1964--

“It’s cold.”

“Gee, really?”

You scowled at Brian, who was laying in the grass below you as you were standing and shivering. “You’re the one who suggested I get out of bed at eleven o’clock at night. In bloody January.”

“But it’s a beautiful night.” He extended his arm up to the sky.

The cold light of the constellations twinkled down upon you, millions of them shining from so far away. You had to admit, it was all so breathtaking.

“I’ll give you my jumper,” Brian spoke softly. You peered down at him. He was blinking slowly as he studied your face in the starlight. Hopeful.

“You don’t have to do that, Bri.” You hugged your arms tighter around your body. “Then you’ll be cold.”

He batted a hand in your direction. “I’ve got layers.” You couldn’t contain the snort that escaped into the air. It only seemed to encourage him. “And if you sit next to me, I’ll be fine.”

You squinted at him, not sure about his solution.

“I promise,” Brian insisted. “Body heat is a great way to warm up.”

“Are you sure?”

He nodded solemnly. “I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t sure.” You cocked your head, implying that you thought otherwise. “Oh, c’mon! ’M not that mean.”

The look on Brian’s face was the greatest factor in convincing you, it was an expression of plea. You nodded in cession and moved to sit on the ground beside your friend. He scooted over slightly so he could pull off the brown jumper without elbowing you somehow. In doing so, the grabby material of the jumper pulled up the hem of the shirt he wore underneath, exposing some of his midriff to the chilly winter air. But he paid it no mind, and handed you the large garment. You slipped it on over your head, and nestled into the warmth left over from Brian.

He patted the small patch of grass next to him, suggesting that you join him. You obliged, and leaned up against him.

“It is beautiful,” you affirmed aloud. Brian smiled down at you, but your eyes were now transfixed on the skies above.

“Told you so.”

You adjusted so you could look at him face to face. He stifled the whine that rose in his throat as your body moved away from his, already missing your touch.

“How often do you come out here?”

Brian exhaled, causing the air to fog up around his face. “Just when I need reminding of how beautiful life can be.”

You smiled at his comment. “You’re odd.”

“And it’s one of your favorite things about me,” he puffed out his chest.

“Are you implying that I like more than one thing about you?”

He mimicked insult. “How dare you. ’Ve got many good qualities.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow in feigned surprise. “Like what?”

“You like my cooking.”

“Like is a strong word.”

Brian rolled his eyes. “Alright. What about my charm?”

You bobbed your head. “That’s one.” He could feel himself begin to blush, and thanked the frosty weather for making his face red anyway.

“Humor?”

“That’s two.”

“See? I’ve got many good qualities that you appreciate.”

“No,” you argued. “You only named three. Three is not many.”

He frowned. “Then how many do you want?”

You considered it for a moment. “Six? Maybe seven?”

“Really? There are seven whole things you like about me?”

“Mmhmm.”

“I didn’t even know I had seven qualities.”

You playfully flapped your hand against his chest, trying to get him to continue. It made you happy when Brian said nice things about himself, but it so seldom happens organically that you had to push to get it out of him.

“Four more, Mister May.” You held up four fingers and wiggled them tauntingly.

He groaned. “Alright, give me a second.” He dropped his head back, thinking. Humming.

You held up a hand to hide your giddy grin, playing it off as you just holding the wool to your face to warm up.

Brian held up four fingers. “Music taste?”

You nodded, not really thinking of it as a personal quality, but decided music was such an important part of him that it would be wrong to say no.

“Love of animals?”

You held up five fingers, wiggling them in anticipation.

“Hmm,” he stopped to think again. “Passion?”

“Fine, I’ll allow it.”

He pursed his lips. “You have a problem with my passion?”

“No,” you squeezed his hand. “I admire it.”

“Then what’s with the ‘fine’?”

“It’s just so blanket.”

“Excuse me?” He tilted his head, confused.

“Like a blanket term. Everyone has passion, I’m looking for things more unique to you.”

“So ‘charm’ wasn’t a blanket term?”

You couldn’t hide your grin anymore. “You want me to subtract one?”

Brian sighed. “No.”

“Give me two more. Good ones.”

“You drive me crazy,” he muttered.

“That’s why you love me,” you beamed.

Brian froze, unsure of how to respond, but you didn’t see his panic stricken face. When he realized this, he relaxed a bit.

“Okay. Um, I built a guitar with my dad. That’s pretty unique.”

“I’d say that’s the definition of unique.”

“Really? I hadn’t the faintest idea that unique meant that.”

You rolled your eyes and pushed his chest lightly. “You stupid genius.”

“That’s seven! I’m a genius!”

“Don’t cheat, I said it.”

“So there are more than seven things you like about me?”

“Oh god!” You shoved your head into your hands. “It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult.”

Brian’s heart fluttered in his chest. With a shaky voice, he joked, “So, you did have an ulterior motive,” but it cut out about halfway through his sentence. It didn’t matter, you knew him well enough to know what he said.

“Shut up.”

“Sorry.”

You returned to your position leaning up against his torso, closed your eyes, and tilted your head back into the crook between his shoulder and neck.

“Which one’s your favorite?”

Brian turned his sights to the stars, taking them in. “I’ve always been quite partial to Dorado.”

You opened one eye. “Which one is that?”

He pointed it out to you. “The dolphinfish.”

“Beautiful.” You closed your eyes again, simply enjoying the peaceful moment. Just you, Brian, and the stars.

“What about you?”

“My favorite constellation?”

“Mmhmm.”

You opened your eyes fully. “I don’t know which ones are out this time of year.”

Brian shrugged. “Wasn’t my question.”

“Alright,” you said hesitantly. “I like Canis Major.”

He nodded. “You’ve always loved dogs.”

“That’s why we’re going to have a herd of them in our house.”

“The more the better.”

“Exactly. You get me.” You sank further into your relaxation, curling up your legs near the rest of your body, and placed a hand on Brian’s chest.

Though he knew it wasn’t the intent behind your words, it sounded like you were saying that one day he would finally get to love you like he always wanted. That maybe the outcome of everything would be you and him.

“Y/N?”

“Hmm?” You lazily laced your fingers around Brian’s, marveling at the delicateness of his hands, admiring them. So slender and dexterous. The tips of his fingers were rough with guitar calluses, but everywhere else they were smooth to the touch.

His breath hitched in his throat. “Do you think you’ll ever get married?”

Bit off topic there, isn’t it, mate?

“I don’t know,” you said simply. “I’d only do it for love.”

Brian chuckled. “Isn’t that why most people do it?”

You shrugged, not moving your focus from his hand. “I mean, I’d want to know that whoever he was loved me endlessly, and that I love him back endlessly. Yeah?”

“Makes sense.”

“Of course it does. I’m very sensical.”

“You mean ‘sensible’?”

“No. I mean sensical.” You dropped his hand gently. “Why’d you ask?”

“Just making sure you knew what you said.”

You shifted in your spot. “Not that.”

“Oh, the marriage thing?” You nodded slowly. “Just came to mind, y’know? Talking about our house.”

“I would never live with another man in our house, Bri.”

“You’d leave your husband for me?” He perked up. “The one you’d love endlessly?”

“Of course, easily.”

“Why?” His heart was beating fast, and he hoped you couldn’t feel it.

“No matter how much I love him, I’ll always love you a little more.”

Abruptly, you sat up in realization.

“I’m not cold anymore, would you like your jumper back? You must be freezing.”

He looked at you, moony eyed. “Oh, no. I’m fine.”

“Seriously?”

Brian cleared his throat.

“You can keep it. It’s yours, love.”

You smiled secretly, taking in the gentle scent of sage.

--1974--

“I have to get to work, Bri. ’M sorry.”

Brian relinquished his hold on you. “I could drive you.”

“No, thank you.” You held a hand to his chest. “You need to rest.”

“One less hour of sleep won’t kill me. Don’t sleep much anyway.”

You observed the dark circles under his eyes. “I really think you should go back to sleep, or at least try to.”

“But—”

“No. I am happy with taking the train.”

His arms fell limp at his sides, defeated. “I’ll barely get to see you as the tour picks up.”

You sighed. “I’ll do everything I can to come tonight, alright?” Brian nodded half-heartedly. “Sunderland?”

“Yes. Seven thirty.”

“Okay,” you started to move him back through the bedroom door so you could change into your uniform. “I hope to see you then.” You shut it with a smile.

* * *

Setting up for the gig didn’t take very long, Brian’s equipment took less time than he anticipated, so all he had to do was sit and wait. He bounced his legs anxiously, wanting time to pass more quickly. The others moved around busily as he remained still, watching the seconds tick away on the clock facing him.

After watching for a few minutes, Deaky made his way to where Brian was frozen.

“Something on your mind?”

Brian looked at the brunet standing before him, peeling his eyes from the clock. “No.”

Deaky pursed his lips. “You’re not good at hiding things, d’you know that?”

“I’ve nothing to hide.”

John sat on the chair beside Brian. “So, you’re a nervous wreck over nothing?” Brian didn’t answer, and stared at his hands instead. Deaky have a small smile. “She’ll come.”

“May’s not seeing a show until next week.”

“You know that’s not who I’m talking about.”

Brian fiddled his fingers with a newfound concentration, trying to avoid the subject.

He had told Deaky everything after Deaky explained what happened between you and him. How New Year’s came to be. Brian needed to know you didn’t sleep with John, and when satisfied with the answer, he spilled the beans.

Everything.

Maybe even more than Roger knew.

“She’s got work,” Brian mumbled.

John tutted. “You really don’t know Y/N at all, do you?” Brian finally brought his eyes up to meet Deaky’s, befuddled. “She’ll get here, or die trying.”

“It’s a lot to ask. She’s always doing incredible things, working with children, curing their ailments. And all I can think about is if she’ll catch my gig.” Brian scoffed at his own audacity. “What am I doing?”

“You’ve found yourself caught between Perfect and Almost.” John teased affectionately. “What is there to do?”

Brian grinned out of amusement.

It felt wrong to compare you and May. But he knew it was true for him.

“Loving your best friend is hard,” he whispered, scared any of the passers by might hear.

Deaky became lost in his own thoughts, envisioning Veronica. “I’d say it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Brian smiled for his friend. “Already?”

“Yes.”

“I’m happy for you, Deaks.” He patted John’s shoulder.

Deaky returned the favor. “And I, you.”

“Why? Because I always find ways to make everything increasingly difficult for myself?”

“You’re a persistent bastard, Brian,” John retorted.

“You’re happy because of that? You hate it when—”

“It’ll happen. You’ll make it happen, somehow.”

Brian slumped his shoulders. “Nothing can happen. She’s got Paul, I’m with May. And she doesn’t feel that way.”

“This thing with Paul is just a drop in the bucket. I doubt anything will come of it.”

“That doesn’t change anything for me, John.”

Deaky got up from his seat, laughing to himself. “Y/N loves you infinitely, and it shows. You just have to look in the right places.” Then he strolled away. But Brian wasn't paying enough attention to watch him leave, because he was hung up on the words Deaky had spoken.

Infinitely.

Endlessly.

Time finally seemed to move faster for him. Before he knew it, it was time to congregate backstage to prepare for the performance.

“Ready to kick this thing off?” Freddie stood proud, hands on his hips, in the middle of the dressing room.

Roger nodded enthusiastically while the poor hairstylist was trying to fix his hair.

John wasn’t listening, but bobbed his head anyway.

Brian started playing with his curls, nervous. He was jittery, feeling energy bouncing through his extremities. Then a bolt of pain expanded in his abdomen.

“Ah fuck,” he whispered as he clutched the area troubling him.

Freddie saw it happen, and marched over quickly. “Are you alright, Brian?”

Brian gave a short nod, lips clenched tightly. “Yes.”

“You don’t look it, dear.” Freddie put the back of his hand up to Brian’s forehead. “Feel a little warm.”

Brian swatted at him to move. “I’m fine, Fred.”

Roger got up to see what was happening, and upon seeing the concern on Freddie’s face, asked, “Nauseated?”

“No,” Brian groaned. “Just nervous, perhaps?”

“Doubt it, mate. You don’t get stage fright.”

“And it doesn’t normally result in a fever,” Freddie added.

“I said I’m fine.”

Freddie and Roger exchanged glances.

“I promise.”

Roger was the first to cave. “If you say so…”

“But if you start to feel worse,” Freddie began to instruct, “you need to let someone know.” Brian nodded subtly in agreement, swallowing shallowly.

“Don’t say anything to Y/N when she gets here, though.”

“Why the hell shouldn’t we?”

“She’ll get worried over nothing.”

“She’s a medical professional. If she’s worried about something, it probably means there’s something wrong with you.”

Brian shifted his weight, unsure of how to rebut. He came up with nothing, so he just gave a pleading look. “Please don’t.”

Freddie curled his lip. “Fine.”

“If he dies, it’s on you,” Roger whispered.

The door to the dressing room swung open. Everyone looked up expectantly, thinking it might be you (or any of their significant others), but it was just one of the stage crew members. “You’re on in ten.” He slammed the door behind him. The noise echoed throughout the otherwise quiet room.

“Drink some water,” Roger snipped at Brian. “Maybe take an aspirin.”

Brian complied.

A soft knock followed shortly after, but nobody moved to get it. With a sigh, Deaky got up from his seat to answer. He smiled at the sight of Veronica. She pulled him out into the hallway with her to converse privately.

After a few quiet minutes a loud call was made, telling John, and effectively the others, the band had to move side stage. Brian rubbed his eyes, trying to ease the dull ache behind them.

Roger clapped a hand to his bandmate’s shoulder, cheering him on. “Let’s do this.”

Brian pried open his eyes and carefully moved to the doorway, following Freddie and Roger’s bouncing gaits in a slower fashion.

Exiting the room, the three of them saw Deaky kissing Veronica sweetly, arms entangled. Freddie coughed. They turned to look at him. He grinned, pleased with himself. “Duty calls, John.”

As a group, the five of them navigated the corridors of the venue. Veronica noticed Brian moving like death, and whispered something into Deaky’s ear. He nodded in confirmation. Veronica then smiled tenderly and turned to Brian. “She’ll be here.” Brian could only muster a small grin, but the words meant more to him than he expressed.

But the time until it started was running out, and you were still nowhere to be seen.

“And now, we here at the Locarno are proud to present…”

The announcement was being made. You were out of time.

“Queen!”

Applause erupted through the venue, screams filling to the rafters.

Freddie led the group onstage, strutting about in his outlandish attire.

John went second, keeping his bass close to his body, a grand smile stretching across his face.

Roger waved, showing off his physique, making some girls in the front chant his name. He gave a wink and twirled the drumstick in his left hand.

Brian entered last, holding a firm grip on the neck of his Old Lady. He flashed a grin to the audience, giving a small thumbs up. The problems from real life had to melt away, so he pushed your absence and the bout of physical anguish as far from his thoughts as possible.

Once they hit their positions, they started playing the opening to “Keep Yourself Alive” as a unit.

Brian eased into the performance more as it progressed, gracefully transitioning from one song to another. He felt a desire to push harder, relieve the underlying tension somehow. When “Liar” began, it gave him the perfect opportunity. He struck a firm stance, gearing up to play as strongly as he could.

The only thing that ruined his focus was a beam of light coming from backstage. Brian quickly turned to look at the source, and found you opening the door to get into the wing. You came. He couldn’t let his playing falter, but just knowing you were there gave him the boost he needed to kick off the song in the right way. He ripped his eyes away from the sight of you, a newfound glint in his eyes.

What Brian didn’t see was Paul trailing behind you. Not until “Liar” came to an end, after its epic 10 minute rendition, when he dared to give you a smile. Your face was lit up, infatuated by the dazzling performance. But at that moment, all he could see was the man whose arms were wrapped tight around your waist.

The color drained from him face.

And Brian wished he hadn’t begged you to come.

_______________

April 13

“Excited?”

Deaky looked up from his lunch. “For what?”

You and Veronica shared a glance and laughed. “America, John,” she cooed, a sunny expression dancing across her face.

“I s’pose I should be. We do leave tomorrow.”

Paul straightened up in his seat next to you, in the booth. Once you two had started dating officially, he started to accompany you to your regular lunches with John and Veronica. “What’s the first stop?”

“Denver,” Deaky replied, voice squeaking slightly. “Don’t really know how they’ll react over there.”

You stole one of your boyfriend’s chips and chewed the tip off, then pointed it at John. “They’ll love you, John. Don’t worry.”

“I wasn’t worried,” Deaky raised his eyebrows, “just thinking out loud.”

Veronica tore her eyes away from him to face you, as she sat directly across the table. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and you could tell a question was forming in her mind. “So, how’s Brian feeling about it?”

You finished the singular chip and grabbed another from Paul’s plate without looking. “I think he’s ecstatic.”

“You don’t sound so sure.” Veronica tilted her head innocuously.

You didn’t know how to respond. “We haven’t really talked about it much.”

“That’s unusual.”

John motioned for Veronica to stop whatever she was doing, but she ignored him.

“Not particularly. We’re busy people, you know. It happens.” You took a sip from your water glass. “Though, it’ll be strange to not have anyone to come home to for a while.” Paul rubbed your back, reminding you that he was there. “At least, not who I’ve grown accustomed to,” you added shortly thereafter.

“Haven’t grown accustomed to me yet?” He teased, continuing his smooth strokes on your spine.

You looked up at his goofy face, and gave an awkward chuckle. “No offense, dear, but I’d say seeing someone for four months is not quite equivalent to twenty years of friendship.”

Paul took a beat, biting his bottom lip in thought. “You’ve known Brian for twenty years?”

“Eh. It’s been more like…” You had to do the math in your head. “...Twenty five? Somewhere around there.”

He whistled, impressed. “I had no clue.”

You simpered. “It’s a lot to compete with.”

Deaky leaned forward, muttering, “Believe me, I know.” Veronica scoffed at the quiet comment, but you just rolled your eyes. Paul was confused by the implications, and you all could tell. John blew out, then elaborated. “I had a little thing for Y/N before I met Veronica.”

She scoffed again. “I’d say it was more than a little thing. Went on for years.”

You propped your head up on the palm of your hand, intrigued. “Really, now. Years?”

Deaky blushed. “I liked you when I met you.”

“And you’re not jealous?” Paul asked Veronica, astounded. She just giggled and shrugged.

John gazed at her with overwhelming affection, taking in her beautiful features. “Well, I loved you when I met you,” he said at a low volume. She kissed his cheek gingerly, and they lost themselves in each other’s eyes.

You sighed, adoring your friends. Observing the gentle glow that emanated from them when they were together. Admiring the little touches of their pinkies when their hands were side by side.

Paul glanced at you, hoping you would say something. Maybe that you loved him. Maybe that Brian was nothing to be jealous of. But you didn’t notice his stare, and you didn’t say anything.

_______________

April 14

“It’s strange to have you drive me to the airport,” Brian said. “I always had to drop you off after you came to visit.”

You laughed. “My, the tables have turned.”

He didn’t look away from you the entire drive. He couldn’t. Wanted to have a clear image of your face, just for good measure. Wanted to memorize you.

“What’s weird to me,” you continued, “is that you’re not leaving at the wee small hours of the morning.”

“It helps that the flight to Denver is much shorter than the one to Melbourne.”

“I’m sure it does,” you beamed.

It occurred to you that Brian was leaving the country. For weeks. Something about it made you feel hollow. Even though things had been rough lately, at the end of the day, he was still your best friend. Your favorite person to talk to.

You held out a hand by your leg, hoping Brian would catch your meaning. He did, and held your smaller hand in his. You traced your pinky around the silver ring you had gotten him for Christmas. The thought of him keeping that reminder of you with him everywhere brought you great comfort. He’s not going to forget me. He’s not going to forget me. He’s not…

“May didn’t want to come?”

Brian seemed caught off guard by your question. “What?”

You pulled your hand away from his. “She didn’t want to come to the airport to see you off?”

“Oh.” That’s not what he thought you meant. “She hates airports. Can’t stand ’em.”

“Said goodbye yesterday, then?”

“Didn’t see her yesterday.”

“Not even before we watched The Sky at Night?”

“No.”

The fact that you were the one to accompany Brian made you feel giddy. Well, maybe not giddy. But you felt a bubble of pride welling up in your chest. Excitement. Satisfaction.

“How’s she getting along with the others?”

Brian bit his lower lip. “They like her.”

“I can understand why,” you responded without a hint of sarcasm. “She’s beautiful and charming.”

“I suppose she is.”

You looked away from the road to give him a glare. “What do you mean, you ‘suppose’? She’s your bloody girlfriend.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it. Just agreeing.”

“Are you planning on breaking up with her?” You didn’t mean to sound so interrogative, but something about the way he spoke about her threw you off.

“What?” Brian’s face was red, flustered by the sudden escalation in conversation. “No!”

Oh.

A pit formed in your stomach.

“Alright. No need to get twitchy.”

“I’m not being twitchy.”

“Sorry I brought her up.” You didn’t take your eyes off the road again.

Brian noticed the subtle shift in your disposition. You sounded almost hurt, but he couldn’t put his finger on why. He couldn’t bring himself to consider the possibility of jealousy, even though it was all he hoped for. Maybe you were just offended by his nonchalance about May.

Your hardened face staring at the road made Brian feel guilty despite not knowing what he did. He missed you, and not just now, but always. Every minute he’s gone from you, not laughing with you.

Every minute with May was only a distraction for him.

Meanwhile, you were trying to convince yourself Paul was more than that.

* * *

The airport was busier than you would have liked. If it hadn’t been for Brian’s looming stature, you were certain that you would have been jostled around by the rushing hordes. He escorted you through the flood of people, keeping his arm firm on the small of your back. Like always. You smiled. Maybe some things never change.

You approached the gate, and saw that Brian’s group had already formed. Everyone except for Freddie was standing in a circle, talking among themselves.

Veronica had her head resting on Deaky’s shoulder, with his arm holding her waist. Roger stood talking to a pair of roadies, laughing loudly.

Brian coughed, informing everyone that you had arrived. They opened up the circle enough for you two to squeeze in, Brian next to Roger, and you next to Veronica. She smiled warmly at you, moving from her position draped on John to see you better.

“No May, Brian?” She asked.

Brian shook his head. “No, it’s only me and my two Old Ladies.” He lifted his guitar case and tilted his head at you.

“I resent the implication,” you huffed, but the comment actually gave you a happy feeling inside.

“Guess that makes Brian your old man, eh, Y/N?” Roger chimed in.

You rolled your eyes. How original. We’re like an old married couple.

“When’s the flight, exactly?”

“Another half hour or so,” John answered, looking at his wristwatch.

Brian itched his nose. “Fred better hurry up and get here, then.”

“He always does,” a voice said from behind you. Freddie grinned as he wormed his way between you and Brian, wrapping an arm around each of your shoulders. “Good thing, too, or else you would all be lost without me.”

“It’s true.” You agreed, then kissed Freddie on the cheek.

He looked up at Brian, smirking. “I still like this one,” Freddie said in reference to you.

Brian glared at him, before saying, “I do too.” Freddie looked pleased that he could tease Brian so well, while remaining undetected. You were none the wiser.

“I think we’ve all grown quite partial,” Roger contributed, picking up on Freddie’s scheme.

John and Veronica simply stifled their laughter, not wanting to make the situation worse for Brian.

It all went over your head.

You looked to Veronica, intending to change the subject. “Are you going with them?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. But maybe later in the tour. Are you?”

“Didn’t want to leave work for so long, so I told Brian I’d only go to America if they’re headlining. He wasn’t so pleased, but I think he’ll be fine without me.”

“Maybe next time,” she smiled.

“Maybe.”

_______________

April 20

You rattled the keys as you came up to the apartment, exhaustion nearly taking over your senses. Work had seemed to last longer than usual.

Your old pal Arthur was overwhelming, asking questions about your new boyfriend, whom you refused to introduce to any coworkers. Doctor Tead made the same casually sexist comments you’d come to expect. And now, you just wanted to sit at home alone. Company from any other person in the world sounded daunting.

Well, all but one. But he wasn’t even in the country.

You put on the kettle to boil some tea water. You were in the mood for some Earl Grey. Brian had replenished the supply before he left, and until now, it never crossed your mind.

The honey was put on the highest shelf in the cupboard, much to your chagrin. You groaned to yourself as you ineptly pulled your body up onto the counter, kicking and wiggling until you were stable on the surface. It winded you much more than you’d care to admit, so you took a moment to breathe and sit there.

With a second wind, you shifted onto your knees and reached up to grab the small jar of honey. Brian restocked that, too.

Getting down was much easier. You bounced off from the counter just as the kettle began to whistle. In pouring the boiling hot water with both hands, you accidentally pressed a finger to the metal. You removed the affected hand to suck on the finger that had been burned. It wasn’t painful enough to do anything more for it. With a spoon, you scooped some of the honey from its container and mixed it into the hot water.

As you spun around to get the milk, you heard the phone ringing. It’s almost midnight, you whined to yourself, and walked into the living room to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Y/N?”

The annoyance dissolved. “Brian?”

“I’m sorry, love, did I wake you?”

The sound of his voice alone made the exhaustion from your day disappear. Warm. Gentle. Kind. You always thought a person’s voice could tell you something about them, and Brian always supported that theory.

“I actually just got home from work.”

“You sound exhausted.” He sounded concerned. You pictured him with a furrowed brow and his mouth in a slight frown.

“Eh, ’ve been worse.” You bit the inside of your cheek. “And I’m better now that I’m talking to you.”

Brian’s tone perked up instantly. “Miss me already?”

I haven’t stopped missing you in months. “I’d have to say I do.”

“I appreciate the honesty.” You could hear the grin in his timbre.

“Where are you tonight?”

“Memphis, then on to New Orleans tomorrow.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there...” You trailed off wistfully.

“Next time, remember?

“Only if—”

“We’ll be headliners, said so yourself.”

“I did say that. And what’s more, I believe it.”

“You always did.” Brian’s voice sounded melancholic. Something wasn’t being said, but you both could feel it.

“What time is it there?” You had dipped into a whisper unconsciously, matching the mood.

“A little before six.”

“In the morning?!”

A gentle tut came from the other end. “No, silly.” You blushed at the playful remark. A short pause befell the line, but Brian shortly came in again before you could say anything. “Is Paul there with you?”

You hugged your legs against your body. “I’m going solo tonight.”

“Sounds nice.”

You took a deep breath. “I really do miss you, Bri.” It hurt, how much you meant it.

“Do you have to go?” His inflection gave away his disappointment.

“Oh, no,” you responded, feeling bad for giving the wrong impression. “There's no place I’d rather be.”

You ended up talking to Brian until he had to go, not even thinking about the international call rates. It was all worth it. When he hung up, you felt a buzzing surge in your body. Every hardship from the past week had slipped far away from your mind. And in your tranquil state, you made your way to bed, tea long forgotten.

_______________

April 21

The show had gone magnificently. Freddie and Roger were practically bouncing with every movement they made. Even Deaky was thrilled. And when one of the roadies suggested they go out for a drink, they all agreed enthusiastically. Only Brian was reluctant.

He made a quick call to May earlier on in the evening, apologizing for not talking in a few days. Of course, she was understanding. She was always understanding. And that made him feel worse. About the phone calls, yes, but mostly about you. He had no problem finding the time to speak to you.

He had no problem loving you.

However, the others convinced Brian that a night out was what he needed, despite his argument, “Every night on the tour is a night out.” They pulled him from the hotel, and got in the limo.

“Forget about May, May,” Roger pushed. “You don’t have to feel guilty about who you talk to.”

“I should at least try to have my girlfriend be one of them.”

“Why? You’ve already got your future wife on the list.”

“Rog, shut up about Y/N.”

“I will when you do.”

Freddie snorted at the pair of them going at it. “Children, calm down.” It deescalated the situation. “We’re here to enjoy ourselves, get lost in the night, alright?” They nodded begrudgingly. “The problems of real life exist out here, but when we go in, let them go.” The driver pulled up to a dark, gritty bar with a line that wrapped around the block. Roger and John groaned at the sight of the people, but Freddie, ever the optimist, smiled at the crowd. “Must be the right place.”

They somehow managed to forgo the queue and skip to the front, getting in as VIPs.

Roger insisted it was his good looks. Deaky suggested it was the wad of cash Freddie handed the bouncer.

They agreed to disagree.

Upon getting into the bar, Brian made a beeline to the empty corner. His head was hurting, and he didn’t want to say anything to the others. Lucky for him, there was an open loveseat away from the action.

A scantily clad waitress, with a genuine smile on her face, came by to ask what he wanted to drink.

“Water, for the headache,” Brian said over the loud music.

“Anything else?”

He thought about it for a second. “And something for the heartache.” The waitress’s smile faltered into one of pity, and hurried off to get his order. Brian leaned back into the chair, rubbing his temples rhythmically, wincing every so often.

An electrifying woman noticed the beautiful man with a pained expression. She had overheard what he said to the waitress, and with each moment, grew more intrigued. She watched the waitress scurry back with a tray carrying two drinks, and Brian accepting them.

The sadness behind his hazel eyes melted her heart.

When the waitress was gone, the woman moved from her seat and took careful steps towards the loveseat, not wanting to disturb the stranger.

Brian looked up as he heard footsteps coming in his direction.

His new companion smiled down at him, tenderly. “Are you okay?”

Brian swallowed heavily, struck by her beauty. “I’ve been better.”

“Haven’t we all, hon.” It wasn’t a question, but a matter of fact. “What are you doing here?”

“Needed a night out.”

She hummed, unsure. “Did you want a night out?” Brian shook his head vigorously. She laughed, which made him ease up a little bit more. “What’s your name, honey?”

“I’m Brian.”

She stuck her hand out, batting her eyelashes without being too forward.

“Peaches.”

_______________

May 11

The train ride from work felt shorter than usual. Maybe it was because you didn’t feel as worn out as you typically were. Whatever the reason, you didn’t mind. It was just before sunset, and the sky looked more exquisite than it had in weeks. You took in the sweet springtime air as you stepped out of the train car, dazzled by the fresh scent of flora surrounding you. It was a day more beautiful than most.

You meandered down the street where you lived, admiring the plant life on the way. Everywhere you looked, it was green and lush.

Nothing would be able to swipe the smile from your face on this day.

* * *

Brian held his head in his hands, the nausea had crept up on him out of nowhere. He had taken a long nap in his hotel room, but couldn’t shake the feeling no matter what he did. Even the aspirin stopped working. He sloughed the covers off and rolled out of bed, walking on aching, spindly legs to the bathroom. The stream of cold water felt refreshing on his hands, and even more so on his burning face.

A booming knock came at the main door of the suite.

Brian wiped his face dry with a clean hand towel and left to answer it.

“Hello, darling.” Freddie was a welcome sight. He always radiated comfort and cheer. Brian extended his arm, welcoming Freddie into his space, but Freddie shook his head. “I’ve just come to see if you were still alive.”

“Barely,” Brian joked in a weak voice, rubbing his sore arm unconsciously.

“Better than not at all!” Freddie gave a smile, but it was out of concern rather than joy. “Can I do anything for you? Make you feel better?”

“I’m alright, Fred.”

Freddie was dismayed. “Can anyone do anything for you?”

Brian shook his head slowly. “Peace and quiet would be nice. I think I should be fine if I’m just left alone until the show.”

“Oh, so you weren’t really inviting me in?” Freddie teased. Brian’s face broke into a small, lethargic grin.

“I would, if you were going to act like a normal person.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve all been treating me like some fragile thing. I’m alright, really.”

“You don’t look the part, dear.”

Brian bit his lip and frowned, thinking.

You didn’t know there was something going on. Your voice would light up every time he called, thrilled to speak with him. No matter the time difference, you were happy just to hear him talk. It gave Brian a warm feeling knowing that after all these years, you were still so excited by him. So kind to him.

So loving.

He smiled to himself, thinking about what Deaky had said a month prior. That you loved him. Infinitely.

Freddie saw the change, the way Brian’s pain seemed to go away and was replaced by something far more pleasant. He watched Brian go somewhere far away inside his mind. And he knew you were the only thing that could possibly make Brian glow the way he was.

“Talk to her, Brian.”

Brian fell out of his dreamy state. “What?”

“She seems to make you feel better just thinking about her.”

Brian blushed. “She does,” he whispered, excited like a child.

Freddie laughed, glad to see his friend so chipper. “One of these days, you should tell her that, Brian. I’m sure she’d love to know.”

Brian nodded at Freddie’s words, how much sense they made. It gave him a surge of energy. You gave him a surge of energy.

* * *

You began tidying up the flat, throwing out scraps of paper you had found lying about. But only after reading them, of course. Some were nonsense, ripped out from the middle of a word or phrase. Others were blank. Nothing very exciting.

The phone rang as you threw out the ball of paper you had accumulated. It surprised you, as you weren’t expecting anyone to call. You walked into the living room and grabbed the telephone from its hook.

“Hello?”

Brian swooned at the sound of your voice. “Hello, love.”

“Brian!” You were even more surprised. “I thought you’d be busy today, before the show.”

“No, I actually just woke up.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. Had nothing better to do.”

“Why’d you call, Bri? Shouldn’t you be rehearsing or something?” You paused for a second. “Not that I’m complaining.”

“I was thinking about you.”

“Why?”

“You’re nice to think about.” You felt your heart skip a beat at his words, caught off guard.

You bit the inside of your cheek, nervous. Something you rarely were when it came to Brian.

“Listen, Y/N, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something—”

Someone came knocking at your door. You weren’t really listening to what Brian was saying, distracted by the sound, remembering you were having company over.

“Bri? I have to go,” you said, apologetic. “Paul’s here.”

And just like that, you’d delivered a punch to his gut.

“Oh.”

You were disheartened by the hurt in Brian’s tone. “Can we talk about it after the show tonight?” The knock came again, a little louder than before. You felt torn.

He sighed, knowing fully well that you weren’t going to be able to talk after the show. And he couldn’t say what he wanted to while Paul was there with you.

“Of course, love.” He felt teary-eyed. “Talk to you later.”

“I miss you, Brian,” you managed to say before Brian hung up his phone. More than you know.

“I miss you too, Y/N.”

“Have a great show. I’m sorry I’m missing another one.” You wanted to prolong the conversation as much as you could, but you couldn’t anymore. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

“I love you most.”

* * *

The boys stood in the wings as they waited for Mott the Hoople to wrap up their set, before the encore of “All the Young Dudes”. Their own performance had gone swimmingly, the New York crowd accepted them with great enthusiasm.

Brian watched the stage lights change sporadically, but he felt his head spinning to fast to pay close attention. He had to keep telling himself “One more song, one more song,” but he couldn’t find it in himself to rouse excitement or even tolerance at the idea of performing again. He had given Queen’s set everything he could. Probably even more than he should. Brian reached up to stroke his arm gently, wincing as he neared the aching spot.

Roger leaned over, staring up at his precariously swaying mate. “You alright, Brian?”

“I’m fine.” Brian had difficulty saying it, his mouth had gone completely dry.

“You know you don’t have to—”

“It’s one more song, Rog.”

“Exactly, you really don’t—”

“I’m fine,” Brian repeated, irritated.

Roger gave up and backed away, but kept an eye on Brian anyway; the way he was tottering made Roger nervous. It didn’t last long, Queen was called on stage shortly thereafter.

* * *

Paul had fallen asleep a couple hours ago, but you sat up, waiting to talk to Brian after his show, like you said you would. It sounded urgent when he brought up whatever he wanted to talk about.

It was late, or rather, early, but you didn’t mind. It was worth it. Brian was worth it.

You put the Queen II record on at a quiet volume, letting the distinct sound of the Red Special fill your ears. You often did that whenever you missed Brian, especially the song he wrote for you. Sometimes, it was all you could bear to listen to.

It always made you smile wistfully, even if you didn’t notice. The effect it had on your subconscious was extraordinary, sometimes working itself into your dreams at night. Mostly in the form of Brian. He would serenade you gently, or take you into his arms and dance into oblivion.

But presently, you were listening to the intro of “Father to Son”. The build up from the beginning of the album was wonderful, hearing the songs transition into one another seamlessly, beautifully. It made you yearn for something, but you could never figure out what.

You tapped your fingers to the beat as you held your eyes closed, envisioning the notes soaring through the room. You hummed along with Freddie’s gorgeous vocals and realized that the lyrics were so uniquely Brian, it almost made it feel like he was there with you.

The phone rang, interrupting your little daydream. The smile on your face widened with anticipation, ready to talk to your best friend.

“Hello?” You kept your voice down so you wouldn’t wake Paul in the other room.

“Y/N?”

The voice was wrong.

And it was worried.

“John? Why are you calling? Do you need—”

A sob came from the other end. You weren’t sure who made the noise, if it was Deaky or not.

Your body froze completely.

“Brian…” John trailed off, his voice shaking. “Y/N, something happened to Brian.”

As he told you about Brian’s collapse after the show, the jaundice, everything, you felt your lungs give out.

Shock left the line dead. You couldn’t form words. Your heart was broken knowing that Brian was alone when he needed you.

The world became less beautiful.

59 notes · View notes

the-four-disaster-bastards · 5 years ago

Note

How long have Elgor and Alteir known each other and how did they meet?

((They’ve known each other for about 50 years at this point. By now, they pretty much may as well be married, but it certainly didn’t start that way. Here’s a rp with @renegadenephilim of how their first meeting played out!))

—–

Most can agree that the Earth is a desolate, dark place, razed by the hoards of demons that roam it. Light itself seems to struggle to reach the planet, and even when it does, it rarely offers comfort. The harsh sunlight that beats down on the Ashlands is proof of that, leaving little of that desolate realm and the broken skyscrapers that border it trapped under heat so thick that it warps the air.

Such heat should be stifling to all that attempt to move through it, but for one particular runaway frantically climbing the broken flights of stairs that still line the inside of one of the dilapidated skyscrapers, it could hardly matter less. Many don’t dare to climb so high, where they could be picked off by the remaining Hellguard who still patrol the skies. If he can just find somewhere high enough to hide himself from the hoard for a while, he stands a chance of survival.

With every flight he climbs, with every bit closer he gets to the sun, another one of his scales turns gold. That might concern him, if he wasn’t so worried about hiding himself.

Another few flights of stairs finally take him to the roof, where there’s just enough left of a storage room at the very top of the building for him to squeeze into. He pushes the door open and forces himself through its frame, ignorant to how the sunbeams shining in through the holes in the ceiling seem almost opaque in how bright they are. He has enough space to huddle in the corner and keep himself out of sight, and that is what matters.

That is, until his tail sweeps through one of the rays of light, and is met with a burning sensation across the skin that came in contact. The demon hisses and brings his tail closer to himself, only for his eyes to go wide when he sees the change in color to his hide.

"What in the nine circles…?“

He tilts his head skyward and gazes into the strange, unearthly light. It yields no answers for him, instead leaving only a split second for him to react as its luminosity increases exponentially, bathing everything it touches in burning white.

There’s no scream, no roar, or no sound of impact—just a brilliant sunburst that encompasses the entire tip of that skyscraper, large enough to be seen from miles around, burning brighter than the sun for the crucial few seconds that it lasts.

While there are, fortunately, no Hellguard close by enough to be of any concern, there is one former member of their armies whose eye is caught by the brilliant light.

He notices it only as a glint off the weapon he sharpens at first, but then it becomes far too bright to be natural, in a way that is all too familiar. From where he sits in one of the half-ruined buildings across from the source, he turns his white-blue gaze upward, and finds, to his chagrin, that the light is so bright even he now has to squint against it.

Perhaps that shouldn’t surprise him, but the presence of the golden light itself does. Why would it be here, so far away from any place one would expect it?

He takes it upon himself to investigate. He takes to the air with redemption cannon in hand, just in case.

Fortunately for him, it becomes evident that the weapon he carries will not be necessary as soon as the ruins of the skyscraper’s peak are reached.

The being caught in the epicenter of the light lies motionless on the ground, taking only the slow, shallow breaths that those without consciousness can take. There’s no evidence of a struggle in the area, but the wounds he’s sustained might have suggested otherwise in any other place.

Fragments of scales and tinted bone surround the being’s body, as if they were forcefully shorn away from him by the light. His hands and feet are bloodied, yet still shimmer with the remnants of the energy that just burst throughout the sky. This same energy crests the back of his head and the tip of his tail.

Most striking is the damage–if it can be called that–to his wings. Blood runs down them in thin streaks, acting as lingering evidence of the transformation they’ve just been dealt. They now faintly resemble the build of the Destroyer’s wings, save for the golden membranes that bind them to his back and tail. Those too glow with the same heavenly light.

It’s obvious that this creature used to be a demon from his horns and animalistic features. Now that he’s been touched by the light, however, it’s hard to say what he should be called.

The fallen angel hovers a short distance away from the unconscious demon, pointing his weapon almost without thinking.

Every bit of ingrained instinct in him is trained to kill demons on sight. Uncountable years of combat have made it second nature, if not first nature. It’s almost everything he knows; it’s almost everything he’s ever done.

But he doesn’t shoot.

This demon–if he can still truly be called such–has been touched by divine light. For what reason, the angel could not begin to fathom, but he would know that reason if he could.

At his wordless command, he summons the only companion he has left in these uncertain times. As if materializing from shadow, a griffon-she-wolf-hybrid steps forth, sniffing at the demon cautiously. She, too, is more than familiar with killing demons, and the smell of this one’s blood makes her go tense, as if about to attack.

“No,” her handler commands. “We’re taking him with us.”

The beast’s canine head snaps up to look to her companion, as if looking for confirmation that she understood the order correctly. The look she gets in return confirms that, yes, she did.

She shifts her taloned feet uncertainly, but ultimately obeys. With her handler’s help, the demon is carefully, gently lifted onto her back, and they depart, returning to the hideout they’ve holed themselves up in as of late.

—–

Some time passes before he begins to show the first signs of consciousness again, but sure enough, his breath hitches in his chest after being shallow for so long. The ringing of his ears is the first thing that stirs him, but its effects are not enough to rouse him completely. The splitting headache that grows more pronounced with each throb in his skull prevents that.

Altael doesn’t know that he’s been moved, nor does he know that his body is no longer the one he started out with. He can barely feel anything save for his head, and even that sense is limited. Try as he might, he can’t find the strength to open his eyes yet.

The only thing he has the strength to do is exhale a weak, quiet groan, and even that is hard to hear above the ringing in his eardrums.

"Hm,“ his impromptu caretaker hums at hearing the first signs of wakefulness from the demon after so many hours, musing mostly to himself. “Perhaps you’re not dying just yet after all.”

He sets the blunt end of his lance to the floor and stands, at which his beast companion’s canine head snaps up to attention. The floor creaks faintly with the weight of the angel’s steps as he comes to the side of the makeshift bed the demon lies atop.

He’d managed to wrap up the worst of the wounds with bandages, but he could do little else with any certainty on his own. Perhaps now that the stranger is beginning to stir, there is more he could do–but he has questions first.

"You. Can you speak yet?“

In his dazed state, Altael doesn’t entirely recognize the words being spoken to him, nor does he recognize that he should be concerned that he’s no longer alone. The pain in the base of his skull is still his most predominant concern–all else is second to it for now.

Still, he manages to roll his head to the side with another quiet grunt. The movement makes the ringing of his ears grow louder, but he still attempts to open his eyes and track the source of the noise that pierces through the constant drone.

Eyes as golden as his wings slowly crack open and blink, but there’s no focus or recognition to be found in them. His vision is too blurred for him to make out anything but this stranger’s outline, but at least he doesn’t look like a demon. He hasn’t been brought back to the horde. That means he can still work through whatever this situation is, whenever he regains his wits. That’s a good start.

“Rrrgh…” His first attempt at speaking only comes out as a pitiful growl that might have been another groan if he could have worked his voice up. Another few seconds pass before his second attempt at speaking.

"…What?“

He might be able to speak, however simply, but his ability to hear and process words isn’t entirely there yet.

"So, that’s a definitive ‘mayhaps,’” the angel standing above him decides aloud, shrugging and nodding. “I suppose I couldn’t have expected much better just yet.”

He turns, his long feathers ruffling slightly with the movement. He pulls a chair up close by the bedside and sits in it somewhat heavily. His lance remains in a loose grip at his side.

"It appears as though you won’t be moving anytime soon,“ he observes. “Hopefully you’ll be talking sooner.”

He can vaguely tell that quite a few words were just spoken, but there are very few he can definitively make out before the sound of his captor sitting down in his chair makes him flinch and close his eyes. Each new movement and noise he processes wakes him just a little further, regardless of whether or not he really wants to be awake yet.

"Head hurts,“ are the next two words he strains to push out, in an attempt to justify his slowness to respond. Though he hasn’t spoken much yet, his voice seems tinged with a slight accent.

He draws in a deep breath and brings his hand to his face to rub at his eyes, only to find that his fingertips feel…odd, to put it mildly. This must be a side effect of whatever head wound he was dealt to put him in this state–why else would his hands not feel like his own?

The angel actually gives a faint chuckle at that.

"I would imagine all of you hurts,” is his amused response. “A demon touched so directly by holy light should be thoroughly dead.” He leans forward, now unsure whether he’s talking more for his own sake than for the sake of actually receiving an answer to his questions.

"I would ask you why you aren’t, but you don’t sound quite well enough to be interviewed.“

Is that what happened to him?

This revelation manages to stir Altael a little further, enough for him to put actual effort into making his eyes focus again. He starts by looking at his…his paw. This is not his hand, so why is it attached to his arm?

Much to the protest of his head and wounds, he pushes himself slightly more upright, enough to give the rest of himself a look over. His legs seem to have suffered in much the same way, and where that flame on his tail came from is entirely beyond him. Then he catches sight of the golden membranes affixed to his tail.

He follows these up until he sees where they connect with what once were his wings, but are no longer shaped as they used to be. Flexing the one splayed out at his side confirms that it is his, unbelievable as it may be.

“Is…that light what did this to me?” He hesitantly asks, apparently more concerned by his new appearance than the angel he’s keeping company with.

"I can only assume so,” is the fallen angel’s uncertain response. “I didn’t witness any transformation firsthand; I only saw the light from a distance.” He drums his armored fingers along the hilt of his lance.

"You’re fortunate I found you before the Hellguard did.“

It’s only now that Altael chooses to size up the one who will either turn out to be his savior or his captor. Any angel is enough to set him on edge, even when fallen, but this one seems surprisingly…docile.

And alone. He’s never seen a fallen angel that was without similar company. Everything he knows of the angels who scorn the light tells him that they’re rarely without their flock. Is this one truly on his own, or are their more lying in wait?

Altael’s train of thought is betrayed by how his body goes tense, but he makes no attempt to flee—yet.

“Is there a reason you decided to bring me here, instead of killin’ me?” He surveys the rest of the visible hideout before he speaks again. “…wherever here is.”

”‘Here’ is not far from where the light touched you,“ the angel assures him. “As for why I brought you here, I have questions you can’t very well answer if you’re dead.” He pauses, putting a curled finger to where his helmet covers most of his obscured chin. His white-blue eyes narrow, dimming their glow slightly.

"Although, it… doesn’t sound as if you know what exactly happened to you, or why.“

Well, that’s encouraging. He’s only alive so he can be interrogated.

Altael breathes out a rumbly sigh and lets some of his tension fade, though not all of it. There may be little point in doing anything but cooperating, since he certainly can’t fight in this state–and even if he could, he has no idea where his weapon is. For all he knows, his spear could still be in that building.

"You’re right, I don’t.” He gives himself another good look over. Once again, his eyes settle on his new wings. “Ain’t never heard of a demon touchin’ the light ‘n lookin’ different instead of dead.”

"Nor have I,“ the fallen angel agrees in a disappointed sigh. It was a longshot, but he’d sort of been hoping maybe this was something the demon might know about. His hand moves from his chin to the back of his helm.

"But there must be some reason to it, yes?” he presses, perplexed. “I imagine you want to know more than I do, even, er…” He pauses.

"… I suppose I should ask your name, if you have one,“ he states out of formality.

It’s Altael’s turn to give a dry chuckle at that. Perhaps it’s rude to laugh, given that he might owe this angel his life, but he’s at a loss for what a better reaction would be to this mix of politeness and ignorance. That contradiction strikes him as amusing.

"Do you think they don’t give us names in Hell?” He asks out of amusement rather than offense. Before the angel can answer, he speaks again. “It’s Altael. Legion Champion and battle strategist…”

His voice trails off, and his smile goes with it. Too much has changed now for him to retain his titles, hasn’t it?

"…Former Legion Champion might work better, now that I think of it.“

"Eligor,” the fallen angel states in a very similar tone of voice to that last detail about the demon’s status. “Former Storm Warden of the Hellguard. Not that the former part is difficult to ascertain.” He sniffs disdainfully, wings twitching. He can’t help but notice, ironically, that their names almost sound as if they should belong to the opposite race.

"Are you a deserter as well, then?“ he guesses.

"Only recently,” he confirms with a shallow nod, “It’s why I was runnin’, before…all this.” That statement is accompanied by a gesture to the rest of himself–which he still can hardly believe looks the way it does.

"I figured I didn’t have long ‘till someone found out I was gone, so I thought I’d lay low in that skyscraper. Look how well that turned out.“

"Indeed.” Eligor shifts in his seat. He considers asking why a Legion Champion would desert Samael’s forces, but ultimately thinks better of it. Regardless of how much he may or may not have helped Altael, he’s not owed a life story.

"Well,“ the angel decides, rising to his feet somewhat heavily, “I suppose that would mean we’re not enemies, at the very least. Technically speaking.” He makes a small shrugging gesture.

"I’d been waiting until you awoke before attempting to treat your wounds any further. Truth be told, I’m not much of a healer at all, let alone for a race I’ve never tried to heal.“

Technically allies is better than outright enemies, but he knows better than to fully trust Eligor, even given their circumstances. Whether or not there are more fallen angels nearby is unclear, nor is it clear if there’s anyone he reports to. The last thing he needs is for more people to know of his continue existence.

But that doesn’t mean he won’t take the extra help while it’s still in reach.

"You’ll…have to tell me what is and isn’t damaged. Lotta my body still feels like it’s asleep.”

To confirm this, he flexes his new paws again, invoking more of that uncomfortable pins and needles feeling–but somehow managing to unsheathe a set of claws he was unaware he still had. He raises one glowing brow at this sight.

"…Those’re new,“ he observes somewhat bluntly.

Eligor squints at him.

"You… didn’t have claws before?” he asks incredulously. “I find that hard to believe.” He looks the demon up and down, half-turning as if to step away.

"Exactly how different were you before?“

Altael sheathes and unsheathes his claws twice more to grow accustomed to the motion before he answers Eligor. His look of incredulity is met with one much like it.

"Of course I had claws, they just didn’t look like this.” He turns his wrist so he can inspect them a little better. Their curvature is more pronounced, just as their ends look much sharper than they’ve ever looked before. He might actually be able to use them for self defense now, as opposed to intimidation.

"I also had hands instead of paws. Can’t fathom why the light decided to take ‘em from me.“

The angel doesn’t really know how to respond to that. He’d sort of assumed the only major change the divine light made was adding a golden color among all the black and red. He didn’t realize there were any major anatomy changes.

"Your wings.” He gestures to the limbs, venturing a guess based on what he knows of the typical Legion Champion. “Were they always right-side-up?”

It isn’t unheard of for a demon to have actually functional wings, but it is rare. Even then, it’s usually only a trait observed in demons who were once angels.

“They most certainly weren’t,” Altael answers assuredly, as if that’s the one thing he still knows to be true of himself in the midst of all of this confusion and change. “That’s what’s so strange about this–I barely look anything like I did before.”

He brings his paw up to feel at his face again. His horns still seem to be intact, as does his nose and mouth, along with the scars that frame them. That confirms that his general facial structure hasn’t changed, but until he can find a mirror, he won’t know for sure if his transformation was only applied from his chest down.

"Really?“ Eligor asks mostly rhetorically, his gaze scrutinizing. This whole situation is even more unorthodox than he’d originally thought. Ironically, he gets roughly the same idea Altael has–getting him a mirror to figure out exactly how much has changed.

"Wait there,” he directs more than requests, turning his back to the demon to step toward an open doorway nearby. He points to his beast companion at the far end of the room, then back to Altael.

"Marchosias. Watch him.“

And with that, he leaves, the cyan glow of his wings being the last of him to disappear beyond the doorway. The griffon-wolf obeys the command dutifully, padding over to take her handler’s place sitting upright by the bedside.

And he’s gone. Lovely. He wasn’t very at ease to begin with here, but now that there’s a large canine griffin sitting just a foot away from him while he’s in a weakened state, he couldn’t unclench his neck muscles even if he tried.

He looks the beast in the eyes. Then he looks to the door. Then he looks to her again.

What is one supposed to say to break an awkward silence with a fallen griffin, exactly?

Marchosias, for her part, looks quite at ease. Her posture is attentive, but neutral, and thanks to her canine face–rather than avian–her relatively relaxed expression is easy to read.

She tilts her head to one side, regarding the demon with curiosity. One of her ears angles backward as the sound of something heavy being dragged comes from the direction her handler left in, but her ice-blue eyes remain fixed on Altael. Her long, fluffy tail drags across the floor as it sways from one side to the other.

She’s not yet very familiar with this stranger, but if her master is letting him be here, then she figures he’s probably okay.

He can’t quite fathom why he feels so inclined to do this, but he tilts his head in the very same way that the she-wolf does, first at her, then at the loud sound coming from beyond this room.

If he’s dragging a weapon in here to kill him with, it seems to be giving him some trouble. Not that he thinks he would do that so spontaneously after this.

"That better not be his gun,” he mutters to no one in particular, sounding only mildly disdainful of that possibility.

That theory is disproven momentarily, when Eligor backs out through the same doorway and the object he’s dragging is revealed to be a large, framed mirror about as tall as he is. It looks as if it was meant to be wall-mounted, but met a milder version of the unfortunate fate the rest of Earth did. As a result, a crack runs across its reflective surface, but it remains otherwise in one piece, which is more than what can be said for most fragile objects made by humans.

"When I fell,“ he explains without the slightest prompt or even a hint of strain in his voice, “the first thing I wanted to do was see how much had changed.”

Marchosias moves aside as her master positions the mirror before Altael. He remains to the side of it, holding it upright by keeping one hand on the ornate frame.

"So. How drastic is it?“

There’s a long duration of time where Altael is completely silent as he takes himself in, bit by astonishing bit. The face that stares back at him is only barely his own, and the body it’s attached to is more animalistic, more rounded, and more flecked with gold than it ever was before now.

The glow that comes from his wings is so unnatural to him that it almost makes his skin crawl. Why is the glow that adorns the feathers of the soldiers of Heaven radiating from his membranes? Why does it crown his head and the end of his tail? Why is he, being what he is, the source of it?

"It’s…quite drastic,” he answers quietly, his voice weighted with uncertainty and dismay at what he’s become.

Eligor hums pensively at that.

"It was the same for me,“ he offers sympathetically, the feathers of his wings ruffling briefly. “It could have been much worse, however.”

Having worked under Samael’s command, perhaps Altael knows that as well as anyone. If there is one horribly perfect example of how far even an archangel can fall, it would be The Blood Prince.

"Can you tell how badly you’re wounded, at least, and where? Other than where your bandages are bloodied, that is.“

"Mmh…something definitely happened to my head,” he posits, putting his anxieties surrounding his new form to the side for the moment. There won’t be much he can do to find more answers to his questions if he isn’t in good health.

He flexes his paws to work some more feeling into them. They’re sore, but he can feel no wounds splitting apart from the movement. Unfortunately, attempting to flex his wings does not yield the same results. Moving those both stings and aches at the same time, especially around the bases.

"My wings, too,“ he adds, curling his tail closer to himself out of reflex. "Feels like they got torn out and stuck back in.” For all he knows, that could be exactly what happened to him. It’s gruesome to imagine, but he can think of little else to explain their shift.

Eligor could almost believe that really did happen.

"You won’t get very far trying to go anywhere, in that case,” he observes somewhat unnecessarily. “Perhaps you are blessed, at least, in that it was not someone else who found you.” He sets about the task of dragging the oversized mirror back to its original place.

"A fallen flock would have been unlikely to take you in,“ he elaborates, gradually moving farther away. "The Hellguard would have killed you on sight.” He knows that to be a definite fact. “And if you’re a known deserter, then even your own hoard happening upon you may have been your end.” Another dry, almost humorless chuckle echoes from beyond the doorway.

"You and I may not be so different–neither of us is spoiled for allies right now.“

‘Thanks for the reminder of how desolate my life has just become,’ is what Altael might say if he wasn’t wounded and in this stranger’s care, essentially dependent on him until he’s healed, but God, is he tempted to. He at least waits until Eligor has left the room to reach up and pinch the bridge of his nose.

"So you’re suggestin’ an alliance?” He calls out after him, only to wince as the sound of his own voice makes the ringing in his ears rear its head again.

Some ally he’ll prove to be, barely able to speak or move yet without causing himself pain.

"That I am,“ Eligor calls back over the dragging sound from the other room. Once the mirror is back in place, he returns near to the makeshift bedside Altael seems to be restricted to for now.

"Or at least, I’m offering you a place here, and what help I can give you, in exchange for allowing some further prying as to what happened to you, how, and why.” He shrugs, as if that’s about the most plain way he can put it. It’s not the strongest grounds for an alliance, by any means, but it would at least be a fair enough trade.

"I imagine you’ll want to know the same, once you’re in any state to go looking for answers. One way or another, unless you plan on crawling out of here rather than walking, it looks as though you have time to think on it.“ He doesn’t necessarily enjoy the idea of being bedridden in a stranger’s home, but it’s easy for him to decide it’s for the best when weighing it against his other options. As an enemy to the horde and the light alike, with very little means of currently defending himself, he must take aid where he can get it.

And if Eligor is just as curious as he is to understand why light returned to a barren, broken Earth for just long enough to touch him, then he sees no reason why he shouldn’t allow him to help search for answers.

"If you’re sure this is something you want to pursue, I won’t stop you from helping me. I just can’t guarantee there will be any definite answers out there.”

He especially can’t claim to understand the mysteries of the light, and if someone who used to dwell among it even seems stumped, he isn’t optimistic that unraveling this will be easy.

"I can’t say for certain, either,“ the angel concurs, "but it is worth trying. For now, though, you’re in need of rest, and perhaps an effective painkiller.” He turns, once again stepping away into another room. Some sounds of shuffling various containers soon follow.

"We don’t have much here, Marchosias and I,“ he speaks up from across the hideout-made-home, "but what we do have, you’re welcome to.”

As if to confirm her agreement to that sentiment, the wolf-griffon turns her head to face Altael with her mouth hanging open in that relaxed, almost-smiling expression a canine at ease often has. Her long tail wags slowly as her handler passes by once more, this time holding a glass half-full of a glowing green fluid. He offers it toward Altael.

"This should help.“

Altael doesn’t delay in taking the vial of healing fluid from Eligor, not even long enough to thank him first. He brings it to his lips and tips his head back and downs the entire thing in just a few large gulps. He takes in a deep breath once he’s emptied it, then breathes it out in a relieved sigh as soon as he feels his headache beginning to fade.

"Thank you,” he says at last, “For that, and for the shelter.” Soreness still tugs at his weary limbs, but with some of his clarity restored, he already feels that much better. The golden flames atop his head and tail brighten as a reflection of this.

"I can’t say I’ve met one of the Fallen who was quite so generous,“ he observes after a few more moments of silence, with a tilt of his head that betrays his own curiosity. He leaves that statement open ended, should Eligor decide to elaborate more on the nature of his willingness to help.

"Nor have I,” Eligor sighs, speaking without looking his guest in the eye. He reaches a hand over to pet Marchosias behind the ears, at which she closes her eyes in content.

"I fell because my views and values are no longer aligned with my former comrades and superiors,“ he explains. "This violation of the truce, this Apocalypse—I can’t support it. The humans didn’t deserve this.” He gestures to the space around them.

"And those who have fallen farther than I… They might like to think themselves different from the Hellguard, but right now, I can’t agree. Both sides seek only to benefit at the expense of what has happened to this realm. Both sides, as they stand now, are devoid of honor.“

He can check that off as another first for today—a fallen who fell for a noble reason. More intriguingly, he seems to have fallen for the exact same reason he deserted his own horde.

“Mmhm,” he nods in agreement, lacking the lengthy words Eligor possesses to articulate himself, yet sharing in his sentiments. “That makes two of us, I reckon. I left my legion for the very same reason.”

He shifts position again, this time a little closer to sitting up. His tail curls around his legs as he pulls them closer to himself and lets his gaze fall to the floor. It’s odd, speaking so candidly about this after so long keeping it to himself, though he can’t deny that he enjoys this strange freedom.

“Bein’ a strategist in the horde…I feel as if I was one of the only ones puttin’ any thought into the carnage we were spreadin’. Might’ve been why it was so hard to stand.”

Eligor gives a thoughtful hum at that. Before today, he never would have imagined a demon who didn’t enjoy carnage might exist.

This one really is different, then.

"Could that, perhaps, be why the light chose you?” he ventures.

"Erm…“ ��Truth be told, he hadn’t really considered the possibility of his morality being a part of this. He’s heard plenty of tales of demons deserting their posts, but almost all of them end in death–certainly not a physical change in their appearance.

"I’ve never heard of a demon bein’ touched by the light before, regardless of why they left their posts,” he refutes, though he doesn’t sound too sure of his words, “And even if it was, I’ve still got plenty of sin on my conscience. It’s not like I went my whole life secretly bein’ some beacon of morality.”

He’s been intelligent enough to be above senseless violence himself, but there’s still plenty of bloodshed that was orchestrated under the structure of his military planning. Just a few hours of finally taking action against it can’t have been all it took to redeem him…

…Could it?

"I know it’s supposedly easy to fall from grace, but I’ve never heard of it bein’ easy to rise to it.“

"I haven’t, either,” Eligor agrees. “But then, the Creator works in mysterious ways.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I thought it worth considering.” He shifts his wings to resettle and fold them to his back.

"We’re not likely to get very far merely speculating,“ he points out, turning away. "Get your rest. Call for me if you need anything.”

It seems that regardless of whether he wants for it to or not, this conversation has decidedly ended for now. The angel has a point–there’s little he can do now if he has no answers beyond attempting to restore his strength. Perhaps then he’ll be able to ease some of the dead weight that he’s become on this unfortunate fellow.

"Very well.“ He eases himself back into a more relaxed position, rolled onto his side with one of his wings awkwardly folded over himself. Strange as it is to have them be so large now, their warmth is at least pleasantly comforting.

Though he closes his eyes, he does not drift into anything close to a restful slumber. Too many questions without answers still weigh on his mind for that, and instinct dictates that he should never lower his guard in the company of the enemy.

Even if the company of the enemy has been quite beneficial so far.

#summoned #ic: eligor #text #eltael #altael #angels #demons #darksiders rp #darksiders oc #eligor relevant

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