#until a few hours ago it felt exactly like when I quit nicotine

[spidersonline]

So much goes on in the weed withdrawing brain. Been absolutely realizing things all day. For example I was just peacefully pecking at my supper when I was bodily struck by the epiphany that I’ve had the words to Son of a Preacher Man wrong my whole life. No clue where that came from but when I looked up the lyrics, sure enough.

[dodo-begone]

Beware the Beast

Pairing: Yandere!Philza x Reader

Request: Maybe some yandere!philza headcanons? You don’t have to!

Word Count: 2k

Warning: yandere, swearing, talk about kidnapping, depression (kinda detailed on that aspect)

A/n: I accidentally turned this into a story- i really need to stop doing that. But I just couldn't resist! Also sorry if Phil is OOC. And this isn't proofread. We die like men here. Can be perceived as platonic or romantic.

This man has lived many years, lost so many loved ones. He’s getting tired of this cycle. It’s truly exhausting. You start to care about the world less. After a while, you start to see too many similarities in things, making it hard to look at. So he starts to close his heart to others. It’s just easier that way, for both parties. Saves him from the heartbreak and them from… well, him. He also stops caring for himself. After all, he’s literally immortal. Nothing can kill this man, so neglecting some self care routines every once in a while wouldn’t hurt…

But this becomes such a bad habit of his. He barely cares for himself after a while. It’s hard to find the energy when it isn’t going to matter in the end. Nothing matters anyways. Every action will always prove fruitless in the end. So what’s the point in doing something so... small if it takes this much energy? If a past version of himself saw Phil now, they’d be disgusted. Telling him to just get up and care for himself. Come on, you’re immortal. Nothing can kill you. Just do this.

He’s a mess when you two meet. His platinum-blonde hair was mostly neat, a little shaggy. It was obvious that he just got himself cleaned up a bit. One can only do so much about deep eyebags, dull hair, and lifeless eyes on such short notice.

You were introduced to him through Ghostbur. Phil was overjoyed that Ghostbur was making more friends. Though much less pleased when Ghostbur insisted that he’d bring his new friend over to meet Phil. Oh come on Phil, you’d just love them. They’re so nice! What tortured Philza more than his first interaction with you? His conversations with Ghostbur about you. He’d just prattle on about things you and him did, about how much fun you two had and how nice you were. Always nice.

And you were nice, an absolute sweetheart. But much too perky for Philza’s liking. You two had been chatting for quite a while when Ghostbur silently leaves you two together. Well, you’re chatting. Phil is just listening to you, hoping that you’d leave at any moment. Some topics were brought up; they were mostly some small icebreakers to get acquainted more.

When your past was brought up, you’d always paint this fucking picture-perfect past. So peaceful. God, the envy he had of you, of the peace you experienced in your life- He felt bad for it, honestly, he did. But he just wished he could’ve had even a fraction of the prosperity you spoke about. For someone living in the DSMP, you had a relatively easy and steady life. No war, no major or sudden loss or anything of that sort. A perfect life.

After that, you just kept coming back. Why? Why are you coming back? Are you here to taunt him for the life he lived? For the life he’ll never have? Is some god sending you as a punishment? A living example of everything he gave up, had to leave behind. That’s what he believed, anyways.

That was far from your intentions. You saw how he was in your first meeting; jumpy yet dissociating from reality. An oppressive, glum aura seemed to just emanate him. So downtrodden and dead inside, yet so obviously alive on the outside. It hurt to see him like that, as you went through something similar. You had no idea how long he’d been like that, but you decided that you’d help him in any way that you could.

You tried to make it a daily thing. Everyday you’d go to Phil’s house around midday to afternoon. You two would talk for a bit, but you’d couldn’t help sprinkling your questions in. Have you eaten yet, mr. Philza? Have you had water today, mr. Philza? Have you preened your feathers, mr. Philza? Have you bathed today, mr. Philza?

Your questions irked Phil. Everyday, without fail, you’d come and talk to him. It’d be small talk at first; what the weather was up to that day, some light politics, Tubbo’s new adopted son. Small. Yet you’d always bring up his self care. He was a fcking grown man. He could take care of himself. What’s worse? You’d pester him to care for himself in that instant if he even showed a small sign of negligence. And you’d stay the entire time, making sure he did everything. And then you’d always add “mr. Philza” on the end. It was a sign of respect, yet it upset him so much. But he couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was.

Though it was annoying, it got him in the habit of caring for himself. It was only to stop your pesting! That’s the reasoning. The only reason. It wasn’t because you’re congratulating and giving him treats when he remembered to care for himself. Or you petting his wings… Those were only bonuses! He swears!

It becomes more steady as time goes on; you go and visit Phil, you talk with Phil and see if he’s caring for himself, and if he was, you’d reveal a delicious treat from within your enderchest. You two would talk while munching on the food, having fun sharing what your pasts were like. Well, more like yours. Phil didn’t really talk about his.

But he still seems so cold, disinterested. Even with how long you’ve been going over for. Like he’s only listening to what you’re telling him. If he’s even listening. And seeing how he interacted with others like Techno and Ranboo, it really disheartened you. He was so much more lively with them, more natural. Loud laughing and silly little antics. It only took a few small, insignificant depression episodes for your self doubt to finally debilitate you. Though it only really affected your contact with Phil; he was a big insecurity of yours.

So you start to distance yourself. You were hurting and saw yourself as a bother to Philza. It would’ve been better if you just didn’t try to talk to him anymore. He’d be so much happier without you bugging him all the time. All of this sudden, open time gives you much more empty hours. There was nothing to do. So you did what you could; you went out to make or strengthen friendships. It was so nice. You never realized how everyone on the smp was so nice. Maybe they weren’t as bad as Phil was making them all out to be…

Philza was upset the first day you weren’t there. You were such a steady element of his day. You were like the very air he breathed; it was extremely hard to live without you. He never noticed before how much he needed you. Yes, he knew that he really enjoyed you, saw that you were a pillar, a constant in his life. He came to enjoy your visits, but hadn’t realized how dependent he became because of them. It was day three when Phil started to worry about you. Why hadn’t you come to talk with him, like usual? He’s taking care of himself, just for you, just like you kept insisting he do. And he made you some cake.

He knew he was acting odd, lovesick even. His love for you was toxic, extremely so. It wasn’t healthy, yet he couldn’t care less anymore. You were like his nicotine to a smoker; he couldn't live without you being in his life. His everyday life. So after some debating, he finally went out to look for you.

Traversing the nether wasn’t too bad, but still a tedious walk. He was stuck in his mind the entire trip there, wondering where you could be and what you could be doing. Maybe you got caught up in making something. A redstone project? That’d be pretty cool. Or maybe moving? No, if you were, you’d have told him. But that didn’t stop him from speeding up just a wee bit. Just to make sure you were actually still on the smp.

His mind was racing, thinking of any possibility of what you were doing. And his mind eventually hit something that absolutely terrified him; you could be sick, injured, or dying. It felt like the world just fucking stopped. This was a sudden loss of contact and you still hadn’t come to talk with him. So that… that means there’s a high probability of you being in danger.

He ran the rest of the way to the main part of the smp. When he came out of the portal, he frantically looked around for any sign of you. For your house. Then it hit him; he had no idea where you lived. You only mentioned it being cold where you lived, just like where he lived. So that most likely meant Snowchester. He started running toward the cold nation

On his way to Snowchester, he observed his surroundings. A little bit. He had to get to you, keep his eye on the prize. And he was glad that he looked around. There you were, on another part of the prime path.

He was overjoyed to see you, especially doing so well. Soon he came to a stop. Just floored by the fact you were there, in front of him. Frantically he tried to view you as best he could, looking for any sign of injury or illness.

Now he couldn’t come across as clingy or desperate. That wasn’t how you knew him. You know him as Philza; the kind but a mild social recluse. Not really going out to others unless he needed something or he was needed.

So he walked over to you, trying his best to look nonchalant. Like he wasn’t just desperately searching for you a moment ago. He called out to you and guess what happened? You started to walk away. He was stunned. Did you just ignore him? No, you must not have heard him. It was kinda windy out at the moment.

Logically he did the best option, following you. He had no clue where your destination could be. You were going to a different area of the smp than he had been. My how the smp changed since the destruction of L’manberg. He knew it changed, but it seemed so much bigger than what you described.

He didn’t exactly pay attention to where you were indirectly leading him. That was until a flash of movement caught his attention. Snapping out of it, he looked to see what could’ve been going on. Who could’ve been there. And what he saw before him was a terrible sight.

Quackity stood by your side, animatedly chatting with you. Phil was confused as to why you were talking to Quackity of all people. You two recently talked about how Quackity was problematic and arrogant. If you knew that, then why were you talking to him?

Awkwardly he watched you. Not within earshot, but where he could keep an eye on you and Quackity. And Quackity was looking at Phil too. His eyes spoke volumes; Quackity wasn’t pleased that Phil was there. Boy was that sentiment shared. It was tense between the two, yet you still seemed oblivious to what was going on.

Then Quackity said something, putting his hand on your shoulder and leading you somewhere else. But gave one last look at Phil, one that just spoke “fuck off”. Phil wished he could’ve told Quackity the same. To get him away for you.

Quackity’s action sparked a thought in him. A reason as to why you hadn’t come to talk to Phil; Quackity must’ve kidnapped you! Yes, that’s why you hadn’t come. It makes so much sense. Quackity knows you and most likely knows you talk to Phil.

With how easily you tell Phil of the people you’re talking to, he doubts that the behavior would just change. But that’s what must’ve gotten you in so much trouble; you were too trusting, too kind-hearted. You gave Quackity a chance and he was stealing you away, imprisoning you. You needn’t worry dear, he’ll rescue you from that foul man.

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

the only anchor i have left

tw: mentions of smoking, alcohol use, and allusions to familial conflict

Read on my Ao3.

This is just me writing more Freddy/Bright angst with a sprinkling of Dad!Sam to add a bit of spice. Enjoy.

Freddy had watched you destroy yourself for years now, and yet he still seemed surprised every time. He watched you through your half-baked college career, downing obscene amounts of alcohol, counting down your days towards dialysis through bottles of beer, vodka, bottom shelf rum. You were your mother’s child, afterall. When you took, you took hard, took everything, hoarded it away in whatever organ would hold. He watched you smoke like a chimney, puff through a cigarette in a single pull when you were really stressed, cough around the catch in your chest, the nicotine stains on your teeth and fingernails.

And yet, when he found you toeing the edges of William’s territory, walking through the same forests you’d died in, he had the nerve to be shocked.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed.” He said. “You shouldn’t be out here.”

“I’m on the property.” You replied.

“Come back. Now.”

You huffed and stepped a little further away from him. Freddy’s recent development of a spine was foreign and uncomfortable for you. You were used to him being an invertebrate.

“Progeny. Come back.”

He didn’t invoke you. He didn’t have to.

Freddy had seen you do it for years. You knew he wasn’t shocked by it anymore, not really. You knew that his surprise was more disappointment than anything. Freddy was horrible about that. Having hope and then trusting to someone else to deliver. That was a recipe for heart ache that you’d thrown out long ago on the backseat of your mother’s smoke-stained pick-up truck, on the last of her cigarette papers you still couldn’t work up the nerve to use or throw away.

You didn’t let yourself hope for things that were out of your hands.

Freddy’s little sister was fifteen when you saw her last. She started high school a few months before you died. She had a boyfriend and a part time job at a fast food place and a smile that always made you ache inside when you saw her on the weekends. You didn’t know her, you were just loosely acquainted from her occasional demands to Freddy for rides to hang out with friends. She would sit in the back seat and complain about his music taste.

She was sixteen now. She cut her hair after Freddy died, and she quit her job and broke up with her boyfriend as high school students are wont to do. You knew all of this once again from proximity.

You watched her through her second story bedroom window from a pine tree almost a mile off. You pushed down the feelings of guilt and shame and that little voice telling you you were acting like a stalker, like your kid neighbor on the street you grew up on who took any chance he could to peer into your window through his adjacent one. At the very least, she would never know you were there.

You needed to know. That was your problem. You always needed to know. You needed to be able to tell yourself that she would be alright. That you might have ruined Freddy’s life and Sam’s life, but that you hadn’t ruined hers.

She listened to her music obscenely loud. She had those dumb color changing LED lights that kids got for TikToks. She had a bookshelf covered in fantasy novels, but you’d never seen her read one. She was laying on her twin sized bed, scrolling through her phone. She was wearing a big, blue hoodie you could have sworn was Freddy’s once upon a time.

“You know, this is somebody else’s territory.” Sam’s voice cut through the thick tension and the sound of cicadas, startling you from your precarious perch on a skinny pine branch. His hand wrapped around your bicep and kept you upright, but didn’t linger. His touch retreated as soon as you had your balance.

“What the fuck?” You hissed.

“We’re not in Dahlia city limits anymore. William technically only owns Wonder World, but his influence doesn’t really stretch this far.” Sam shrugged as he leaned back against the trunk of the tree. “We’re technically trespassing.”

You knew what that meant. You were in danger. You, in turn, put him in danger. You knew that before you left. Maybe if the old man minded his business and stayed home, you’d be the only one sticking your neck out.

“I could have told you she was fine.” He said after a moment of silence. “I’ve been checking up on them.”

“Freddy asked you to?”

“No,” Sam shrugged. “Just felt like I needed to. Like my responsibility. I’ve been checking in on your folks too.”

“You’re not my maker.” You reminded him like you did several times a day.

“No,” he agreed like he always did, “but either way it was my fangs that got you into this mess.”

“Yeah well…” you shrugged, “not too many folks for you to look in on for me.”

You followed him when he started to descend the tree, kept your footsteps light and silent across the scattered pine needles. You had sped here, but you couldn't imagine it taking more than a few hours to walk back into Dahlia proper. You still had a good half night until sunrise and could get home in a matter of minutes if you lingered too long. You would have much preferred to speed ahead, but Sam’s leisurely pace suggested he wanted to talk. You would have tried to run, but he was faster than you.

“You’re taking an awful lot of risks lately.” He said. “Not feeding as much as you should. Walking too close to property lines. Starting scraps where you don’t need to.”

“Not my maker.” You replied. Sam huffed.

“Well then… your grand maker.”

That, however much you wanted to remain stoic, shocked a laugh out of you. The image of Sam in a sweater vest and tiny bifocals popped into your head.

“As… as a concerned party,” Sam tried again, working it out around the grin that had spread across his face. “I know what you’re doin’. I did it for a while myself. Don’t make anything easier.”

“What am I doing, exactly?” You asked in turn. The laugh was gone from your voice just as quickly as it came. You didn’t know what would be worse. He could guess wrong, could throw out a wild accusation that you would play along with. Or he could be right. He could see you.

“You think that trying to destroy yourself is some sort of wild, edgy rebellion against everything happening around you. You think going out in a blaze of glory is… glorious.”

“Can you blame me for assuming that based on the name?”

“You know what I mean.” Sam sighed. “Kid, look,” he came to a stop and turned to face you properly. You gripped your hand into a fist, felt your nails dig into the skin of your palm. Fuck, you wanted to punch something. You wanted to break your knuckles over the lines of his face. “Being cruel to yourself is awfully convenient to the world. It’s gonna try your whole life to tear you to pieces. You might not be able to stop it, but you can at least not lend a helping hand.”

You were quiet for a long moment. He saw you. Right through you.

“Very Sisyphian.” You finally said. It wasn’t a joke, you both knew that, but he laughed anyway and so did you. It was pointless. It was pointless.

“Yeah well… listen to your grand maker. Aren’t we supposed to get wiser with age?”

“Grand maker sounds like something from Star Wars.”

“No, that’s Grand Master.”

“Sam… do you… oh God, you’re a Star Wars nerd.”

You walked back to Wonder World together, his stride just a bit longer than yours. He accommodated your height, walked a bit slow. You didn’t mention Sisyphus. You didn’t let yourself think too hard about it.

You didn’t let yourself hope for things that were out of your hands.

[buckstaposition]

I cling to your lips like gloss (1)

a Javier Peña x OFC story 

now also on AO3

author: @youhavereachedtheendofpie (if u wanna come say hello on main)

rating/warnings: swearing, mentions of character death

words: 5521

Author’s note: dude this chapter fought me every step of the way but it’s here now so suck it, muses or whatever

---

Tag list: @keeper0fthestars @opheliaelysia @dindjarindiaries (thank you sweeties whom I will hold forever in my heart)

(message me if you want to be added to the list)

Masterlist

Prologue

Chapter 1 - The Informant

'Liliana' the file said. I was tucked away in the locked bottom drawer of his old desk, the one he hadn't even had time to clear out when they'd sent him away. To be fair, Javier had only known to look because Murphy had called him to tell him about this informant. It sounded too good to be true. An informant coming to them of their own accord, ready to spill valuable inside secrets of the Calí cartel, and they didn't even want payment? One would be forgiven, in their line of work, to smell a trap. But Murphy had vouched for this one, and he trusted Murphy, knew that his partner (former partner) did his homework with due diligence. That, and the first batch of intel Murphy had brought back from their first few meetings had already proven invaluable. 

There was apparently only one hiccup, and it was that the informant refused to talk to any agents other than him or Murphy. It had even led to Steve having to postpone his return to the States for almost two months, until it was clear that Javier would return to Colombia. Fair enough, he'd need to make up his own mind about them anyway. He collected the file and tucked it into the box that held all the stuff he'd cleared out of the desk, since he would now officially be moving a an office of his own.

Upon arriving in said office, he kicked the door closed and sat, lighting a cigarette and reaching for the file. As thin as it was, it still took him almost an hour to work through it, though half of the time was spent deciphering Murphy's chicken scratch mess of annotations. The rest was spent on making his own. After checking the time, Javier fetched himself a cup of the same old tar brew that passed for coffee here, lit another cigarette, and dialled Steve's new office number in Miami. 

"Murphy."

"Alright, I've read the file." Javier started without preamble. Perhaps that was a bit short. He grimaced, then added, "About the informant. Liliana."

"Yeah, I figured." Steve exhaled probably puffing away at his own nicotine habit. Javier meant to quit, but kept pushing it off. The intent was all there was to it, at this stage. "So what're you calling me for, big boss?"

Javier elected to ignore the taunt, knowing it was friendly. 

"You've met her. Is she legit?"

"Why, you smelling a trap?"

Pathological mistrust was a feature one acquired while on this job. Those who didn't ended up dead. Those who did would still end up dead, just later and more jaded. Either way you'd get a lot of other people killed on the way. "Just making sure." 

They spent the next half hour and a bit going over the file together, comparing notes, catching up, thinking aloud - all of which were much easier to do when they had each other to bounce off of. It felt good, almost like old times. Javier went through close to a third of his pack of cigarettes, the air growing heavy in the windowless room. Just as well that it was almost time to wrap this up. A look at his watch told him that it was getting late in the day, and that Steve would want to get home to his family. All Javier could hope for at this point was avoiding resident CIA-asshole Bill Stechner on his way out, at least on this day. 

"You won't be able to pull your usual shit with this one." Steve remarked, accompanied by the sound of shuffling papers. Javier bristled, even though he knew the things people said about him, both behind his back and to his face. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" Knowing didn't mean it didn't, occasionally, sting, but he'd given up on trying to influence other people's minds long ago. A reputation once acquired was not easily shed, not that he'd made much of an effort to. 

"It means that you shouldn't. Pull your usual crap with this one. For one I hardly think it'll be necessary."

"That would be new." Javier snorted. He could hear Steve's eyeroll through the phone. 

"Still the same asshole-" Steve snarked. "I'm just saying be nice for once, especially since that woman's intel is the only reason you still have a job. She's a nice lady, so with a bit of luck some of that might even rub off on you." 

"And I'm the asshole..." 

"So everyone keeps saying." 

"Fuck you, Steve."

"Go fuck yourself, Javi." Steve's chuckle told him it was all in good humor. "And don't fuck this informant."

"Yeah, yeah," Javier waved it off. The woman was an accountant, for fuck's sake. Note exactly his usual type. Or the type he usually attracted. 

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

They were meeting at one of the small restaurants lining the edge of Parque Sabaneta in Medellín. Over the phone her voice had sounded... hesitant, above all else. Tinny, too, but he blamed the connection for that. And he'd brought her a satellite phone for future contacts; her driving out to remote phone cells and him waiting for calls after hours in his office just didn't cut it. 

There hadn't been a picture in the file, but Steve's description had been quite accurate and Javier was able to pick her out at the table she'd chosen before making himself known. Dark hair and darker eyes behind large, slightly old-fashioned glasses. She was almost tall and hid her figure underneath loose-fitted clothing; today a flowy blouse and high-waisted dress pants, and a bulky cardigan against the spring chill that lingered even into the late morning. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun that reminded him of his fifth grade math teacher, Ms Jenkins. Javier approached the table. 

"Diana Rivas?" She froze for a split-second before relaxing again, returning his greeting softly. In real life her voice was deeper than he would have anticipated, raspier too, but not unpleasant - the kind of voice one would expect first thing in the morning, just after waking up. 

"I do hope your drive was not too tiring, Agent Peña." she said as he sat. He grimaced slightly. The drive had been long, above all else. Not his first choice of how to spend a Friday morning. Well, he'd endured worse for this job. But next time he'd definitely travel by plane.

"Do they serve decent coffee here?" Javier scrubbed a hand over his burning eyes and settled, resuming his assessment. She squirmed slightly under his unrelenting gaze, but squared her shoulders after a moment, meeting his gaze head-on and motioning a waiter over with a flick of her delicate wrist. 

"Of course they do, this is Medellín!" She sounded mildly offended, then ignored him in favor of telling the waiter their order. Javier took the time to observe her further. 

No make-up, no jewellery, save for a simple, functional watch and a small silver locket on a long, thin chain. No wedding band either, but the paleness and indentation around her ring finger still indicated that she'd worn one in the recent past. Her features were soft and feminine, with high cheekbones and a pointed chin, all making her look younger than she purportedly was. His gaze caught on her defined cupid's bow just a second too long. Her complexion seemed far too sunkissed for someone who spent most of their time indoors, in air-conditioned office spaces. In conclusion, undeniably lovely to anyone with eyes who cared to look, but obviously taking great pains to discourage closer scrutiny, to look as mousy and plain as possible. It worked, to a degree. 

It occurred to Javier that maybe he should actually talk to her, since that's what he'd come here for. 

"Do you always begin your interrogations with the silent treatment? I can see how that might be effective." She beat him to it, just before the coffee cups were set on the table in front of them. 

"This isn't an interrogation." he groused, taking a tentative sip of the coffee. The scent of it alone was enough to wake the dead; it was heavenly. He'd have to see if he could weasel some halfway decent coffee out of his budget at the office. 

"Regardless, I only have until noon today. We can meet again tomorrow; I can make myself available all afternoon for you, Agent Peña." 

Javier huffed out a breath before taking another sip. "Why can you suddenly do Medellín anyway? You had Murphy travel across half the country to meet you." 

She made a face at that, something between annoyed and apologetic. "My aunt, she... she's sick and been getting worse. I make the time to come down here every other weekend now to help her."

"And your employers are alright with that?" He hadn't exactly pegged the Calí cartel for employers of the year. Or to pioneer part-time models so their employees could care for sick relatives.

"As long as the work gets done, yes. It means I work ten to eleven hour days Monday to Thursday, but I am the only one left in this family..." She sniffled a little and swept the tips of her fingers under the plastic rim of her glasses, wiping at her eyes. Javier looked away, pretending it was to give her privacy. He imagined this unusually forthright woman walking up to Pacho Herrera to ask for reduced work hours so she could care for her aunt- That could really have gone either way, but somehow he thought that was probably not how it happened, or whom she'd asked. He just couldn't picture it. Maybe one of the brothers; they liked to style themselves as charitable family men, to a degree.

"Anyway, Medellín's closer for you, and we're less likely to be found out here. They like to keep security pretty tight in Calí. My friend Angelika calls it the Calí Stasi, and she's from the former East Germany, so she'd know." 

He hummed in acknowledgement, his coffee almost gone and him almost feeling like a living human being again. He flagged the waiter down for another. 

"In any case, I am glad that we can keep this to Spanish now. My English is not very ...confident." She prattled on, sipping from her own cup. Murphy had told him that she'd brought a dictionary to their first meeting, and apparently, with his former partner's dismal language skills, they'd actually needed it. 

"I'm sure your English is better than Murphy's Spanish." Steve had told him as much, but then again, Steve's Spanish was shit, so it really wasn't saying much. There was something else niggling at the back of his mind. 

"Why me?" 

Her glasses slid down her nose half an inch or so in surprise at his -admittedly abrupt- question. "I'm sorry?"

"Murphy said you wanted to speak to me specifically when you first called. Why?" 

She hesitated a moment, squirmed a little and averted her eyes, then pushed her glasses back up her nose before answering, softer than before. "Gabriela said you could be trusted."

"...Gabriela?" He said sharply, neck flushing at the thought of the beautiful redhead. 

She shrunk in on herself, hands fidgeting nervously in her lap. Perhaps his voice had come out a little bit harsher than intended. He hadn't even thought that she'd actually tell him her real name. He'd just been a client after all. 

"Yes," Miss Rivas breathed out, her voice so soft now that he had to lean halfway across the table to even catch it. "She's my best friend. We've been inseparable since the firts day of school. We tell each other everything. She told me she knew a DEA agent; that's why I told my cousin to go to her when she ran into trouble with Pablo Escobar-"

"Your cousin???" He almost roared. It came out as more of a whisper-yell, but she still flinched, eyes going wide behind the lenses. 

"Yes, my cousin," she said carefully, "Maritza Rincón." 

"Maritza–" he patted his pocket for a smoke and swore under his breath when he remembered how he'd left them in the car with the intention of advancing his 'quit smoking'-idea beyond idle talk. "What is this, a fucking trap? Very elaborate setup just to yell at me, missy. Unless you've got some buddies of yours here to–"

"What- what are you *talking* about? I don't blame you for Maritza's death!" By now people were staring. Not a lot of them, since it wasn't really the time yet for the midday crowd and too late for the morning rush, but the few pensioners and whatnot were definitely sensing the tension at their table. Javier gave up on his cigarette search and took a deliberate breath, willing himself to calm down. 

"Maritza is dead?" He hadn't known that. He wasn't sure how he would have learned of it, but it still shocked him regardless. He looked over to see her fidget with her locket, lips pressed tight and trembling. Shit. Another informant on his conscience, fucking great. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't-" he started, his voice catching. He bought himself time with his now lukewarm coffee, "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't know that. I-"

"It's alright." She whispered, in a tone of voice that clearly indicated it wasn't. She swept her glasses off with trembling fingers and pressed beneath her eyes, as if to restrain the tears that pooled in her lashes. 

"I'm sorry." Javier said again, insistent, soft, sincere. "What happened?" 

"We- I don't know. She called me to say she was in trouble with Escobar, and I helped her set up the meeting with Gabi."

"With me." He remembered that evening, that young girl sitting in Gabriela's apartment, ready to be sprung on him. Part of him had resented it; Gabriela had been someone he'd sought out to get away from the damn narcos and their dealings. Miss Rivas nodded. 

"Yes. It was that idiot Jhon. He was one of the neighborhood kids. Growing up he'd always had a crush on her..." She talked a lot, he found. It should irritate him more, the way she'd throw in seemingly irrelevant asides without explaining further. Instead he only found himself worrying that someone so pathologically honest could not possibly keep the Gentlemen of Calí off her tracks, at least not if she kept spilling her life story so eagerly. 

" ...and then she hid out on her uncle's farm again, where my auntie - her mom - grew up and went back to after my uncle - that's Maritza's dad - died of a heart attack. Auntie had been out for the day and when she came back- "

He can't bear to listen to it, but forces himself to anyway. In the sea of his regrets, what's one more? Besides, there's nothing else he can do for the girl now; the least he can do is witness how he failed her. 

For all her unassuming bluntness, Diana Rivas is not one to hold back, even on unsavoury details. At least he doesn't get the sense that she does it to torment when she tells him how they found Maritza's lifeless body with her young daughter next to her.  

By the end of that sorry tale, he has his head in his hands, Miss Rivas is still just this side of openly weeping, and all the other patrons have demonstratively averted their attention so as not to impose on what must, on the outside, look like an urgent case for a damned good couples' counselor. 

"I'm sorry, I know this is a lot." And why in the hell is she apologizing?

"No shit." And yeah, he has to digest this before he can even think of making any attempt at non-destructive human interaction. "You couldn't tell Murphy any of this?"

She gave him a look. 

"Yeah, alright. Sorry." More than just a language barrier, got it. 

"I didn't come here today with the intention to relive this, you know?" She said archly. He supposed she had all the right to be upset. And he'd never had a meeting with an informant turn this harrowing, which was really saying something. 

"I'm sorry." He said again, putting the weight of sincerity behind the words. Her hands were in the table now, fidgeting again as she sat slightly hunched over, staring into her coffee cup.

"Unless your government has a time machine to spare, I would prefer not talking about it again. At least not more than necessary." She replaced her glasses and checked her watch. "1 pm tomorrow?"

Javier nodded dumbly, already plucking a few bills out of his wallet to pay for the coffee. "Yeah, 1 pm is okay. Where?"

"Meet me at the church. Santa Ana. You know it?" He didn't particularly, as in he didn't know its name before now, but he could see the building's tall white facade from where they were sitting. 

"Iglesia de Santa Ana, 1 pm tomorrow." Javier confirmed, rising as she did. The stared at each other for a moment, unsure of how to conclude this meeting, until she stuck her hand out for him to shake. He took her smaller, slender hand in his, squeezing it wordlessly. 

"Until tomorrow, Agent Peña." She said, managing a sad little smile. "I hope you'll get some rest. You look like shit." 

Javier bit down every one of the snarky replies that sprung to mind, not least because he knew it was true. His bags had bags and he itched for a smoke.

And to think, this was Murphy's 'nice lady'. 

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

Somehow it hadn't occurred to him that at the church meant inside the church. Not until a very miffed face peered out between the heavy doors, giving him a look as he stood there smoking. 

"It's barely been five minutes!" Javier defended himself, stubbing out the cigarette beneath his heel. 

"It's 1:07pm." She informed him matter-of-factly, pushing the glasses back up her nose pointedly as she made to turn back inside. Javier caught the door, crowding perhaps a bit too close, but the damned thing was heavy. 

"Sorry." He said simply, seeing no point in making a scene out of it. She had to crane her neck just the slightest bit to meet his gaze. 

"Wait here, I'll be out in a minute." And with that she stalked off. Javi watched her sweep down the aisle, her hair and skirt fluttering behind her. She wore her hair loose today, the ends of it curling around her shoulders, and a simple off-white shirt dress that reached down to mid-calf. He let his eyes trail after her, leaning his weight more fully against the heavy wood of the door to lever it open. She walked around two thirds of the way down the pews before stopping by a... baby carriage? 

She bent over it before carefully wheeling it around and starting back towards the door. Javier racked his tired brain. The file hadn't said anything about a kid. Married five years but no children. That didn't seem like the kind of thing one would easily miss, and he knew Murphy to be thorough in his inquiries. 

"Who's this then?" He peered inside the carriage -more of a buggy really now that he got a closer look- and barely caught a glance of a dozing toddler with soft brown curls, while hoisting the door open wider to let her pass more easily. "Didn't know you had a kid."

"I don't." The buggy caught on the threshold and jolted, and a displeased cry came from inside it, making her curse under her breath. "This is Maritza's daughter, Salome. I've got it! Just- the door, just get the door!"

The last part of that came out high and sharp, much like the crack of a whip, and in direct response to Javier's attempt to swoop in and help heave the buggy over the worn-down threshold. He jolted back on instinct, grunting when the door swung squarely into his spine. Who the hell was responsible for all these old-ass church doors being solid enough to squash an actual living human between them?

After some fumbling they managed to make it out with most of their dignity still intact. Javier bent down and quickly shoved the bag he'd brought into the wire basket underneath the buggy's seat, next to her purse. 

"Where to?" He asked, straightening up again. Miss Rivas still looked cross, her lips pressed together.

"Follow along. There are some secluded benches a little walk away." And off she was, leavin him to catch up.

"If your intention is to disguise this meeting as just another family enjoying the sun I suggest you slow down a little." Javier hissed under his breath. He'd actually had to jog a bit to keep up with her steamroller pace. She looked even more annoyed and declined to grace him with an answer, but slowed with a sigh that told him that this was indeed her intention. It was a smart enough plan, he wouldn't dispute that. 

At least the kid seemed to have calmed from her little jostle-startle, seeing as she was now quietly babbling away as if narrating the sights. Javier tried to loosen his tense shoulders and to look like he was enjoying himself as they fell into step ambling along the walkways between the lush greenery. 

"How old is she?" he asked, thinking that perhaps some small talk would ease the woman's sullen mood. 

"Almost two and a half." Or not. Well, he tried. Javier wasn't exactly an expert with kids and none of his previous informants had ever shown up with theirs. Not that that would have been appropriate considering the circumstances. They walked for about a quarter of an hour, which Javier spent agonizing about how to smooth over the sudden mood change Miss Rivas was displaying compared to the day before. By the time they'd made it to their destination he was no closer to that goal. 

She sat with a weary sigh, shaking out her flowy skirt before sitting and rolling her sleeves up to her elbows. It was much warmer today than when they'd met previously, only in part due to the later hour. Stiffly, Javier sat down next to her at a distance that instantly belied their 'family outing' cover. She turned to him after checking on the baby, peeling back the sunshade of the buggy to allow her to look around. 

"You can smoke if you want to." Miss Rivas said offhandedly, her tone forcedly polite. Javier cleared his throat. 

"I'm actually trying to quit."

Her lips quirked into a pleasant curve. "And how's that going?"

Javier sighed. "I'm thinking I might have chosen the wrong time."

"Or the wrong job."

The laugh that bursts forth from him is short, but not altogether hollow. "Yeah, or that."

"Very well, then you may not smoke even though you might want to." 

Javier smiled. Couldn't help it, really. He had been worried that he'd somehow managed to offend her during their last meeting. He said as much, and she shook her head with a look of remorse.

"No, it's not your fault. It's just..." She pushed her glasses up and rubbed at her eyes, revealing the dark rings that had previously been hidden beneath the plastic rim. "Yesterday dredged up some things, and I didn't sleep well as a consequence. That always makes me snippy. And to top things of, this one," she leaned over to unbuckle the child and heave her into her lap, "was being fussy all morning, which didn't help. Sorry for being so short with you earlier."

"In this job, people usually shoot at me. It's alright, really. You're alright." Truth be told, he was glad she pulled herself out of this funk. Maybe she was as nice as Murphy claimed after all. The kid looked at him with large, round, strangely sage eyes. I got your mommy killed. I got your mommy killed and you had to watch. If he had gotten her that visa- The thought made him gulp, made him dizzy and nauseous and if there was anything to be glad for in this situation it was that he was already sitting down. Miss Rivas replaced her glasses and looked at him with furrowed brows. He felt like he was being read. 

"I already told you that I don't blame you for Maritza." Javier tried his damnedest not to squirm underneath that discerning stare. Screw read, he felt like he was being flayed open. "Obviously you still blame yourself."

"Wouldn't you?" He shot back, defensive. She didn't answer for a moment, gently rocking the kid who had grabbed a hold of her locket and started to play with it. 

"I have enough regrets of my own, Agent Peña." Part of him wants to scoff, even just to dispel the heavy moment, but the severity in her tone nips that impulse in the bud. Instead, he clears his throat and gestures to the buggy where he stored his bag earlier.

"I brought you something." 

Her features soften into not quite a smile, but something close enough. "What a coincidence, so have I."

And then she hands him the toddler, who lets out a displeased cry at having her toy wrenched from her chubby hands in so unceremonious a manner, and Javier freezes as her squirmy weight is settled in his lap, only his hand shooting out to steady her on instinct. Up close her big brown eyes are even more enormous. 

"Um, hi. Nice to meet you, Miss Salome. I'm Javier." He says awkwardly and is met with a pout. This is patently terrible and reminds him of the few times he'd been handed baby Olivia. She'd started crying instantly nine times out of ten. He hopes against hope that today will be a deviation from that norm. Salome considers him a long moment, blinking owlishly and making that certain kind of skeptical face that little kids so often do. He's had less tense moments in interrogations. He might be sweating in a way that has little to do with the midday heat. 

And then Salome blows him a raspberry and dives for his wrist to investigate the shininess of his watch. And when he can breathe again he allows himself a smile. Of relief, mostly. In stark contrast to the smile Miss Rivas wears as she regeards them both, which is pure mischief with a dash of smugness. 

"Well look at that. You passed muster, Agent Peña." Miss Rivas set both their bags down in the space between them, then leaned over to press a quick kiss to little Salome's soft curls. And Javier has been much closer to many women than this; his heart shouldn't lurch at the sudden proximity, the waft of her perfume or the light brush of her soft hair over his bare forearm.

"Ladies first." Javier gestured at the bags between them. She smiled and rummaged through hers, producing two thick stacks of folded papers, either parcel secured with a rubber band. 

"Trade you?" she motioned at the girl, who was now intently examining the fingers of his right hand. Reluctantly, he let Miss Rivas pluck the small child from his lap and stand her next to the bench. Salome frowned adorably for a moment at having been interrupted in pulling his pinky finger off, then realized she was free to roam around and brightened instantly, hitting the bench a few times with chubby palms and babbling. 

"Yes, of course I have your toy, sweetie." Miss Rivas said earnestly, presenting a brightly colored ball. Salome grabbed for it with a squeal, her momentum propelling her straight onto her backside. Miss Rivas turned back to Javier with that soft, fond expression still on her face and handed him one of the parcels. 

"Do... did you want to go over this? While I'm here to explain things?"

"That complex, huh?"

"Well, it's a lot to do with creative book-keeping and tax law loopholes. It's more about how they structure their business to launder their incomes than anything else, but it'll still be helpful in building a case, no?" 

It is, which is the whole reason he's been sent back here apparently. And while it's nothing the analysts back at the office can't handle (probably), he still likes being in the loop. And also maybe because he enjoys the sound of her voice. In any case he peels off the rubber band and unfolds the stack of papers, keeping a careful hand around it to ensure that nothing blows away in the spring breeze. Miss Rivas pulled out a pencil from her purse and shuffled closer. Close enough that he can smell her perfume again. - - - Over the following hour and a half Javier realized several important things: 

One. Diana Rivas is likely one of the cleverest people he has ever met. By page eight his head is swimming with numbers, but her even explanations make even tiered corporate tax rebate systems sound fascinating. Even in his line of work, he'd never truly considered accounting to be the stuff of suspense, but she makes it sound like a thriller that even the brightest heads in Hollywood would have trouble coming up with. 

Two. Having to do anything while keeping an eye in a rambunctious small child who is still learning to walk is a uniquely stressful experience. Little Salome is bouncing around the small patch of grass in front of the bench much like her ball, endowed with seemingly endless reservoirs of energy. She crashes into his knee a few times while chasing her ball or deciding that playing hide and seek underneath the bench is a better use of her time, and it puts him on edge that he feels responsible at all. 

Three. The Rodríguez brothers make more than enough money from their few legitimate businesses to never have to worry themselves financially. Not that this had been in question, technically, but to see the numbers in black and white is still galling, even if he's not nearly as incensed about it as Miss Rivas seems to be. And while Javier is far from a religious man, he does consider greed that is levered with blood to be at least distateful. 

Four. It's not her perfume he smelled earlier, but her shampoo, bright and fruity, with high notes of citrus. 

Five. As long as this is all they have and all she can get, the DEA cannot make a move against the Calí cartel. His orders had been very clear on that. Nail them down beyond escape and make absolutely sure you get them into custody, in that order. It means that whatever Miss Rivas can reveal about the inner financial working of the cartel is valuable, but on its own won't be enough. As always in this job it's sorting through a haystack with a rake in search of needlepoints. 

Which brings him to the next thing he needs to ask her. Needs to ask her to do for him, and the operation, to be specific, and he can already tell she'll say yes eagerly. Eager informants should be a blessing, but their eagerness seems to directly correlate with their likelihood of getting killed, or close enough. 

"This is for you." He says instead, handing her the satellite phone. There's directions that go with it, but he takes the time to walk her through it nonetheless. Also his numbers, both office and home, just in case. He watched as she carefully tucked everything into her purse.

It's later in the afternoon now - past three - and Salome comes toddling over, handing Javier her ball and sitting down on the grassy ground with a world-weary sigh. 

"Okay, time for your nap I think, young lady." Miss Rivas plucked the child from the ground and stood to deposit her back in the buggy, then holding out her hand to him expectantly. He hands the ball over after a split-second of dumbstruck hesitation. 

"Well, goodbye then, Agent Peña." 

He stood. Offered her his hand to shake, which she took. "I'll call you during the week. What time is good for you?" 

"Any time between seven and ten. I'll probably be in Medellín again in a month. I'll let you know if I have more intel by then." He nodded, finally releasing her hand after realizing he still had her fingers clasped in his. She smiled and turned to leave, wheeling the buggy around from its resting position and onto the footpath. "Oh, and Agent Peña?" She turned halfway, throwing the words over her shoulder with a smirk. "Gabriela won't be available tonight, just so you know. We're meeting for dinner and general catching up."

His neck flushed hotly, both despite and because he'd had no intention of visiting her. 

"Thanks," he said stiffly, "Give her my best."

"Will do!"

Shaking his head, Javier watched her retreat until she disappeared from view behind a bend in the path.

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

Further author’s note bc apparently I have more to say:

I’m gonna play a bit fast and loose with the timeline, because the show makes it look like Javi was sent back pretty much immediately and it only took those ~6 months to take down the cartel bosses, but in reality Escobar died in December of 1993 and the Calí godfathers weren’t arrested until summer of ‘95, so I’m sending Javi back to Colombia in the first half of ‘94 (April to be specific), meaning the time frame for this story is about a year

also I thought Maritza’s daughter in the series was still a baby, but upon rewatch it is actually stated in s2 ep4 that she’s two, and now I had to rewrite those parts. As to why she doesn’t speak, that’s actually something that will come up later and has nothing to do with my bad memory of the series. though tbh I probably assumed that because Olivia was a baby for like three years. (also according to the timeline I determined Maritza’s daugher would actually be between three and four at this point, but I’m going to disregard that. I’ve already had to age her up once and for the purposes of this story I need her to be still this little)

Chapter 2

[smolbeandrabbles]

I Don’t Wanna Go To Bed - Director Keller x Reader (Captain Marvel)

GIF Credit: X

@mandy23b​ @happyskywhale​ @wltz-bby​ #mendotagsquad

Director Keller + 87 - “Stay Awake” Requested by Anon

Author’s Note: Oh dearest anon 💙 Thank you for requesting him! I’ll be honest I didn’t expect it and it made me so happy! Keller is a bae and he needs more love, and more attention. I mean just LOOK at him. A sweetie. A+ man. A Good Boi.

Thank you also for an adorable premise that meant I could give them some cute banter 🙏💜 I Don’t Wanna Go To Bed - Simple Plan

Disclaimer: Gif not mine / Lyrics not mine / premise as requested / Captain Marvel & associated characters not mine

Premise: On an important stakeout mission, you’re struggling to stay awake. The Director isn’t too happy about this - so you resort to extreme measures...

Words: 2287

Warnings: N/A

_____ I gotta tell you the truth I'm full of broken pieces And all my nights are sleepless And I don't mean to intrude This secret, can you keep it? Won't give up even if it Takes me all night, takes my whole life Just won't feel right until I have you Tired eyes burn, when will I learn? Tell me what to do Let's get this out of the way Why should we wait forever? We're meant to be together I'm not ashamed to say... I still want you the same Love at first sight left me tongue tied Just won't feel right until I have you Tired eyes burn, when will I learn? Tell me what to do (Tell me what to do, just say it) ---

This had been a long stakeout mission. Endless weeks of careful planning and research had all come down to this very moment. Or… this very moment… or this very moment… Okay, so you’d actually been sat up on this roof for the best part of ‘all day’ with your boss. Or, partner. Or lover, whichever he wanted to be today. This was high profile, so of course Keller wanted to be here. In fact – this was as high profile as S.H.I.E.L.D got; without it being aliens from outer space – and he never liked being reminded of that one. On other rooves around the complex, fellow S.H.I.E.L.D agents bided their time for the smugglers to make their move, or Keller’s signal, whichever came first – probably both simultaneously. And, as usual Keller wanted you to accompany him. By now, leaning up against a concrete wall in the most uncomfortable position you could find was ceasing to help you stay awake, as you started to feel numb. Keller was on high alert, and half of you begged the question ‘Why!?’ - but also, that man had been trained to the nines by top S.H.I.E.L.D and Air Force heroes alike. He wouldn’t rest until he saw them taken out. Another reason why you’d been up here all day – if the intel was correct (which it better be considering it was your intel) then they would be moving today. Or maybe the early hours of tomorrow, which it surely would be soon. But you’d been up here since before day break, and the sun had stopped shining hours ago. Keller couldn’t miss anything. The radio had been silent since buildings around the complex began to quiet down, so you didn’t even have S.H.I.E.L.D team gossip and banter to listen to. Which the Director only allowed to keep you all motivated, despite sitting there and rolling his eyes at some of that which was discussed by you. You tried shifting a little but it didn’t help – and you’d felt your eyes going for quite some time. Closing completely for a few seconds before you snapped yourself back; C’mon Y/N! Pull yourself together! This is one of the most important things you’ll ever be involved in! Then they would droop again, and you’d already stifled one too many yawns. Five minutes… maybe he’d let you powernap for five minutes. You startled, jumping awake at gravel thrown pretty hard and dousing your suit. “Stay awake.” It wasn’t even nicely said, and you swivelled your head to glare at him for the rude awakening. “We’ve been here all day.” You made sure that you didn’t whine, but it was hard to leave it as just a factual statement. “And we’ll continue to be here until we catch them. You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D Agent for godsake act like one.” That was your boss talking. Keller’s patience was clearly wearing thin; you weren’t surprised to see him irritated. He wanted this over with – and he was stressing over a number of aspects that would mean this could go wrong. You folded your arms with a sigh. He probably didn’t want to talk, but it’d keep you awake – at least you hoped it would; “Can’t we just call Carol or something?!” He kept his blue eyes on the building, raising an eyebrow; “Who the hell is Carol?” You tipped your head, “Oh yeah! You were tied up in your office for most of that!” Keller was, as predicted, immediately embarrassed; “Shut up!” “Oh no, I should thank you! I’m fully awake now-!” Suddenly your mood brightened and you grinned. He placed his hand to his brow with a sigh, “To taunt me, perfect.” You weren’t done with your string of banter and Keller didn’t expect you to be either. Although you were back to your own thoughts for a little while – and what you might do next time the teams favourite game rolled around. You realised something suddenly, like an epiphany. His name was Jonathan Richard Keller. Therefore, depending on how nice his Agents were feeling, either JRK or RK; “…So your initials are J.R.K?” He sighed immediately, any conversation that revolved around his name was certainly not somewhere that Keller wanted to go, added to the little smirk on your face, “That’s one letter away from a word that certainly doesn’t describe you.” He was quick with realising exactly what you were getting at, but tried to keep composed – meaning his laugh came out as more of a snort that had you giggling, insistent on continuing; “Glad there isn’t an Edward or something in there!” “Yeah I GOT the joke, Y/N!” You grinned, this time with a laugh of your own as he turned a small (but very genuine) smile on you, your lover was back; “I’d prefer to think of it as one letter off JFK!” “Oh. So you’re a donut now?!” Keller laughed again, and you thought you might actually be getting somewhere – although his gentle nod wasn’t in agreement; “I’m partial to the odd... wait-! Was that a Berliner joke-!?” Nodding, you gave him a double thumbs up, clearly proud of yourself, “You got it babe – excellent historical knowledge. Give him an A+!” This time Keller shook his head at you; “Don’t act like you didn’t read my book shelf to know that.” “It is interesting. But I think everyone knows that one.” You smiled, “Did the German part of you help?” You counted yourself lucky you didn’t get doused in gravel again; “Get outta here-!” Keller - you just couldn’t help but think there was German somewhere in his family history. “Well, how about that picture of you with Clinton! It’s pride of place-!” You could see the blush cross his cheeks even in the low light; “Shut up!!” “I’M not in your office-!!” “We’ve discussed going public-! That’s the only reason you’re not, I can assure you.” There was silence for a moment as you considered his answer carefully, and then smiled gently; “I hate that that was actually really sweet of you.” “Yeah see!” There was a pause, and Keller softened; “Thank you...” By the look on his face, however, you weren’t about to try teasing any more out of him.

***

When even your silent partner started to get antsy, you knew the exact conversation that was about to kick in. The way Keller moved his body like he had an irritation he couldn’t shift, and his brows knitted together; mouth pressed into a thin frown. Then came the statement; “God, I’d kill for a cigarette right now.” Definitely the stress of the situation. That didn’t mean you didn’t shuffle slightly out of the way of his pistol range; “Just don’t turn the gun on me will ya, focus on them!” Thinking this might have been a good point, Keller holstered it once more. You tipped your head, a little concerned for him and his mood – he needed to be at his very best, you both knew this, “Nicotine patch?” “Mhm.” He gave a nod, sliding his sleeve up his arm to present it to you. You couldn’t help but ogle a little at those arms of his.  It wasn’t often you caught him in S.H.I.E.L.D issue workout gear training (and damn did he look good when you did), but you were around him enough with his rolled up sleeves to admire his forearms. As usual, you weren’t about to let him get away with showing a bit of skin; “Damn boy, those ARMS-!” “Oh, forgodsake-!” Keller tried to be mad at you for half a second, before he spluttered into laughter; at the sound of such a gorgeous laugh, you started giggling yourself – he breathed and tried to wave you off, hoping you weren’t being too loud; “Wait no! Stakeout this is serious-!!” Chuckles still rose in his chest, and threatened to get the better of him. You watched him focus again for a minute, loving his gentle smile and glad to see one back on his face. However, now you only longed for those arms to be around you. That wouldn’t happen until this mission was over though – you knew that too. Still, it didn’t stop you from scooting across the roof to his side, just to be near him. You sat back against the concrete ledge, tilting your body just enough to end up leaning against him. You didn’t dare close your eyes, even though you were still vaguely sleepy – head suddenly filled with the thought of crawling into bed with him and lazy Sunday morning cuddles. You let out a small, weary but very content sigh and Keller immediately reacted, despite his fixed gaze on the target building. His hand tentatively ran through your hair, thumb grazing your cheek.  You were comfortable, even in this calm before the storm moment – you were glad you were up on this roof with him, and not anywhere else. Perhaps in reality, you were gladder you were here than even being in bed. You were about to see Keller in action and in his element. All of your team could agree, it was an absolutely marvel (and delight) to see your boss kick ass. Keller let you take his hand in yours and squeezed it tight, holding you there and not pulling away – he was looking after you now, as he always did. But his mind was elsewhere, and looking out across to the buildings he knew the rest of his agents occupied, everyone looked okay from up here. Caught up in their own quiet conversations as they continued to stakeout the central warehouse. Very suddenly Keller let his musings bubble to the surface; “…Why haven’t we told anyone yet?” You very nearly froze, and looked up to him, knowing he was looking after his team from afar by the way his eyes scanned around; “Uh. Because they would go crazy…” “Yeah I guess that…” He pushed his glasses up his nose, voice quiet, “I guess I’m just tired of hiding it.” “I don’t wanna be that girl. Like then it’s pretty damn obvious why you take me everywhere all the time, no?” You held up your index finger before he could even mention it, “And I like it in this team, don’t you dare suggest a transfer.” But he held your hand between his, “I wouldn’t. I only want to do this if you’re okay with it.” “…Are you saying this because it’s nearly midnight, and you’re delusional, and tired cuz you’ve been up here all day?” You studied his face for a moment, before reaching out to touch his cheek, “Babe, you look tired…” “I’ll be okay. I’ll rest when we’ve dealt with these assholes.” You sighed, “Then bed?” He scoffed, “Like you can talk, you’re the one falling asleep on the job.” Your cheeks burned momentarily but you were determined to win this one; “I can’t sleep without you.” “Managed before you met me.” “Sometimes you’re a total romantic, you know that?” “Y/N. We’re on the job, focus on the task at hand.” You weren’t about to let him go back to being your boss that easily; “Kiss me.” “What?!” “Kiss me and I’ll focus.” You’re the one tired of hiding this… He could not have looked more exasperated, but you were giving him those big round eyes to match the look on your face; “If we miss anything-” “We won’t!” So he did lean across and kiss you, letting you snake you arms around his neck, and feel the satisfaction of stealing a kiss from the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. *** From over the roof tops one of the agents in your team had got a little bored of watching the warehouse and was scanning to see what the rest of the team was busy doing. Most of them looked nearly as bored as he did, with half-ass focus, huddled up and hoping that SOMEONE WOULD JUST MOVE SO THEY COULD GO HOME! Sure, this was the job – and if this all went well, the dream, but everyone was itching for action, and growing increasingly tired of waiting. He wondered if even Director Keller would get so agitated about it that he’d just call on them to storm the place. That was Keller though, so it wasn’t happening. Heck he probably hadn’t budged an inch since he got up here, and would be as calm as anything. They’d all been pretty jolly on the radio earlier, but he’d not even said a word. This was huge for him though – if this went wrong his job was probably on the line. So the team kinda understood the need to be here. And respected his judgement. As he raised the goggles to Keller’s rooftop, though, he spluttered and almost dropped them. Nick Fury, sitting with him turned; “What? Do we have company?” He raised them to his eyes again just to check what he was seeing “Holy F----” then bit his lip, “Are Y/N and the Director seeing each other-!?!” Nick chuckled, “Aw yeah, did no one mention that? It’s a little well-kept secret, bud.” “YOU knew-!?” “I’m his wingman, so yeah I knew…” Nick peered over the edge of the building, “About time they actually came out with it-!” Suddenly you found your kiss illuminated by the warehouse lights and Keller broke it, immediately reaching for his P226 and radio. He was your boss again – and his spring into action telling everyone to get in position because it was ‘go time’ revitalised you instantly – you drew your own gun and took up your place on high alert, glancing back to him with a gentle smile. No rest for the young! Still, when this was all over you’d get that man to rest, even if that meant dragging him to bed yourself.

---

!5/16!

Thank you for reading!! 😁

[kamino-ink]

Smoke | Hwang Hyunjin

genre ⌁ high school!au, strangers-to-lovers, angsty, fluff sprinkled in loves

summary ⌁ you’re an infamous school druggie, always coming to school with bloodshot eyes, purple bags, and cracked, bloodied lips. rumors are nothing new to you, and in all honesty you don’t fight them - you don’t want to waste time on meaningless drama, after all. everything starts to change, in a way, when a quiet, easily amused boy comes to your school - and you wouldn’t have had it any other way.

word count ⌁ 3.5k

warning ⌁ mentions of drug abuse, kinda heavy stuff - I can’t quite explain it without spoiling, but if you're sensitive to issues revolving around abortion, mentions of drug abuse, or anything of that matter - I highly suggest you go read another amazing fanfic in the community other than this one.

Check out my masterlist!

 It is quiet in your bedroom. The tiny music box with a shy ballerina in the center of the stage no longer plays the gentle tune that you had since memorized as a small child, her stage broken and cracked from years of not being touched unless it was to be thrown angrily against a wall or your bedroom floor. The pathetic excuse of a vanity set up by one of your uncles many years ago is covered in bits of stray dust, stains of colorful makeup dried on it’s aging white surface. A lonesome eyeshadow pallet rests dangerously close to the edge of the vanity with the shattered mirror, now going on its second year of being unused; the same can be said for the foundation, the lid seeping with now dry product and dotted with old fingerprints.

 It is lonely in your bedroom. There is no trace of happiness or laughter lingering in the open, chilly air being let in by the cracked window on the wall. When was the last time someone other than your dealer had stepped into that very room, now littered with blankets, papers, and old sentimentals? When was the last time you had a friend spend the night and build silly forts made of fluffy blankets and thin sheets? When was the last time your parents walked in to wake you up with a glass of water or a shake of your shoulder?

 Gray puffs of silky smooth smoke billow into the dank air of your bedroom, seeping out along with a few stray ashes that drop onto your carpeted floor. It’s only your first cigarette of the day, so it doesn’t exactly do much for you - and it’s just a smaller dose of nicotine, nothing that made your cheeks flush a deep red in euphoria. But it would have to do until the end of the school day.

 “-her eyes are so red, do you think all the drugs she does has made it permanent?”

 “You think that’s weird? Check out her eyebags - I can’t believe the principal let’s a wild panda roam around our school!”

 “Ew, look at her lips! I hope she doesn’t kiss her boyfriend with those lips.”

 “Isn’t she dating that Mark Lee guy that graduated last year? I heard he’s a biker in a gang downtown.”

 “No way, I totally saw her making out behind the cafeteria dumpsters with Jeno! Ugh, I would kill to kiss him-”

 Mark Lee is someone you used to call your best friend, back in the days where neither of you had been addicted. While he was a good year older than you, the Canadian boy had not once left your side - not even when you became friends with a little pack of boys in your year; in fact, he had become the unofficial “dad” of the ragtag band of friends, trying to make sure none of you got into too much trouble in school.

 That, obviously, had gone tumbling downhill when one of his older cousins introduced all of you to a drug called heroin. He said that it made you feel relaxed and totally stress free; and as naïve high school students who believed yourselves to be more mature than you really were at the time, each and every one of you tried it out. But only you and Mark kept going back to his cousin for more.

 And then it got so, so much worse in just a couple of months before his graduation. You both had gotten high in the wee hours of the looming night, sat on top of the bleachers standing proudly on the football field where no school cameras could capture your faces, or the smoke that poured out between your lips. Mark had been using heroin just for the thrill, he said, stating promptly that he felt like a real man abusing the drug as much as he did. On the other hand, you sought false solace in the drug after long days of school and three different part-time jobs, as well as the constant neglect in your very own household. You didn’t think of this as an excuse, because you knew heroin was hurting your body and making you weaker - you hated it, but you also loved it.

 After puffing out another cloud of stunning smoke, Mark subconsciously slid one of his larger hands onto your bare thigh, squeezing the cold flesh warmly in a sign of affection. It hadn’t been new to you at all, his touch - but then he inched it closer and closer up your skirt until his soft fingertips were just itching at the corner of your panties. You’d glanced at the senior in bewilderment, which made him blush and pull his hand back. He apologized, saying that his brain had been too foggy to think straight, and that he’d never meant to try and suggest anything more between the two of you. While you quickly forgave him, you noticed how he used that same old excuse for everything he did.

 Got caught getting a blowjob from one of the school cheerleaders? Oops, he was high out of his mind and it didn’t mean anything. Found in possession of a firearm even though he wasn’t of age, nor did he have a permit? Uh oh, he was a bit woozy from his last puff. Joined his cousin’s little gang in Busan? That...wasn't a mistake. The second he graduated, Mark Lee packed his things and took a train to the city of Busan and never looked back, a white cigarette still burning between his lips as you and the other boys watched him board the train.

 And Jeno - god he was like your brother, at one period in time, inching his way into what had been Mark’s space as your addiction got worse and worse with each passing day. He forced you to eat some of his lunch when you would pull out a miserable excuse of a sandwich from your bag, watching diligently to make  sure you swallowed every single bite. He would help you brush out your rat’s nest of a head of hair in the girl’s bathroom every morning before the bell rang, ignoring the squealing girls with a cheeky grin and bright eye smile - even though he knew he could be suspended or expelled for it.

 He sort of understood where you were coming from, as he himself was from a family of abusive parents that hit him so hard he’d come to school looking like he’d been in a car wreck. You would stay behind a few hours after the final bell each day, disinfecting his fresh scratches while he ranted about life at home. You didn't mind, because he was your brother, in a way - and you were his sister.

 Then he left for a couple of months, early on in your senior year of high school - not returning until the first day of November. Turns out his parents had been caught abusing him by his grandma, who immediately took them to court and filed for custody of her precious grandson. She won the case, of course, and helped Jeno adapt to his new life full of warmth and love until he was ready to face the rumors back at school. After such trials and tribulation, you found that Jeno had moved on from you and instead took the reigns as the new “dad” of the group of friends that had been drifting away ever since the school year started. You didn’t blame him for wanting to break off any and all communication with someone who had a bad reputation for being high almost every single hour of the day - after all, he’d just broke apart from one toxic part of his life, why did he need to stick around and see if you were the same?

 Now, you were completely and utterly alone, left to hang your head slightly as your fingertips slowly turned the locked dial on your steel gray locker.

 “E-excuse me?”

 With a small pop the door to your locker swung open, being caught from hitting your neighbor’s unsuspecting head at the last second. There wasn’t much use to your locker, since you barely kept anything in there besides a few extra textbooks that were rarely put to use inside the classroom.

 “I-I’m sorry to bother you miss, but - but could you help me find my locker?”

 You turn your head just enough to see a nervous looking boy staring down at you, and he jumped a bit in surprise when your gaze met his within those few milliseconds. “Yeah, of course. What number do you have?”

 “Oh-! Um, it says... 4419.”

 “That’s... actually right in front of you,” a snort of amusement escapes your lips while you point to the small sticker with his assigned locker number stuck to the middle of it’s rectangular shape, “did you maybe forget your contacts or glasses at home, new guy?”

 ‘New guy’ laughs softly at your teasing words, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. The sleeves of his pink knit sweater droop down to the tips of his fingers like paws and his plump lips twitch into a bit of a more relieved looking smile. “It looks like I forgot my common sense at my doorsteps, actually,” he hums, “my first day here and I’m already lost.”

 You wonder if that’s how Mark felt when he left for college - did he even stick to his plans after high school? “Well, I can help you... not be lost, if you want.”

 “Would you really? Thank you so much - erm, what’s your name?”

 “I’m Y/N Y/L/N, senior.”

 “Well - miss Y/N, I’m Hwang Hyunjin, also a senior and the resident new kid.”

 Creative writing is by far your favorite class in the whole wide world - you can let your imagination run free, touching the clouds and diving deep into the depths of the sea to your pounding heart’s content. What scribbles of your healthy brain are left untouched by the roots of heroine have bloomed into beautiful flowers of creativity and a love for writing. While your practice in the class is deemed strange to your other classmates, you find it peaceful and heart warming.

 “What’re you writing about, Y/N?” Hyunjin’s already soft voice comes out as smooth as fresh, orange honey. The boy leans over a little to look at your computer screen already jumbled with ideas and bursting thoughts - class had just started fourteen minutes ago and you were still brainstorming while he’d messily put together a web of ideas that were a bit lackluster, in his opinion.

 “I’m thinking of either writing a mafia alternate universe story about Park Jinyoung, or a cheesy romance ploy. Not too sure which one is better, honestly.”

 You write fanfiction - or, for lack of a better term, content that involve your favorite idols in the universe; ranging from the queen herself Hyuna to Park Jinyoung of a band called GOT7, there’s no one you won’t write about. The pieces you write so eagerly are published not in a book, but onto a social media website called Tumblr where everyone in the communities you write for can read your work. You were never ashamed of admitting that you were a fanfiction creator because it made you happy and proud of what you could do; your online mutual would shower you in silly praises and jokingly scream at you in caps lock for more pain-filled scenarios. Complete strangers would leave red hearts on your posts and send you anonymous messages that made your little heart soar in joy.

 Your schoolmates thought it to be super weird - I mean, writing fantasies about famous celebrities for anyone to see, quite possibly the celebrity themselves? They couldn’t wrap their heads around it, although you didn't blame them too much for their harsh critiques of your passion. You just enjoyed making up bizarre or somewhat realistic scenarios since it made you and so many other people happy - an emotion you couldn’t seem to grasp that often in the real world.

 “Mafia stories are the thing these days, why not go back to the roots of romance and write about like, a cheesy badboy and a good girl plot? Nothing wrong with clichés.”

 “Thanks for the input, Hyunjin.”

 “No problem, Y/N - hey, make sure I get to be the first to read it though, alright?”

 “Of course, don’t worry about it.”

 The next two weeks, once filled with something quite similar to nothing at all, was filled with a bright light called Hwang Hyunjin. Clad in mostly just oversized shirts that would hang comically low, all the way down to his knees, or pastel knit sweaters along with plain jeans, the senior would stick by your side as if he was stuck there. Sure he made a few other friends, but he never failed to walk with you to lunch and plop down beside you at the otherwise empty table. He would offer you some of his lunch, since his mom had a habit of giving him proportions that a whole family of four could eat.

 The second week of having Hwang Hyunjin around as a friend was... interesting, to say the least. He’d been a few minutes late arriving to your designated table in the corner of the cafeteria, leaving you by your lonesome to drown in your poisonous thoughts. Just earlier the same day, the vice principal had pulled you aside and expressed her concern for your disheveled hair - saying that it could be a distraction to other students. Pah, hair being a distraction? Why, you thought it was already bad enough to comment on clothes that showed shoulders - now this? Then again, you had an inkling of understanding, especially since whenever you tried to run your fingers through your hair like the blonde cheerleaders did they would almost immediately latch onto a nasty knot.

 “Hey, sorry for - Y/N, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”

 You hadn’t even noticed the stray tears dribbling down your flushed cheeks, nor the trembling of your chapped and bloodied lips that you’d been anxiously chewing on since the confrontation just hours ago in the hallway. “H-Hyunjin, do you... do you maybe have a brush with you?” The question slips through your lips like a mantra while you hang your head low in shame and glowering embarrassment.

 There’s a pregnant pause, then you hear the boy shuffling in what you can only assume is his school bag. “Chin up, friend - I won’t be able to properly brush your hair if you let your pretty head droop so low.”

 “I can do it myself.” The short words sound like a harsh jab, but Hyunjin thinks nothing of it. Instead your tall companion chuckles softly and helps you turn around so your back is facing his chest covered in a pastel blue material. “Hyu-”

 “Shh, just relax and eat up. We only have thirty minutes, after all.” He hums cheekily, accepting your huff of defeat as a sign of encouragement to get started on brushing the tangles and knots out of your hair. His long fingers go to work first, carefully loosening up any problem areas so that when he brings a brush to your hair it won’t accidently tear any of the tendrils. “You know, your hair is really soft.”

 You utter an almost inaudible, “thank you,” to the black haired boy, enjoying the way his fingers thread through your messy and tangled strands of hair. From the corner of your eye you spot Jeno, now sporting frosty white hair, leading Donghyuck, Jaemin, and Renjun into the crowded cafeteria. Somehow his eyes meet yours, then they drift over to the peaceful boy brushing through your hair. You’re too far away to see the way his gaze glimmers in remorse, perhaps even guilt sprinkled with hints of regret - though you’re too busy sending him an awkward wave to notice. The two of you had left things on not so much as a sour note, rather a mutual awkwardness.

 But you don’t miss the tiny curl of his lips and the warm crescents of his eyes sending you a polite greeting back. While Jeno was likely to always stay in your past, you knew that deep down you both would always see each other as equals and something akin to true siblings.

 For the person in the present, however - you couldn’t pinpoint exactly what Hwang Hyunjin was to you. Still, you hoped and prayed that he wouldn’t be apart of your past; just the present and the future.

 “You know, my mom almost aborted me.”

 Only Mark Lee and Jeno knew that your mom had been a drug addict when she was well into her pregnancy with her first, and only, child. Neither of them had much to say, assumingly because they didn’t know what they could say without coming off as intrusive or awkward.

 But, of all people, Hwang Hyunjin knew just what to say - well, ask. “How come?”

 The sky is a reflection of your mood, displaying poofy gray rainclouds spilling over with cold droplets of rain that echoed on the roof of his car. Its sunset painted hue with streaks of calming oranges and pinks had been stained with the markings of a dark, looming storm. Strikes of stunning yellow lightning crashed miles away from where the car was parked on a stray mountaintop, though the bellowing roars of thunder were enough to make you jump in the passenger's seat just a little.

 “The doctors were worried about the fetus - me, since she was a heavy drug addict. Not much has changed in that aspect, I suppose.” You mutter mostly to yourself, even though you’re more than aware that the boy next to you can hear just about every single word being uttered from between your lips. A cigarette had been embedded in the crevice of your lips hours before, but you refused to smoke around Hyunjin, so before he picked you up from work you’d tossed it into the closest trash bin. “Low blood sugar, premature birth, all that jazz, you know?”

 “I ended up having some super shitty breathing problems for the first year of my life - from what I was told, I rarely got to go home that year. My mom wanted to abort me at first, since she didn’t even want a kid in the first place and kind of didn’t want to risk having a weak baby that she’d be stuck with. My dad talked her out of it. Now... I don’t even remember the last time either of them has made me breakfast or hugged me.”

 The boy next to you remains silent for a moment, his brain processing everything you’ve just told him. For just over a month he’s known you, calling you his friend and desiring in some cases for something more - but he had never pried too deep into your private life out of respect to your privacy. He had a hunch that life at home couldn’t have been the greatest of occurrences, since he made it his duty to help you brush your hair during the first class of the day; you were unmotivated to do just about anything. Depression, you said was what is was, ate you alive with every other passing minute in his eyes.

 He leans over the console, free of his seatbelt since the pair of you had been parked on the mountaintop (well, ledge filled with parking spaces for sight seers) for the past two hours or so. With one arm going to rest on your shoulder, he lets the other fall down nicely into your lap so he can intertwine his warm fingers with your cold ones that usually held a budding cigarette. “While it would’ve been the safer option to - to not have you, I want to be selfish and say that I’m glad she didn’t.”

 You feel the hand holding yours lift from your legging covered lap, just to brush under your jaw. “Why is that, Hyunjin?”

 His knuckles and your own are controlled by his larger hand, meaning that he was the one to tilt your head up towards his own, half of his body still leaning over the console of his car. “Because... I never would’ve met you, Y/N.” His face inches down closer to your own flushed one, his lips brushing against yours as light as a feather.

 Hwang Hyunjin has been your remedy to your heroin addiction for the past month or so since he entered your life. He didn’t judge you harshly, rather he’d come into your life with a nervous laugh and a warm smile tugged at his plump, pink lips. His reassuring words were enough to make you stop smoking every single morning before school. His words of encouragement made you realize that smoking twice a day only made your eyes even redder than before, to which you rounded down to just own measly smoke each day.

 And his gentle kiss was enough to make you want to stop altogether, because you didn’t want Hwang Hyunjin to remember your first kiss tasting like remnants of smoke and drugs.

[riseandshinelittleblossom]

Hoping for Home Ch 6 - “If I Didn’t Have You”

Sorry for the wait, guys! Catch up here!

Disclaimer: Just borrowing the characters except my originals.

 Song for this chapter: “If I Didn’t Have You” By Thompson Square

Tags: @ao719 @cocomaxley @leelee10898@fullbeaumonty @choiceswreckedme @ritachacha @itsstillnotwhatyouthink@blackcoffee85 @indiacater @drakesensworld @carabeth @daniv2278@cosigottahavefaith @gibbles82 @innerpostmentality@perfectprofessorherokid @darley1101 @jovialyouthmusic @liamxs-world@thequeenofcronuts @blznbaby @stopforamoment @zilch3382@wannabemc2 @jlouise88 @lodberg @jasieschoices

The lights of the private waiting room of Valtoria Medical were bright and mind-numbing. Not that Libby's mind was feeling much of anything other than fear and regret.

    She'd clung to Drake like a parasite since they'd gotten word. In the swirling vortex of everything that had happened to her the last couple of months, culminating in the accident, he seemed to be the only constant and so she allowed the warmth of his arms to be her anchor.

   The rest of the room was packed with courtly figures,people that she had considered friends in another life. Maybe she still did, even if the pain she'd caused them all had caused them to think of her differently.

            They'd been in the emergency room for four hours now, all of the children had been lucky in a manner of speaking. Bartie and McKenzie were virtually unscathed by the accident, a few bumps and bruises between them. Abel had a cracked rib. Will's right forearm had required twelve stitches where it had been pinned in the accident.

   Emma was, by far, the worst for wear. Preliminary scans had shown no signs of permanent brain damage nor any cerebral swelling or bleeding. However, she still had not woken up.

    The doctors told the duchess that her daughter seemed to be responsive to outside stimuli, which was an excellent sign, but they wouldn't know more until she awakened.

     “Can I have your jacket, Drake?” Libby asked raising her head off of his shoulder.

    “Sure, Scott.” He slouched the blazer from his shoulders and handed it to her. She stood to cross the room, intending to use the jacket to cover her son's sleeping form,but she paused when she watched Liam wriggle from his own coat and drape it across Will instead. Her heart stopped for a moment, taking in the way Liam cared for the young boy that he wasn't even sure was his son.

     Libby spun on her heels, handing the jacket back to Drake. “Nevermind.” She smiled softly as he draped the garment over his knee. “I'm gonna step outside for some air.”

     Drake stood from his seat, twisting his torso in a stretch before he draped his jacket over Libby's bare shoulders.

    “Keep it, then. It's cold out there, Scott.”

   She hugged the blazer closer offering her friend a warm smile. “You'll call me if she wakes up?”

  “Of course we will, Libby” Olivia told her as she placed her polished nails on her old friend's shoulders. “Take all the time you need. We'll come get you if anything changes.”

    Libby faced the Queen, her eyes darting back and forth over the woman's face. She noted the lines at the edges of Olivia's eyes that she hadn't sported in their youth. They were laugh lines, Libby assumed, and she couldn't help but wonder what must've changed for Olivia over the years for her to have gained them.

    “I can't tell you what this means to me. After everything I've done…”

    “You are our friend, Elizabeth. Emma is your daughter no matter which way everything else plays out so, come hell or high water, we're here for you. We can sort the rest out later.” Olivia said.

     Libby wandered outside, finding a small courtyard boasting a few benches and a gazebo. Seeking the refuge the small structure provided she made her way over to it. As she drew closer to it, she noticed a thin cloud of smoke hanging in the air just above it, the smell of nicotine  wafting by.

     Stepping inside she found Maxwell leaned against one of the railings. His thoughts seemed to be far off in the distance as he absentmindedly flipped the ashes off the end of his cigarette.

    “Those things will kill you one day, you know. Do you have another?”

     The brunette man peered over his shoulder at her, narrowing his eyes slightly. Against his better judgement, Maxwell pulled a silver case from his inner jacket pocket, popping it open to offer Libby what was inside.

    “Suppose you need a light too?” He grumbled placing his own bit of vice between his lips as he reached for his lighter.

    Libby took a long drag, exhaling the smoke out into the night sky.

    “Since when do you smoke?” She asked him desperate to break the silence.

   “Eh, my second wife was a social smoker. I picked it up from her. Usually I only smoke socially as well, but tonight…” Maxwell's voice trailed off as he planted his palms on the railing in front of him, leaning into it.

   “I know what you mean. I quit just before I came to Cordonia for the first time.”

     A silence hung between them, but somehow it was more peaceful than Libby imagined it would be. She watched as his shoulders subtly rose and fell with each breath, his dress shirt taut against the well defined muscles on either side of his neck.  She parted her lips to speak, the uncharacteristic stillness of the man who'd once stolen her heart beginning to make her uneasy, but nothing came out.

   He must have been feeling the same way because he exhaled loudly before whirling around to face her. Hopping up to sit on the railing he said, “I know this isn't exactly the best time to say this, but Libby, I've missed you. Every single day.

  I'm sorry for the way I behaved earlier, but the truth is...it doesn't matter. I'm just...I'm really happy to see you again.”

    She smiled softly at his confession, taking a step closer to him.

    “I'm really happy to see you again, too, Max.”

    She wanted to apologize profusely. To tell him all about the days - the years - she'd spent missing him too. However after the night's events, she found herself too emotionally drained to even begin.

    She dropped her cigarette, smashing it out with the toe of her high-heel.

   “Maxwell, I-.” Libby began, but was interrupted by the sound of stilettos clicking quickly over concrete.

   “Libby! Emma's awake. They said you can see her now.” Olivia huffed.

     Drake stopped at the coffee vending machine. Eyeballing the selections, he scoffed when he saw the chai latte button. The odd drink that started this whole mess.

  Liam came up behind him, leaning against the wall. “How is she holding up, Drake?”

    He sighed, running a hand over his chocolate locks. “Ya know. I mean, she's okay but she's upset. It was easy for me and Sav and Hana. Our kids were bruised, but they're fine. Emma is…”

   Drake and Liam both averted their gazes the what if too much for either to bare while looking at the other.

    “I'll stay with her, Li. I know that it's not exactly something you can do at this juncture.”

   Liam smirked and shot his best friend a bit of side eye. “Oh I have no doubt that you will stay by Libby's side. I just wonder if you aren't doing it more for yourself at this point.”

    Drake furrowed his brow. “What are you talking about?”

   Liam continued to smile smugly as he crossed his arms over his chest.

   “Liam it isn't like that. Libby is my friend. And ya know, not for nothing but I did pry her from her life and all but force her back here. So excuse me if I feel a little bit responsible for her.”

   The king chuckled. “As I'm sure Maxwell felt responsible for her all those years ago, old friend.”

   Drake shook his head with an eye roll. “Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

     In a flash Libby was at Emma's bedside, her petite fingers grazing through the young girl's blonde hair.

   “Mama, I'm so so sorry.” Emma croaked.

   “Shhhhhhh-sh-sh. None of that. I'm just so happy you're all okay.”

  “Your Grace, I have ordered an MRI. Assuming things look normal on that end I would say you can take the Lady home tomorrow. I would like to keep her here until then for observation. Typically with a concussion-” Doctor Monroe was interrupted by the sound of the door clicking open, revealing Liam and Maxwell on the other side.

   Monroe offered a deep bow as the men made their way into the room.

   “I apologize for the intrusion. I hope it's okay that we've come.” Liam said, nodding to the doctor.

   Libby smiled, turning her eyes back to the caretaker.

   “Typically with a concussion we don't see such a significant loss of consciousness, so I just want to be sure there isn't more going on than meets the eye. For now, she just needs rest. I'll give you all a few moments.”

     Doctor Monroe stepped out of the room and the door clicked behind him.

   “How are you feeling?” Maxwell asked, taking a stance at the foot of her bed.

   “Honestly I'm fine. A little bit sleepy, but... Mom?” Emma answered and Libby quirked an eyebrow.

   “I don't really know how all of this courtly stuff works, but that nurse that saw me before you came in...she said I'm lucky to be alive. That means I could've died tonight and I never would have found out which one of you is my father. I'm not okay with that. Can we just do a paternity test? Please? We're at the hospital anyway, and I know that maybe this isn't the best time but-.”

  “I agree with her, Libby. Ultimately the decision lies with you, but after tonight's events... I'm very keen to find out myself. Maxwell?” Liam butted in.

   The dark haired man was staring into the distance and he shook his head at the mention of his name.

   “I wasn't going to bring it up given the circumstances, but yeah. The sooner the better.”

     Libby chewed her bottom lip. Scanning her daughter's face she found nothing but certainty, a rare trait for a person of her age. Slowly the nodded her head.

   “I don't see why we can't bring it up with Dr. Monroe in the morning, before you're discharged.”

       Will was curled up next to his sister when the doctor entered the room.

     “So what exactly are you going to do? Draw some blood?” He asked as the man washed his hands, applying a fresh set of sterile gloves. He picked up two kits from the counter and faced the twins.

    “I'm going to swab your cheek. One tiny in and out, that's all.” Monroe explained.

   “ And that's it? Then we'll know who our dad is?” Will shifted his weight suddenly very anxious.

   “Well we will have to swab the men on question. All of the samples will be sent to our lab for analysis. The results usually take 4-6 weeks. Then you will know who your dad is.”

   Emma squeezed her brother's hand, calming him by measures.

    Libby smiled from her chair in the corner. She had always been amazed by their ability to always know just what the other needed.

   “It's okay to be nervous.” She told her children.

   “Well if you had done this a long time ago we wouldn't need to be.” Will scoffed.

   “Will, don't.” Emma scolded and he rolled his eyes.

    After marking and packaging each sample, Dr. Monroe headed towards the door.

   “I'll have these sent priority, Your Grace. As I said, we should know something in 4-6 weeks. In the meantime, you're free to take young Emma home. There are some papers waiting for your signature at the nurse's station.”

   “Thank you, Monroe.” Libby started turning towards her children. “I'll be back in a few. Will, help your sister get ready, please.”

    She strode down the corridor headed for the nurse's station when she saw Liam round the corner.

   “Ah, Libby. I was hoping to speak with you. The doctor informed me that it could take some weeks to get out results.”

    “That's right, Your Majesty.”

    “Please,that's not necessary. We're discussing whether your children are my children, I think we're beyond pleasantries.”

  The redhead grinned at the ridiculousness of the whole situation as the king continued.

   “In any event, Olivia and I would like to invite you and the twins to stay at the palace while we await the results. It would give me some time to get to know your children better.”

    Libby tilted her head.

   “If I find that they are mine and I've squandered this time that I could've shared with them because I wasn't sure I will never forgive myself, Lib. At the end of the day I don't feel I will have lost anything at all by getting to know them if it turns out that they are Maxwell's children, and I would love the opportunity no matter the results. What do you say?”

   “I…” she paused a moment. “How many security vehicles does the King's Guard house at the palace?”

  Now was Liam's turn to be confused as he cocked his head to the side.

   “Twelve. But why does that matter?”

   “Well although I'm grateful that they escaped with their lives the fact remains that they are teenagers that stole a car and wrecked it. I will still have to punish them. Washing and waxing twelve card seems severe enough.”

  Liam laughed, his blue eyes twinkling beneath the fluorescent lights of the hallway. “Wait. You're- you're not joking.”

   Libby raised a brow. “I most certainly am not. We'll be there tomorrow morning. Thank you for the invitation, Liam.”

   He turned to leave, bouncing on the balls of his feet when he remembered. “Oh. I should tell you that I've invited Maxwell to stay as well. He seemed keen to seize the opportunity as well, though he has neither accepted nor denied my invitation. Just thought I should give you a heads up.”

     Libby waved her hand flippantly. “That won't be a problem. I don't know why you think otherwise.”

    Liam let out a laugh from deep within him. “Of course, Your Grace. How silly of me to think that it would be.”

[crashdevlin]

To Hell and Back- 11: Redemption

Hell and Back Masterlist

Author’s Note: Originally posted to ao3 (This is an edited and improved version). This is an AU of my story ‘Marion’ and is just as epic as that series.

Summary: The twins are linked. Where Dean goes, Marion does too. 

Pairing(s): none

Word Count: 2774

Chapter Warnings: angst, feelings of worthlessness, mentions of suicidal ideation

Marion woke up in a field of corn, the sun beating down on her face. When she sat up, she saw Castiel twenty feet away, watching her.

"What happened? Where are we?" Marion's head was pounding, she could tell she hadn't gotten very much sleep.

"I was ordered to bring Dean to this point in the past. You two have a strong link, so you were brought along."

"Must've been while I was sleeping." She looked around, shielding her eyes from the sun. "So, where is he?"

"Elsewhere. I had to bring you, but this is not meant to be a joint effort."

She stood and began walking through the corn. Castiel followed. She grabbed an ear of corn and kept walking. "Stalks are shorter, ears are smaller and thinner. ‘50s or ‘60s?" she asked, loudly.

"’70s," Castiel responded, succinctly.

"So, are you just going to babysit me this whole time or are you going to help Dean accomplish whatever it is that you have him doing?"

"Dean doesn't need my help. I have been ordered to make sure you stay away until he's done. It won't take long."

"Of course." She turned around, looking up at him. "You don't like me, do you?"

"You sold yourself to a demon. You befriended him. You fantasized about him. You obviously aren't faithful to Heaven."

"Neither is Dean," she said, blushing that the angel knew her secret fantasies. "But I am very faithful to my family. And of course you won't understand this, because you're Heaven's robot, but when a virgin shares her first kiss with a man, or a demon as it was, who knows exactly how attractive he is..." she started to ramble.

Castiel stared at her. She shook her head at herself and kept walking. "He used my attraction against me, I'm sure, but... It doesn't matter, anymore. I've gotten rid of him. If I see him again, I'll kill him. So, you don't have to worry about my loyalty. My loyalty is with Bobby and Dean and Sam."

She stopped and turned to her trench-coated follower. "Why is it such a big deal to you guys? Why is it such a sin that I found a single demon, just one, that was nice to me, and as a stupid sixteen year old, I made a stupid decision? One that I have more than paid for. Dean sold his soul, literally. Why is he so important and I'm an abomination?"

No answer came from the angel, so she turned and started walking again. Twenty minutes later, at least it felt like twenty minutes, she heard the sound of passing cars. "Well, that sounds like a roadway," Marion said, picking up her pace.

"Does it?" Castiel asked, before the sound disappeared and the corn around her thickened.

She looked around, before smirking. "You're gonna have to up your illusion game, if you wanna get me, Castiel. Road's still there," she said, walking forward. Castiel grabbed her hand and suddenly, the cornfield was replaced with a beach.

"I thought I could keep you near your brother, but your relentless nature has made that impossible. You'll have to deal with the beach."

"Wow. Heaven rewards determination, huh?"

"I can't allow you to find Dean. Not before he's done. Just enjoy the beach."

She flopped onto the sugar white sand and looked out at the orange and purple sunset over the water. "It's just gonna get worse, isn't it? It's just gonna get worse and I'm already so tired."

"If you need rest, perhaps I could-"

"Not that kind of tired," she interrupted. "I'm two hundred-seventy years old. Humans aren't supposed to live that long in the first place and... most of my life has been torture. Sometimes I wish they'd just killed me, because then I’d get some rest. Then, it'd be over."

Castiel sat awkwardly next to her. She didn’t look at him, still staring out across the small waves. "If I die, would I go to Heaven?" she asked.

"In your case, I believe an exception would be made. You've saved many lives." She nodded. "But not if you killed yourself."

Marion snorted at that. "I'm not gonna off myself, Cas. I'm not that tired. I just wanted to know I'm never going to Hell again. I know what they'd do to me."

"You've paid for your sin. They won't take you again."

Tears began rolling down Marion's face. "That's the nicest thing I've ever heard." She chuckled as she wiped at her eyes.

"Then, why are you crying?"

"Because... I don't know! Ha! Maybe they're happy tears. I don't think I've ever wept from joy... never."

Marion pulled out her cigarettes and placed one between her lips. Castiel reached over and grabbed it. "You've paid for your sin. Stop punishing yourself."

Her eyebrows drew together. "Punishing myself? I don't get it."

"You didn't start smoking because you liked nicotine. You started because you didn't want to taste the demon's sulfur. You had no cigarettes in Hell. You didn't need them. You can stop now. The sulfur is no longer a sign of your poor decisions, it's a sign of your redemption and may even be an asset in the fight against Lucifer's army."

"Have I gotten to redemption, now? Not very long ago we were in a cornfield talking about how you don't like me much. How I'm an abomination, even though I can..."

Castiel looked over at her. He lifted the cigarette and crushed it between his fingers. "You don't need this." He reached over and placed a hand on her collarbone. "I've just cleaned your system of nicotine and taken the tar from your lungs."

Marion breathed deeply, then exhaled. "The sulfur's... not as bad as I remember."

Castiel smiled, slightly. "I'm glad."

Marion smiled and looked down, before reaching out and untying her boots, pulling them off followed by her socks. She stood and pulled her shirt over her head. Castiel looked confused, his head tilting slightly, as she folded her pants and ran towards the water in her bra and panties.

"What are you doing?" he called.

"Well, it ain't quite skinny dipping, but it sure is liberating!" she called back as she was hit by a wave.

Castiel appeared next to her, sitting on top of the water and floating over the waves like an inner tube. "You don't seem to be tired, any longer."

She smiled. "I suppose the idea of redemption has cured my melancholia." She dunked herself completely under the water and came back up, kicking her feet to tread water. "So, what is it you have Dean doing?"

"He is attempting to stop the demon Azazel from targeting your brother."

"But that would... change everything. We'd never be hunters."

"No, you wouldn’t."

"But we have to be hunters. So, this is an exercise in futility."

"There are things Dean needs to learn from this time. Things he must understand."

"What? Castiel, please. This is my family."

Castiel sighed, looking away from her. "Azazel targeted your mother first. He was already putting together parents who would bear children suitable for his purpose when he stumbled upon the Campbells... mostly due to Dean's interference."

Marion almost went under as she forgot kick her legs. "What? You mean..."

"Dean was always here. He couldn't change anything if he tried... and he is trying. Just like he always has."

"Whoa, time travel. Hurts my head."

"I have to leave you, just for a few moments. I will return," Castiel said, disappearing from the water.

Marion was on the beach, laying on the sand when Castiel reappeared. "So, was that for Dean?"

Castiel nodded. "He is trying to save your mother. She is going to be making a deal to save your father's life."

"A deal with Azazel? For... putting demon blood in Sam?" Marion asked, sitting up to look at him. Castiel nodded, again. "Damn. And this... has all happened before." She sighed and shook her head. "How much longer on this?"

"Tomorrow night."

She lied back, using her clothing as a pillow. "So, twenty-four hours to kill in 1973. What in the world could I even... What beach is this?"

"It's the Gulf Coast of Florida. In thirty years, this will be full of buildings. I believe this area is called Panama City Beach."

"Wow. This doesn't say MTV Spring Break at all. But it's beautiful. Dean wondering where you are?" she asked.

"He was wondering where you are, as well as Sam."

She smiled. "He's in Kansas and I get the beach. Where's Sam?"

Castiel looked away. "Sam is with Ruby. He's-"

Marion punched the sand, white grains launching into the air. "I told that bitch to back off. I gave her a chance... she won't get another one." Castiel smirked, slightly, at her reaction. She looked down, embarrassed of her outburst in front of the angel. "Sorry."

"Perhaps we should be backing you. You seem ready to do what needs to be done."

"Please. I'm just the understudy," she said, humbly.

"What does that mean?"

"Oh. Uh... Fergus told me what 'wild card' means. I can substitute in for either of my brothers in... whatever it is that they are supposed to be doing."

"Hmmm," he hummed, before reaching out and touching her forehead. She looked down to see her clothes were back on and she was completely clean and dry.

"If you don't have to, don't tell Heaven about me. Azazel knew about my status and wanted me dead. I think he might've been behind the wheel of that truck that almost killed me."

"No. That was just a drunk driver. You weren't referred to as the 'wild card' by any demons until after the demon Crowley marked your lungs with sulfur."

Marion nodded, thinking about why the sulfur would have made her the ‘wild card’. "So, I take it, there aren't any motels around here and that none of them would take my damn credit card, anyway. Guess I'm roughing it, tonight. You just gonna sit around while I sleep, or what?"

"I will leave you so that I can watch Dean."

"And then be back as soon as I wake up, right?"

"Right."

She leaned back and laid her head on her hands. "Well, good night, then, Castiel."

***************************************

When she woke up, Marion started walking. Castiel was nowhere to be seen, but she was okay with that. She stole a car from a construction site that seemed like it hadn't been worked on in weeks and started driving. She drove down US 98 until she came to a diner, swiping the wallet of a man in the parking lot and walking in to take a seat in a corner booth.

"How you doin', sweetheart? Can I get you started with somethin' to drink?" the waitress asked.

Marion smiled up at her. "Coffee, please," she said as the waitress put a menu down in front of her. She ordered a burger and fries, keeping a tally in her head of $2.53. "If only things were this cheap back home," she mumbled to herself.

"Oh? Where ya from, pet?" the man in the booth in front of her asked. The voice wasn't exactly the same, it was a different vessel, but the tone, the inflection, it told her who it was.

"Gainesville," she whispered, unsure what to do.

"Hmm. The city is expensive. Don't you ever wish you were rich, so you could afford the good life? Have your own money, instead of picking the pockets of those better off?"

Marion closed her eyes. He was trying to sell her. She'd never been on this side of his demonic charm. "No, I'm fine with things as they are."

"You're content? No one's content," he argued, moving from his booth to sit across from her at hers. His vessel was the one she remembered first seeing him in, a tall, skinny blond man with light blue eyes, but she could see Crowley underneath that visage. She could see his red eyes and his true face. "If you could have anything in the world, what would it be?"

Marion took a drink of her coffee and decided to show her cards. "If I could have anything in the world, it would be a peaceful lunch. You know, alone, without a demon at my table."

His eyes flicked red and his eyebrows drew together. "You're marked. A witch?"

Marion shook her head. "I was a pagan for several years, but never a witch."

"Then, who would be crazy enough to mark you? These days that's usually reserved for high priestesses in the Grand Coven." Marion resisted the urge to breathe his own sulfur in his face, instead choosing to stare at him over her coffee mug. "You're not going to tell me?"

"We're nowhere near a crossroads. What are you doing here?"

He smiled. "I am on a bit of a vacation."

"A vacation? You're trying to sell me on your vacation?"

"Hard to pass up a good customer, and such a good-looking one." She felt uncomfortable under his lecherous look, but mostly because that look was still able to hit her buttons. Even with him in a different vessel, even when he doesn't know her, even when she knows the kind of manipulation he'd start on her in just ten years time, she felt hot under his gaze. "What's your name, pet?"

She sighed and smiled at the waitress as she dropped off her burger. "Britney. Spears," she answered as she pulled the top bun off of the burger and grabbed the ketchup bottle. "And I'm not your pet."

He smirked and tilted his head as he examined her. "Do you wanna be?"

"Oh, dude. Bite me. I'm not even your type. Your type is more... ancient, in a young body," she responded, remembering how close Lilith and Crowley were.

Crowley's eyes narrowed. "How do you know-"

"About Lilith? I know a lot about a lot. So, Crowley..." She stood, pulling a $5 bill out of the stolen wallet and putting it on the table. He seemed surprised at the use of his name. "...I'm gonna walk out, and you're not gonna follow. Enjoy your vacation," she said, grabbing her burger and walking out with it.

Castiel was standing in the parking lot when she walked outside. "You weren't at the beach."

"I got hungry. Fergus is in there. Take me somewhere else," she demanded, anxiety and rage filling her now that she was away from Crowley. Castiel put his hand on her shoulder and then, they appeared in the cornfield. She laughed. "Thank you for getting me out of Florida. I was... like three lines away from exorcising that piece of... but that's the vessel he was in when he pulled me out of the way of the truck and I can't change anything, right?"

"Right. We are on the outskirts of Lawrence again. Can I trust you to stay out of the way of your brother?"

Marion smiled. "You know you can't. But I'm pretty sure that by the time I walk to town and find my brother, it'll be time to take us home."

Castiel nodded, then disappeared. Marion started walking out of the cornfield, chomping on her burger.

******************************

Marion woke up on the couch in their room at the Willow Tree Motel. Castiel was standing by Dean's bed. Dean sat up, casting his leather jacket to the side. "I couldn't stop any of it. She still made the deal. She still died in the nursery, didn't she?"

"Don't be too hard on yourself." Castiel said, solemnly. "You couldn't have stopped it."

Dean stood and let out a confused, "What?"

"Destiny can't be changed, Dean." Castiel turned to him as Marion stood from the couch. "All roads lead to the same destination."

"Then, why'd you send me back?"

"For the truth. Now, you know everything we do."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Dean asked.

Dean and Marion's eyes followed Castiel's to Sam's empty bed. Empty and not ruffled at all. "Where's Sam?" Marion asked.

"We know what Azazel did to your brother. What we don't know is why. What his endgame is. He went to great lengths to cover that up."

It was Dean's turn to ask. "Where's Sam?"

"425 Waterman," Castiel answered. Marion pulled her plaid button-up on as Dean grabbed his leather. "Your brother is headed down a dangerous road, Dean, and we're not sure where it leads. So stop it. Or we will." Marion glared at the angel as she followed her twin out of the room.

KITCHEN SINK TAGS @heyitscam99 @wonderlandfandomkingdom @unlikelysamwinchesteronahunt @mrs-meghan-winchester @henrymorganme @lonely-skys @allykat2108

SUPERNATURAL TAGS @letsby @mrswhozeewhatsis @adoptdontshoppets @spnskinnyballs @deansenwackles

[heroquills-a]

@crimsonxblur: (x)

      As soon as things had begun quieting down, he’d made his way back to work without much thought. As inclined as he was to indulge in the unexpectedly warm welcome he’d gotten from people - or most of them, anyway - he still had a lot to deal with in terms of making up for his absence. Notably, after being effectively chewed out by the commander, he’d been sentenced to ten hours of surveillance duty for ever single call he’d missed, that he had to serve during night shifts when things were especially calm and boring, and during which any contact with his team was forbidden.

     Not the brightest of perspectives, but Shadow knew he couldn’t expect his little disappearing stunt to be without consequences. If anything, he hoped to get this particular obligation out of the way as soon as possible, hence his prompt return to headquarters. Or so he gave as an excuse for his somewhat early arrival; in truth, his last encounter of the night had left him too stunned to think of anything else he could do with himself - not to say too hurt.

     As it turned out, doing nothing but staring at a bunch of screens depicting various locations where nothing is happening for hours on end wasn’t ideal when he wanted to avoid torturing himself with wondering what the hell it was that even happened back there. And with every few people who came into the room to share the duty for some time shooting him disapproving glances, the answer came as rather obvious: he’d done something wrong.

     A shame that he had to go and mess this up, really; he’d been in a good mood, what with having a good talk with Zero, a heartwarming reunion with Silver, and hearing from Omega for the first time in weeks. When seeing Sonic on the scene, he’d had nothing in mind but the hero’s letter and the fact that he was legitimately happy to see him - enough to forget why he’d even left in the first place.

     That had been his mistake, clearly. That blinding, momentary joy that had led him to bare his heart even after getting advice that had rubbed him the wrong way; Sonic hadn’t hesitated even one second to stab and twist the knife before running away.

     You had it coming, he told himself repeatedly that night, flicking some black pen up the slightly inclined desk and watching it roll back down only to be sent up again. He couldn’t just ask that Sonic be honest with him, that he fully express himself around him no matter how harsh his thoughts might get, without expecting the speedster to strike at Shadow’s own faults eventually. He should have been prepared for this.

     He hadn’t been, because all this time he’d slowly let himself believe that maybe - with everything that had transpired between them recently - just maybe there was more than spite and resentment and rivalry between them. But apparently, that had been part of the hero’s act, and Shadow had actually fallen for it.

     He caught the tormented pen when his phone buzzed, and a second later gave off a light that caught both his and his current coworker’s attention. He frowned seeing the name that showed up on the screen, gritting his teeth as he flipped the device over to hide it without checking the received message. Except the vibration kept going, three more times in fact, and a bad feeling sank in.

     When the man next to him stood up and excused himself out of the room - failing at being subtle that he was going to see his superior to probably report that Shadow was communicating with his team - the remaining agent gave in and bypassed his phone’s lock screen to see just what it was Sonic had to say to him this late at night after their earlier exchange. Surely it couldn’t make him any more miserable than he already was, right ?

     Reading the texts left Shadow more numb than he’d managed to be for a long time now. It was like they emptied him of any emotion or care he might have had left for this whole situation after picking it apart for hours. Apparently, someone had just put his mask back on and regretted having taken it off. Fuck off, he wanted to text back. But even that didn’t sound very satisfying. Not any more than ignoring it like he had everything else. Or accepting the apology like it was no big deal.

     With a sigh, he got up and headed for the door, which opened just as he was reaching for the handle to reveal his earlier coworker returning. Perfect timing. “I’m going out,” he announced without much ceremony, and slipped past the other agent before he could voice any protest or question or complaint.

     Shadow made a detour his team’s little locker room to grab a jacket before exiting out the back door from where he could easily climb up on the roof of the building. From there it was a long walk to get to the front of it, even more so when trying to ignore his phone and those messages burning a hole in his pocket. Only upon arriving at his targeted vantage point did he aim to grab it again, except he reached for something else instead - something he’d forgotten he’d left in this specific jacket.

     Oh. Might as well, he thought, pulling out the package of cigarettes. Nicotine wasn’t nearly strong enough to affect his system in any way (and it was a damn shame - he could use its intended effect in situations like these), but something about smoking could still calm his nerves at times, even if it was very minor. And so he lit one up without further thinking, letting the sight of the exhaled clouds of smoke soothe what little they could.

     A thought occurred to him then, one that had echoed in his mind just the same a few days ago. Everything goes away. He’d gotten what he wanted. Whatever it was that had been nurturing between him and Sonic recently, he’d effectively killed it now. By not allowing it to grow for long enough, he’d pretty much ripped it out root and stem, it seemed. Why ? Why was this what he wanted ? It certainly didn’t feel good.

     Because it was the right thing to do, he’d convinced himself. It felt wrong, but what was right never felt right to him. He wasn’t hardwired to do the right thing, it didn’t come naturally to him - at least not anymore, if it ever had. He had to believe it was right, even if his instincts and emotions and impressions screamed the opposite.

     He sat down on the edge of the roof, inhaling another puff and looking out the quiet but lit up city before he picked up his phone with his free hand to look at those messages again. How dishonest and fake those few words sounded after what Sonic had said to his face earlier. Did I ruin what we had ? Or did it never exist ?

     If anything, it bugged him that the hero would even bother sending him this. What was he hoping to accomplish ? He knew Shadow didn’t care for his act. He never had, and he did even less now that he’d gotten a glimpse of what Sonic really thought of him. Why was he pretending to care again ? Something felt off, and not just the fact that the speedster had sent him this even closer to dawn than his usual late-night texts.

     Something was wrong, and it wasn’t the kind of gut feeling Shadow could just shake off by reminding himself his morals were questionable and that he couldn’t trust himself with his own impressions. Eyes rose to scan over the scenery again, as if he might discern some tangible reason for distress or worry if he looked hard enough. Flickering lights, an alarm going off, or just the brief flash of a blue blur - anything that could justify this undeniably growing concern of his.

     But the city stayed still, and he was forced down the path to another conclusion. To the fact that he’d made a promise, regardless of how involved he was. To the realization that he cared, even if it hurt.

     Shadow dropped the unfinished cig, crushing it with an open palm, and with both hands now free, he texted back three simple words.

     ‘are you okay ?’

He was drifting in between awareness and unconscious. A state where Sonic felt he were on the edge of a steep cliff, that floating feeling you get when you’re very high up and everything on the ground feels hundreds of miles away.

He’d finally ran himself empty, all his energy finally depleted enough to not even have the will to let his thoughts chase him anymore. Sonic wasn’t even quite sure where he was right now. He knew he ran and ran and pushed himself at full speed till he could feel the first ripple of exhaustion hit him, lungs aching from the strain. Instinct told him to find somewhere sheltered, so he took to the first building in his sights- he assumed it was a barn, and snuck on in. He found a place high up in the rafters, and while it wasn’t exactly an ideal place to crash, he felt perfectly hidden. Nobody would see him now. He could drown in his exhaustion and complications in peace without judgement.

The muffled sounds of barn animals shuffling and sighing in their own nests down below somehow brought on a sense of serenity to the hedgehog’s state of being. He didn’t care much for the smell, but at this point Sonic couldn’t even bring himself to care. He was tired.

Cold moonlight shown through the windows around him, somewhat illuminating the dust particles that floated through the air with a soft glow and casting long shadows behind the long planks of wood stretching across the ceiling. The hero made sure to tuck himself into the darkest corner he could find, and before he knew it he felt too exhausted to even climb back down. Curled up on his side, he hazily watched the floating specs of animal dandruff float through the air, almost dreamlike. Eventually he’d let his eyes finally close while Sonic said goodbye to the waking world, and had been on the edge of completely blacking out.

That was, until a buzzing noise rattled loudly next to him, volume amplified by the wide plank of wood he nested on, rudely jolted him back into awareness. Sonic sits up with a start, head pounding but not nearly as hard as his heart was. It hurt, admittedly. Sonic lets out a pained hiss and pushes the palms of his hands against his eyes in a vain attempt to sooth the throbbing that assaulted his skull, teeth gritting with intense annoyance at whatever just ruined his blissful state. 

Sighing shakily when the ache finally dulled down, hands shuffle against the plank and the underside of his jacket, searching for the source of the disturbance. When he found it, the speedster rolls onto his back with a groan and squints at the offending light source that shines from his phone screen. He was planning to simply just turn the thing off completely, but when the name on the lockscreen came into focus, that plan was quickly forgotten. 

He didn’t think he’d get an answer.

Nor did he think he’d get the one he did.

Sonic has to re-read the words written across the several times before he can finally process the question, and has to think for several minutes before he can actually begin to form an answer.

Are you okay?

It was a simple question. Just three words, but not any three words he’d expect from the person on the other side of the screen. Especially not after the last exchange they had. It hardly felt like any concern he deserved from his rival, so it left Sonic in a state of confused disbelief. Why would Shadow be wondering if he was okay?

Icy tears of exhaustion leak from the corners of his eyes and down the sides of his cheek while he scanned the message again- perhaps searching for some kind of explanation for this written in the text. But none came, and his eyes burned and blurred, forcing the hedgehog to blink several times and rub them with the back of his hand.

Another wave of pain racked against the inside of his head, not as intense this time, but enough to make the hero wince. He didn’t think he even had it in him to try and question how Shadow knew something wasn’t right. He was too tired. Too tired to force any optimism or put on any front. His answer came surprisingly easy to him when he finally focused his vision enough to tap his thumbs against the screen. The honesty in his response almost didn’t feel real to him, further establishing the feeling of being trapped inside a dreamlike trance- as if he were a spirit hovering over his body. Completely out of it, and no will to lie anymore.

[Text]: Youre asking me that?

[Text]: No not really

[Text]: Are you?

[betterdaysareatoenailaway]

STREET SAINTS #3: THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO RON

     This week’s episode of Street Saints™ is brought to you by...me, your Better Days Are A Toenail Away beat reporter. I’m kidding. This episode is about Ron, a man I met several sabbaths ago.      Now, in a recent post about payphones I briefly touched on how people these days are reluctant to let strangers use their mobile phones. I won’t argue with that. I mean, our phones contain our entire lives. But I let Ron use mine. Here’s what happened.      I was walking around aimlessly one Sunday almost two months ago when...well, that’s not exactly true. I had a definite aim in mind. I hadn’t had a cigarette in a few days and was getting desperate. I’d already asked a few people and had been rejected by all of them when I passed a barefoot man sitting on a bench outside the food bank I used to go to.      The man looked like he was having a rough day. Or a rough month. Or year. Or life. The soles of his naked feet were scabbed and black and he was wearing a collared shirt, unbuttoned and open, revealing a scarred and hairy chest. Wearily, he lifted his head as I passed and asked if he could use my phone. He asked with the same defeatist energy I’d been asking for smokes with...that is, expecting to hear a firm “no.” I freely admit that I didn’t want to loan a stranger my phone, what with COVID and germs and all that, but my heart went out to him because he looked like he really needed it, so I handed it over and sat down on the bench beside him.      “God bless you, brother,” he said. “My name’s Ron. I’ll be quick.”      “Hi Ron,” I said. “I don’t suppose you have cigarette by any chance?”               “Nope, but I can get one! Hell, I’ll buy you a whole pack, hell…two packs, for helping me out. I got a friend coming who’s gonna give me a hunnert bucks!”      I nodded, even though I didn’t exactly believe the guy. Not because he seemed like a liar but because broke people always have that one mythical payment they are waiting on, the one that will lift them above their circumstances. I’ve often borrowed money to buy heroin on the strength of some random payment I’m anticipating, money that forever waits just beyond my reach, like the baby on the cover of Nirvana’s Nevermind. (Aaaaand that simile allows me to continue my tradition of inserting Nirvana album covers into the Street Saints™ series. I am a professional writer. Do not try such similes at home.)

     ^ That baby’s name is Spencer Eldon, btw. Eldon makes his living these days by charging outlets $1000 for interviews. The interviews are pointless, given that Eldon doesn’t remember the Nevermind photo shoot because he was six months old, but unscrupulous or desperate editors continue pay his required fee. I distinctly remember a Rolling Stone feature from 2001 featuring a ten-year old Eldon in which he agreed to a reshoot of the underwater photo, and was quoted by the magazine saying “Nirvana’s okay, but Blink-182 are way better.” 

    Eldon reshot the photo again in 2008, now telling the New York Post that he preferred the Clash to Nirvana. Getting warmer, Eldon.

     Eldon did yet another anniversary reshoot in 2011 in which he said “Every five years or so, somebody’s gonna call me up and ask me about Nevermind…and I’m probably gonna get some money from it.”              I am not the first writer to make this trivial connection, but you might say Eldon’s famous photo is a metaphorical representation of his life. He is constantly swimming toward the next dollar bill on the next fishhook. You might even say that we’re all Spencer Eldon…each of us swimming toward the next paycheque, the next loan, the next stranger’s cigarette. I certainly feel that way sometimes. I definitely felt that way when all my money went to heroin. And even Ron, the barefoot preacher who spoke a few words into my phone then hung up and handed it back to me, probably felt that way too, waiting for his possibly-fictional-but-flush friend.       “He’s on his way,” Ron assured me, sensing my skepticism. “Two minutes or less. He’s driving a silver minivan. Keep an eye out.”      “Right on,” I said. “Thanks. I just need a single smoke, you don’t have to…”      “One!” scoffed Ron. “What’s one gonna do? I’ll get you a couple packs!”       Far be it for me to argue with a religious man, as both a baptized Catholic and penniless individual in need of a nicotine fix. “Cool,” I said, nodding again.       “I’ve been thinking about a woman,” Ron said, squinting at passing cars. “My first girlfriend, to be exact. Her name was Angel. As somebody who believes that the Lord Jesus Christ is my personal Savior, I’ve begun to understand the biblical importance of her name, and to understand that Angel really was an angel and that...that I shouldn’t have let her go.”      He looked at me and I saw with some alarm that he was crying. Then he began to rant about Moses and the burning bush and how he’d been “trying [his] best but sometimes your best isn’t good enough.” He told me he’d quit drugs and alcohol years ago but he still smoked because tobacco is in the bible. He said he was homeless but he’d just that day found a place for October 1st. It would be his first apartment in over a year. He said the Lord wanted him to do good deeds while he waited to move into his new place, his dollar bill on a fishhook.       As a frequent consoler of the downtrodden, I tried to think of something I could say, something that might cheer him up or summarize things, but then a minivan pulled to a stop across the street and a portly fellow disembarked and trudged over to us, smiling.       “Hey!” he hollered at me, still grinning. “Is this guy talking your ear off?”       Not wanting to make fun of my new barefoot friend, I shrugged noncommittally.       “He will if you let him,” the friend said, producing a roll of hundreds from his pocket and handing one to Ron.       Woah, I thought. Ron was telling the truth.       He hadn’t been bullshitting me. He wasn’t swimming toward some irretrievable dollar. He really did have a friend on the way to loan him money.       “Where the hell are your shoes?” the friend asked Ron. Ron shrugged and replied cryptically: “The Lord provides.”       I got up from the bench and moved away so the two friends could converse in private. I wasn’t going to hold Ron to his offer. He seemed to really need the money. But Ron and his friend didn’t talk long, just a few words and a handshake and then Ron disengaged himself and slowly sauntered over to me.      “Okay!” he announced. “Let’s go get those smokes!”       There was a bar nearby I knew about that sold reservation cigarettes for $5.50 a pack. It took us half an hour to walk one block because poor Ron was limping. He absentmindedly held the hundred pinched between two fingers as he walked, and it was flapping in the wind. Watching him, I got the sense that he didn’t really give a shit about money.       At the bar Ron bought four packs with the hundred dollar bill and gave me two of them. Two full packs of smokes. Then he asked for $5 bills in return, which struck me as odd until a few minutes later when I saw why.      On our way back to the food bank Ron told me he was training to become the oldest player to ever make an NHL debut. When you are homeless and marginalized, these kinds of dreams sustain you. They are the necessary fictions that get you through life. I won’t start talking about the dollar bill on the fishhook again, but you get my point. Then he talked about God again and expressed his faith that he was “on the right path for the first time in a long time.”      Back in front of the food bank, Ron, who was now preaching loudly about kindness for one’s fellow man, walked up to every single person in the foodbank line and handed them a $5 bill until he was down to his last $20.      I was gobsmacked. I was fucking amazed. He even tried to give me $5. And although I was totally broke, I didn’t accept the money. I had the cigarettes I’d set out to get. I might be an untrustworthy drug addict but I’m not a greedy prick. But this post isn’t about me. It’s about Ron and his selflessness.      Earlier Ron had said “the Lord will provide,” and although I’ve long been skeptical of religion and the literal truth of the bible, in that moment I could not argue with him. This was the gospel according to Ron. Sometimes you get to grab the fishhook and take your dollar.      It was a moving scene in that foodbank line. Some of the people Ron handed money to cried tears of relief. Others hugged him. All were exceptionally grateful and told him so. He just nodded solemnly and looked at me smugly as if to say see?      In the world of drug users and the downtrodden there are a lot of liars and bullshitters. You hear lots of dubious tales from people with delusions of persecution and/or grandeur. But here was a man who walked it like he talked it. He’d been preaching kindness and care toward one’s fellow humans since I’d spotted him on that bench and here he was handing his own money out to everybody like an unhoused Henry Sugar.      The man was barefoot and his feet hurt and he could have bought himself a pair of sandals at the nearby Dollarama for $3, but instead he gave everything but his last $20 away.       I walked him to the subway, telling him en route how impressed I was, how he “walked the talk.”      “Thank you Danny, I appreciate that,” he said quietly.      He was uncomfortable with my praise. I think he viewed himself an instrument of what he called “God’s light.” What he'd done, that generous display, wasn’t about him. It didn’t even seem uncharacteristic.       Now, I have a lot of atheist friends who would probably scoff at this story, friends who champion God-hating books by guys like Hitchens and Harris and Hedges, friends who delight in making fun of the devoutly religious, but I consider that attitude intellectually lazy. Bible stories are obviously rooted in the unscientific and the anecdotal. That combination is low hanging fruit for today’s well-read, well-learned skeptical individual. But I cannot disparage the actions of Ron that day, nor can I disparage the faith and belief that guides such selfless behavior.      Sensing his discomfort, I shut the fuck up and walked him the rest of the way in silence.      “I have to go now,” Ron said when we got to Spadina and Bloor. “Have a good night.”      “You too Ron.”      And as I watched him walk barefoot into the station, limping his way down the stairs to the subway, I realized I’d been in the company of a saint. 

[sgtxpreacher]

headcanon: jake + mental illness/specifically cyclothymia (aka this is almost 1500 words and it doesn’t even cover everything)

part i. the meta of how i even wound up with this headcanon

so mental illness I’ve covered a lot before on this blog re: Jake + PTSD and Jake + alcoholism, though more in general blog content than particular headcanon posts. but, in case you’re new to this blog and haven’t had time to swing over to my about page, let me catch you up quickly: Jake has PTSD connected to his time spent fighting the Cybermen, and his already heavy drinking habits turned to alcoholism after he returned to London. (he insists, if pressed, that he’s a functional alcoholic, but that also depends on how you define functional. can he hold down a job? yes. is part of the reason he can hold down this job because Pete Tyler is lenient when he disappears on a bender for two days? yes.)

however, something’s been nagging at me since... pretty much the first iteration of this blog, I think. I think I originally tried writing Jake as having comorbid PTSD and depression, but I don’t think that worked very well, in part because I was relatively young when I started writing Jake and was still learning how to write effectively and respectfully about mental illness, and in part because it simply didn’t fit with how I wanted to portray Jake. he had depressive episodes, but not to the extent that would seem to fall under clinical depression. early on in this blog, I toyed around with the idea of Jake having ADHD; it seemed to fit some aspects of how I wanted to portray him, but again, it seemed like I’d be adding in symptoms to go “look he has ADHD!!” rather than letting them arise more naturally from the character. which may sound like a weird thing, but having written Jake off and on for four years, I feel pretty set in my characterization of his behavior, even if the details of backstory, likes, dislikes, etc. may change. and writing him as having ADHD still just didn’t feel right, especially since it felt like I would be constantly forgetting about it and having to think about it almost as a separate concern from the character – which just doesn’t feel like the write way to write about mental health to me. (and if you keep forgetting about a major headcanon, it’s probably not a very strong one.)

so, back to the drawing board. for a long time now, i think my mental picture of jake’s mental health has gone something like ‘PTSD + alcoholism + ??????? generally unhealthy coping mechanisms ????? other forms of addiction ?????’ i occasionally (quietly) tossed other headcanons at myself to see if they stuck, but nothing did.

and then i remembered that cyclothymia exists. it’s not as well-known as some other mood disorders and is easily misdiagnosed or underdiagnosed, but it’s one that i’ve grown up seeing in members of my close family (though i didn’t know the official diagnostic label until a few years ago,) and i decided to do a little research. and, rather than feeling like i was adding additional symptoms onto my portrayal of jake to fit a Specific Diagnosis, it felt more like something that helped categorize and explain headcanons i already had, and help me realize other places in his characterization that might be expanded upon. maybe that’s a weird thing. i don’t know. but i think i’m keeping this headcanon.

part ii. so what is cyclothymia, you may ask the college student using this post in part to procrastinate on doing her homework

since people don’t always know what cyclothymia is, let’s explain it a little. (please keep in mind i’m not a mental health professional; the research i’ve done draws on personal observation, reading first-hand narratives of dealing with cyclothymia, and official diagnostic manuals/medical sources i’ve managed to find on the internet. i’ve tried to make sure they’re reputable, but i can’t make guarantees. if there’s any part of this post you think is wildly inaccurate or offensive or something along those lines, please let me know.)

cyclothymia (also known as cyclothymic disorder) lies on the spectrum of bipolar disorders, and could be considered a milder form of bipolar i and ii (though it’s important to note that milder does not mean mild. while some people can manage their symptoms without a therapist or medication, that doesn’t mean that it’s necessarily easy to live with.) it’s characterized by hypomanic periods and chronic periods of mild-moderate depression (also known as dysthymia) that occur semi-frequently (though i’m still trying to work out exactly what’s meant by ‘semi-frequently.’) 

here’s a list of some symptoms to start us off with, though of course not every person with cyclothymia experiences all these symptoms or all in the same ways. (and i grabbed this from the mayo clinic website for purposes of expedience.)

hypomania

An exaggerated feeling of happiness or well-being (euphoria)

Extreme optimism

Inflated self-esteem

Talking more than usual

Poor judgment that can result in risky behavior or unwise choices

Racing thoughts

Irritable or agitated behavior

Excessive physical activity

Increased drive to perform or achieve goals (sexual, work related or social)

Decreased need for sleep

Tendency to be easily distracted

Inability to concentrate

dysthymia or depressive symptoms

Feeling sad, hopeless or empty

Tearfulness

Irritability, especially in children and teenagers

Loss of interest in activities once considered enjoyable

Changes in weight

Feelings of worthlessness or guilt

Sleep problems

Restlessness

Fatigue or feeling slowed down

Problems concentrating

Thinking of death or suicide

i’ve also seen a couple of first-hand accounts mention that the depression experienced in cyclothymia tends to be atypical depression rather than melancholic depression. so, a tendency for excessive sleep rather than insomnia, increased appetite rather than loss of appetite, and still experiencing mood reactivity to environmental circumstances – mood reactivity being a major differentiator. something good happening can still cause a positive uptick in mood, but when the mood drops again, it drops into a depressive state rather than what one might consider the baseline mood (if i’m understanding this correctly; if you know otherwise, please feel free to shout.) there are a couple of other symptoms (increased sensitivity to rejection, a physical feeling of being weighed down or paralyzed, etc.) but that probably sums it up for our purposes.

part iii. so how does this actually tie into actual headcanons, raptor???

taking into consideration we’re (in this case) talking about a fictional character, and given that people (fictional or no) aren’t just a walking list of symptoms, how does this tie into the context of jake’s life? i wrote down some thoughts. 

jake’s been living with cyclothymia since he was a teenager. it runs on his father’s side of the family to varying degrees, but none of them have ever been given an official diagnosis. it’s just common family knowledge that simmonds men (some simmonds women, too, including jake’s aunt evie) have a “switch” in their head that sometimes just flicks off or on.

has never been diagnosed with cyclothymia, nor does he know that it exists (he’s got a pretty vague idea of mood disorders in general)

the same therapist who diagnosed him with PTSD misdiagnosed him with depression. he was put on antidepressants. they triggered a hypomanic episode. he stopped going to therapy and taking medication (partially in an instance of “i’m fine, i don’t need any help” fueled in part by his general stubborness and reluctance to accept help, fueled in part by exaggerated feelings of his own well-being.) in the grand scheme of things, it was not a good time, and it contributed to his eventual decision to quit therapy and quit medications.)

instead, he self-medicates with alcohol and nicotine. (in university, he also smoked weed every once in a while, but he kicked that habit in jail.) alcohol continues to not mix well with his brain chemistry, and can trigger (usually short) depressive episodes. he usually dismisses these as really bad hangover blues.

most notable major depressive episodes have been after returning to london at the end of the cyber wars, and after journey’s end. both were triggered (in part) by feelings of Well, The World’s Safe, What Point Does My Life Have Now? the first one was exacerbated by being wheelchair-bound and recovering from major injuries; exercise is a really important part of his routine and helps ground him, so being left without it at the same time as a major depressive episode hit was not at all good. not to mention feeling like the cause he’d spent years of his life working for – and risking his life for – was suddenly being dismissed by politicians who never bothered to speak with anyone directly involved in stopping the cybermen. the second one, post-journey’s end, was exacerbated by the major shake-up to his support system that mickey leaving caused, then further exacerbated by the bender he went on shortly thereafter. the first time, and possibly the second, he had suicidal ideations, though he’s never made an attempt.

his struggles with mood stability became worse in general after the war; he attributes this to PTSD.

during hypomanic episodes, his sleep habits fall to shit. (i mean, he doesn’t sleep well most of the time, but it’s particularly pronounced then.) he’ll feel well-rested and alert after four hours of sleep, wake up, go on a run, look over case files from work, go on another run (generally with a camera to do some photography in the early-morning light,) get distracted flicking through his photographs in the middle of making breakfast and end up with burned eggs, etc. he’s more likely to go out clubs than he usually is (which is... already almost a weekly occurrence, so it does not do good things for his rate of alcohol consumption)

alternatively, there’s that fun combination of irritability + poor judgment + extreme optimism, which in jake’s case leads to things like bar fights, getting on pete tyler’s nerves, dangerous motorcycle driving, and picking a fight with his friends over relatively minor issues. (he usually ends up apologizing for the last one, though sometimes only a week later.) (also ought to note that jake doesn’t just get into fights when in a hypomanic period; it would happen anyway, even if he didn’t have cyclothymia. jake’s mental health issues may affect or compound upon the ways in which he expresses aggression, but they’re not the root of him being prone to aggressive behavior. this has been your reminder that equating mental illnesses with violent behavior is gross and stigmatizing.)

more headcanons will probably end up coming up later, but these are the main things i wanted to talk about for now! if you read through all this, i congratulate you. if you have any feedback, i would love to hear it! especially if there are any places in this where the language that i’ve used is inaccurate or disrespectful; i’m continually learning, so please let me know if there is anything i need to improve upon!

[bytjie5678]

Christmas at Baker Street

Two steps, key inserted, door unlocked, welcome home, John Watson.

I opened the door and closed it behind me, feeling my energy recharge in the presence of the familiar flat.

It was a bloody long day.

I was worried sick because Sherlock had disappeared. Again. Not even Lestrade could find him. He was gone for a whole week, and I had no idea where he was. I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep for the last two days, so I was completely exhausted as well. The worst part was that it was early October, the start of the coldest time of year.

The only thing I could do was hope that, wherever Sherlock was hiding, he would be clever enough to try and not freeze to death.

I trudged upstairs and came into the living room, only to find a tall and slender figure somehow fitting his whole mass into a thinking position on the armchair, making him look one third of his actual size.

“Where the bloody hell have you been?” I demanded, internally relieved to see him sitting there, but fuming on the outside.

“Looking for a case.” Sherlock replied casually, still not moving a muscle.

“Looking for- you mean you weren’t even on a case? You’ve just been wandering around London for the last seven days?”

“That about sums it up, yes.”

I shook my head, striding over to where the other man was sitting. Dark circles ran around his eyes, indicating how exhausted he was. His nose and cheeks were red from the cold. I grabbed Sherlock’s icy wrist and tugged up the sleeve, checking for needle marks.

“Oh for God’s sake, John, I’m clean!” He declared in an irritable voice. I confirmed the absence of needle marks and nicotine patches to fit with Sherlock’s occasional honesty.

I suddenly felt a prick in my nose, and only then noticed the horrid smell coming from Sherlock.

“I think you should take a bath.” I stated simply. I left Sherlock on the chair and went to prepare him one.

When the bath was full, I returned to the living room, seeing Sherlock in the exact same position I left him. “I’m going to get some chinese takeout. Meanwhile, you can go get yourself warm and cleaned up.” I announced, already turning to leave.

“Why should I?” Sherlock challenged, and I didn’t even bother turning back to answer him.

“One, because you smell like death, and two, I’m a doctor. I happen to understand and care a lot about personal hygiene.” I retorted over my shoulder and left without another word.

Damn him.

Damn him and his clever antics.

I got three takeaway meals, two of which I was going to feed to Sherlock, because I could see he was as hungry as a homeless man.

I returned to the flat, and found that Sherlock was still in his chair.

I dropped the bag on the kitchen table, and went back towards him. “Well come on then. If you’re not taking a bath now, we can just as well eat.” I said and ushered him to the kitchen.

Sherlock hesitantly took a bite, then gradually started eating normally. He didn’t touch the second meal, but I was happy that he finished the first.

“Alright, now go take a bath.” I instructed and started clearing away the plates. Sherlock again hesitated, but left without complaint.

Only minutes later, I felt my phone buzz in my pocket.

John, I require a duck.

-SH

I read it once, then twice. I blinked. “A duck? Seriously?” I mumbled and I typed a reply.

For what would you need a duck? And why do you have your phone in the bath?

-JW

I heard the message go through to Sherlock’s phone in the bathroom.

It is best not to question it. I have a rubber duck in my bedside cabinet, and I need you to fetch it for me.

-SH

I sighed with exasperation. If he needs a duck, I’ll get him his ruddy duck. As long as he gets rid of that awful stench.

The duck was exactly where he described it to be, and I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Who is it?” I heard him say in a bored voice.

“The queen. Who do you think it is?” I replied sarcastically. “Come in.”

I opened the door and felt a wave of humidity hit my face as I entered.

“Here’s your du- what- you didn’t even undress?”

“Why should I? This is comfortable. And I’m washing my clothes in the process.”

“For God’s sake Sherlock, that’s what laundry is for! That’s it, I’m taking this into my own hands. Climb out and take everything off. I don’t want to see a sock left on your foot.” I started rolling up my sleeves, prepared to wash him like a dog if I had to.

“Oh, so you’re going to bathe me now?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am.”

“What are you, my nanny? Don’t be ridiculous, John.”

“Well you seem incapable of taking care of yourself.”

“I can take care of myself!”

“But you don’t.”

Sherlock stayed silent after that. I went out so he could undress, and when I reentered he was naked in the bathtub with a sulky expression on his face. As a doctor I was completely unfazed by his nudity, so I tugged my sleeves up higher.

“That’s better.” I stated, grabbing some shampoo. I took a seat on the edge of the bathtub and started rubbing it into his thick, greasy auburn curls, massaging out all the built up dirt and oil from the last week.

I then took a spongeful soap and began washing his body. He sat perfectly still as I cleaned his arms, legs, chest, and back. His back was the worst to look at.

His ribs were more pronounced and stood out under his skin, and old gut-wrenching scars ran all over his back, each one a different shape and size.

“Sherlock, where did you get all these scars?” I asked quietly, running a hand over them. “It was from when I went undercover.” He said shortly, as if wanting to drop the subject. I didn’t ask him anything further.

When he was finished, I left the room so he could dry himself. I wasted no time putting on my pajamas, since the thought of sleep seemed to become increasingly tempting to me.

Sherlock put on his pajamas as well and went to bed without a word. I had no energy left to do anything else, so I climbed into bed and fell asleep almost immediately.

Hours later, I woke up to someone knocking on the door. “Come in.” I said groggily, turning on the bedside lamp. 01:33 AM read the alarm clock.

A boquet of jet black curls rolled in from the other side of the door, followed by a clever head and sharp face. A pair of restlessly blue eyes stared at me. “Sherlock, what now?”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“You mean you can’t sleep.”

“No, I… Yes.” He admitted, rubbing his eyes irritably.

“And you think I can solve this problem?”

“Yes.”

To be quite honest I didn’t actually expect him answer like that, and it caught me by surprise. “Wha- how?”

“Human companionship often helps to fix sleeping patterns. I think that sleeping in the same bed as you can fix my sleeping problem, John.” He replied honestly.

I sighed. Not even sitting up, I patted the other side of the bed as an indication for him to climb in.

The tall creature shuffled closer and flopped into the bed, his back facing me. I turned off the lamp the moment he was settled. I lay still for a few minutes, listening to Sherlock’s uneven breaths, and finally fell asleep.

The next morning when I woke up, Sherlock was already out of bed. I walked into the kitchen, and found him making breakfast with miss Hudson. “Good morning, John.” He said in a cheery voice, and turned around with an inviting cup of coffee in his hand.

“Um, good morning.” I replied, taking a seat and rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. “Sleep well, miss Hudson?” I asked, and she smiled at me with a kind face.

“Oh yes. I had simply the loveliest dream.”

A few days passed, and neither I nor Sherlock spoke about the fact that we slept together one night, but when said day was over and we were both back in the flat, Sherlock asked me if he could sleep in my bed again.

I felt a little jump for joy when he asked me, because it did feel nice to be in the same bed as him, and it did seem to fix both our sleeping patterns.

I woke up with the same routine, to find Sherlock already up and awake.

I could easily see how his physical health was improving. But his mental health was a different case. He was biting something back, keeping himself from saying something, and it was driving him mad.

He started asking me more and more often to sleep in my bed, until it gradually became a nightly routine for us to sleep together. We never spoke about this outside of the flat.

It became so patterned that Sherlock didn’t even ask anymore, and just strolled in when he was ready to go to bed.

One night I woke up to find Sherlock out of bed. I heard no sounds from the bathroom, so I became paranoid that he ran away again. I quickly threw on my bathrobe since the flat was bloody cold, and moved to find him.

I checked his room only to find the duvet missing. Did he take it for warmth? I went to check the living room next.

I heaved a sigh of relief when I found him sitting before the window, wrapped in his duvet and staring out at the night sky.

I shuffled closer to him and sat down next to him. “I thought you weren’t interested in space.” I murmured with a smirk.

Sherlock looked over to me, his eyes the colour of a nebula, and raised a brow. “Just because I’m not interested in space, does not mean I cannot appreciate its beauty.” He replied softly, echoeing those same words he used so many years ago. I nodded. “Fair enough.”

Sherlock moved an arm with his duvet, indicating for me to come closer. I shuffled against him as his arm wrapped around my shoulder, sharing his body heat with me. He leaned his head onto my shoulder, and I rested my head on his.

“Tell me about the stars, John.”

“But I thought you deleted all the data of space from your head?”

“I’m not saying I’m going to bother remembering it, but I want to listen to you talking about it.” He said, and I felt heat crawl up my neck and tint my ears red.

And so I started to tell him about the stars. Everything I knew about them. How they shine so bright, how they keep burning for millions of years, how the visible ones are specially arranged to create beautiful constellations, which was fascinating since the whole galaxy is constantly spiralling around the giant black hole in the center, and how big and vast the universe was.

Soon Sherlock fell asleep to the sound of my voice, and I watched the sleeping figure, with his lips slightly parted. His eyelids were gently concealing his beautiful, intelligent eyes, like the curtains of a stage hiding the masterpiece of a performance behind them, and his curls were messily covering his forehead. In this very dim and soft light, I couldn’t help but find him quite graceful.

Smiling at the light snores he made, I pressed a soft kiss to his hairline, feeling my eyelids grow heavy. Eventually I fell asleep against him.

I woke up the next morning to find myself in the bed, and not on the floor. Sherlock was already up and busying himself with experiments in the kitchen. Did he carry me to the bed? Did I dream the whole thing? The extra duvet on the bed convinced me otherwise.

Neither one of us ever spoke about this, but I knew we both remembered it quite well. And so, the cycle continued normally of sleeping in the same bed. The days of solving cases and keeping Sherlock busy were just as normal. I knew he had feelings for Molly, so I tried my best to keep it platonic.

Although, I started to wonder how long this would last… Would we continue this? Would we stop this? Would we take it a step further? Could this develop into something new? Am I going mad?

These questions kept on bouncing around in my head each night like an obnoxious child in a theatre, but I didn’t dare ask. Pretty soon though, Christmas eve rolled around and my questions were answered.

Lestrade was hosting Christmas dinner, and Sherlock and I went together. We started having an argument about Sherlock keeping himself locked up in his feelings. We kept bickering all the way up to the front door.

“But Sherlock, you can’t possibly expect me to believe that Molly’s feelings have gone to waste!”

“John, how much is it going to take to convince you that I’m not into Molly? The woman is not my taste. Is Irene Adler not enough evidence for you?”

“Why are you always so stubborn? Give the girl a chance! Why don’t you-” I couldn’t say anymore because Sherlock’s warm lips were crashed against mine, kissing me furiously.

His hands were cupping my face and he moved against my lips in a smooth arch that set my nerves on fire. I had no idea what to do, but I found an overwhelming sense of desire coursing through my veins.

By the time I started to kiss back, Sherlock broke away, his hands still cupping my face. “That’s why.” He stated softly and simply, dropping his hands to his sides, and leaving me speechless.

Sherlock shook his coat back into position, opened the door and greeted everyone as if nothing had happened. I was left standing at the front door in a bewildered, sexed-up state.

Only then, when I looked up to somehow try and absorb what just happened, did I notice the bush of Mistletoe hanging above the door.

Did the bastard just-

The rest of the evening went normally, but Sherlock and I didn’t speak a word with each other.

When the night came to an end and Lestrade had a little too much to drink, we took a cab home and went to bed. Sherlock in his own bed.

I woke up on Christmas morning to see Sherlock sitting at his edge of the bed, as if contemplating something. He was waiting for me to wake up.

“John, you wanted to know how I got these scars…” He said in a tone that indicated how much he was aching to say this.

“Well, yes, I did, but… You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.” I said reproachfully and inched closer.

“No, no, I need to tell you. Honesty is an important factor in a relationship like ours. When I was pretending to be dead, I untangled Moriarty’s criminal network. This you know of. I tracked down and eliminated anyone who could have been a threat. To Lestrade, to miss Hudson, to you…”

Sherlock paused for a long while, in which I sat closer to his back. I didn’t know if he was aware of my movements, but he continued to speak. He told me, in detail, of how he was tortured when captured, demanded information, and whipped when he refused to speak.

“Show me.” I replied softly, and he did. He slowly pulled off his shirt. I approached his scarred back and carefully laid a hand between his shoulder blades. I traced one of his scars and felt him tense up at my touch.

“All of these, I did it all, I took it all for you.” He said carefully. My heart nearly beat out of my chest at these words. “God, Sherlock.” I whispered.

“But I’m afraid to admit that there have been consequences to my actions. There are so many people who died because of me. I’m… I’m practically… a monster.” He said, on the verge of tears. This man was breaking down and I needed to help him rebuild himself.

Before he finished speaking I was at the other side of the bed, crouching before him. I cupped his face in my hands and stared straight into his ocean blue eyes.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes, don’t you dare reduce yourself to such worthless words. You are one of the most beautiful people I have ever known. All the things I can tell about you… The selfless scars on your back, the ridiculously prominent curls on your head, your deep and intelligent voice when rambling on with your deductions, the smiles you make when you think no one’s looking, I…”

I didn’t know I was ready to say the words, but they came so much easier than I expected. I knew that Sherlock kissed me last night for a reason, be it a way to make a confession or a way to make me shut up.

“I… God, Sherlock, I love you.” I blurted out, my gaze constantly shifting between his blue eyes. Sherlock was completely silent for a few seconds, scaring me into thinking I said something wrong.

But then, the unexpected happened. Just as I opened my mouth to say something, to take it all back, the smooth and warm lips of Sherlock Holmes brushed against mine once more and planted a much softer kiss on my lips. This time I was ready, and I started kissing him back. His hand moved up and gently caressed my cheek.

Our lips made a sound when we parted. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to say that…” He whispered, his colourful irises gazing straight into my eyes.

My lips were still tingling from the kiss, and I was more than ready for another one. Our foreheads were pressed together and I felt his light breath tingling on my skin.

“How- how long?” I asked in my flustered state. Sherlock paused.

“The day you reacted differently to my deductions than others, calling them amazing instead of rude.”

And slowly I came to realise that it- “That was the day we first met.” I said. “I know.” He replied softly, and we both giggled ourselves silly.

This time, I moved in and pressed my lips against his, harder. Sparks erupted in my chest, and I felt adrenaline rush through my veins.

Our lips moved against each other in soft, tender strokes, nostrils flaring for breath and our heart rates accelerated. He kissed me slowly and sweetly, as if trying to absorb, analyze and memorise each and every little detail.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathless. Panting against each other’s faces, we started laughing again. We laughed for a solid five minutes before deciding to make breakfast.

I jumped up from the bed and jogged to the kitchen. I cracked a pair of eggs into a pan and started frying them, when I felt two strong arms quickly wrap around my waist and lift me, causing me to jump in fright. His warm chest breathed against my back as he whispered in my ear. “Merry Christmas, John.” He said and pecked my cheek.

“You arse, I’m going to burn breakfast!” I scolded him, but he just chuckled with his deep voice.

“I’m guessing that we are… What others may call… Lovers?”

“Let’s go with… Together?”

“Boyfriends?”

“A couple?”

“A couple. Perfect.”

[cosmosogler]

man, i don’t want to write anything... i’m tired. i will write anyway.

i had a dream about being surrounded by people but being, sort of, for some unexplained reason, unable to communicate with them. like, i could talk and they might have heard me, there’s no reason they wouldn’t have, but they didn’t respond to anything i did. we were in a mall and the floor was glass. toward the end of the dream there was a blizzard and the glass had cracked. i tread carefully, but it never broke. 

right at the very end, someone asked me a question, and as i opened my mouth to respond i woke up because my alarm went off. i was so incredibly frustrated for about half a second and then i couldn’t remember what i had wanted to say any more.

oh! there were also zombies. and undead, but they were different from zombies. i had come to the mall to do something about them but i got sidetracked and then people stopped paying attention to me. that’s how i got there.

it was really complicated, but i don’t remember what exactly was happening. i was trying to bring the dead back to life? but the zombies were beyond help and converting the undead into the FOR REAL dead. i spent a lot of time in a garden shed and under a concrete ledge.

dreams aside, i woke up and got ready for the day and then sat at the computer for a little bit. i think i was checking tumblr? i was so hunched over the dang desk that i may as well have been laying on it.

then we went to gramma’s! before we left dad was being super passive aggressive and i’m not sure why. it was really confusing and also annoying. mom ended up leaving without him and taking us to gramma’s. i put on some music and didn’t think about it too much.

the easter celebration was good. i totally wrecked my cousins at batman dice. the score was 1 to 2 to 3 to 16. and i visited with gramma and her friends and neighbors a lot. apparently dad’s mom barbara was also supposed to attend but she wasn’t feeling well. dad showed up eventually and brought the batman dice game with him. after that it was lunchtime. i gorged myself on my aunt’s salsa and tried to also eat fruit and chips and potato salad and an apple cinnamon cookie... i got so sick i passed out on the couch. grampa woke me up to get me to go lay on his bed instead. it was a little warmer in there and i felt the room spin around me while i dozed. i heard my name one point and i think it was mom telling a dumb story about me, but i felt my muscles tense up for a few seconds anyway. an hour later my brother came to get me and i rolled on my back and my whole abdomen just throbbed and every single heartbeat was a wave of nausea.

i felt junky the whole way home but i tried to count the number of songs i listened to while we were on the highway and that helped. when we got inside i hung out with the dogs a while. i tried to brush some of the mats out of diogi’s fur but wiley and eve were suddenly very interested in standing directly on top of my lap and tipping diogi over. my brother and i fed them, and then after i coaxed eve into eating her food they were outside for a bit. and then i came upstairs until i got a little hungry. i went downstairs to reheat some rice from my family’s previous burrito adventure and had a tiny cup. dad left to go take barbara to the hospital. she spends a lot of time there. 

i mean, i don’t doubt that she is sick and needs to go. but... there are a lot of ways she could make this, easier and less expensive for my family? like one time she slipped and fell and hit her head on the bathroom door. she called our house in the evening and thought it was morning, so we went to check on her. 

if she’d had, say, one of those life alert things or a check-in plan now that she’s living alone she wouldn’t have been laying there for almost a day. and i think this inability to take care of herself is part of what led her to the decision to kill her dog, DESPITE THE FACT THAT WE WERE WILLING TO AND HAD PREVIOUSLY TAKEN CARE OF THE DOG WHEN SHE DIDN’T WANT TO/COULDN’T, AND ALSO THAT HE WAS NOT THAT OLD YET. HE WAS 2 YEARS OLDER THAN EVE, BUT HE IS A TOY POODLE. HE LIVES LONGER THAN 14 YEARS. THEY CAN BE REASONABLY EXPECTED TO LIVE TO 16-18.

like yeah, i’m sorry your husband died and you aren’t putting your life back together. i’m sorry you both suffered an addiction to nicotine that led to the disease grandpa developed. but when we are forced to take you to the hospital because you have no system in place to get yourself anywhere or alert people when you are not doing well, you don’t even take the doctor’s advice, and you refuse to stay in rehab because they don’t let you smoke when you’re hooked up to an oxygen machine! you had a heart attack and you walked out of the hospital a few days later when they wouldn’t let you smoke!!! you stole grandpa’s pain killers while he was alive! you tried to sell your house despite EVERYONE telling you that was a bad idea for many, many reasons!!! you ditched all your furniture in preparation for selling the house anyway and tHEN CHANGED YOUR MIND. you killed your dog and changed your mind the next day so you got a cat, AND THEN YOU DITCHED THE CAT A FEW WEEKS LATER. and then you got ANOTHER cat, and then moved to minnesota or wherever WHERE YOUR FAMILY ASKED YOU NOT TO BRING A CAT AND YOU BROUGHT IT ANYWAY, and then moved back a few months later because you didn’t like paying rent!!!!!!!!!!

i’m sorry life is hard. i’m sorry that bad ideas seem like good ideas to you??? but you’re hurting literally everyone you come into contact with. you’re not even nice to dad when he comes to do your chores for you. you’re just a jackass and you smoke when he’s in the house even though you know the smell makes him sick. and the new cat is too terrified to ever come out from under the bed.

i hate barbara. not as much as i hate craig, because she doesn’t seem aware of what she’s doing, but god it’s hard.

i did put on some bug spray before i went outside this evening. it helped. tomorrow i gotta go to the mental health hospital place. i am afraid that i am not sick enough for their help. because i am too sick to NOT get their help. but i might not be sick enough for them to give me a spot on their roster. like some kind of hellish middle ground.

do i play up my anxiety? would that be lying? am i really not that bad? maybe i should downplay it. but then i’m less likely to get help... am i not depressed/anxious enough because i know i need help? usually with depression it’s like “ohh it COULD be worse, i must not be bad enough for real help.” i know, the cognitive dissonance is making my head explode too.

being evaluated is horrible. what if they happen to catch me on a good day and get the wrong idea? what if they catch me on a bad day and i’m not good enough? standardized tests, medical evaluations, people watching when i say “hey look at this!” they’re just clouds, sammie.

my legs are miserably itchy. i can’t sit comfortably with the itching cream on. the texture of the chair’s fabric against my calves is irritating. the wood of the desk rubs my thighs wrong. my feet are rough and catch on fabric like velcro and they never seem to sit at quite the right angle. my back hurts. my stomach hurts. the skin on my fingers and knuckles is splitting because i wash my hands too much and don’t drink quite enough water. and my body is always telling me i need to go to the bathroom but when i try to go i can’t because there is nothing there. i just went 20 minutes ago. and if my eyes water for any reason something in them gets really dry and it burns and hurts. 

it doesn’t even help when i’m, like, outside and not on the computer. my abdomen starts really hurting when i’m out on walks and it only fades, doesn’t go away. my eyes hurt when the sun’s up. i’m tired all the time. eating is usually awful. the lawn is wet and muddy on my feet and i immediately get bug bites. nothing on my body is healing properly.

i’m just... really frustrated tonight. i saw my sister at the easter party. i asked if her childhood stomachaches ever went away. she said no, and it still usually hurts when she eats. i don’t know how she functions if it’s anything like this. no wonder she never wants to do anything and gets irritable if she can’t eat what she wants.

i’m afraid it’ll never go away. no one can even figure out what’s wrong. i’m not any more anxious than i was while i could go to school. the only thing i could think of with the doctor was that it was years of general anxiety that built up this problem. at least with depression there’s literally a chemical reaction happening in your head that can be changed with medication. but like, they can’t even find an ulcer or anything. there’s just... nothing wrong.