#wordcount: 2143

[codfanficedits]

Talk to me.

Pairing: John Price x fem!Reader

Summary: A short fic of how I would imagine John Price cope when his partner miscarried.

Wordcount: 2143| Rating: E (18+ only!)

Warnings: Grieving, angst with comfort, miscommunication, MISCARRIAGE

A/N: Loosely inspired on my own miscarriage. (although I wasn't that far along and it was a surprise pregnancy, I still mourn what could've been and writing helps me cope even though it has been a few years :)) So if you have feedback, please be kind.

I didn't proofread and English isn't my native tongue, so please let me know if there are mistakes.

The floorboard creaks under his weight. His footsteps echoing through the hallway, and no matter how quiet John tries to be, you hear him. How could you not? You’ve been counting the passing minutes on your alarm clock the moment you went to lie in your bed. Not a minute of sleep as you watched the stars through the slightly open window, enjoying the soft breeze rolling in.

You can feel his eyes taking in your stiff form, and all the warmth that your bedroom once held is escaping from that same open window. The floorboard creaks softly again as he makes his way to the bed, the sound bounces off the walls, slowly escaping in to the night.

John doesn’t say a word when he lays down next to you, his back facing you, and he lays as far away as he can be. You want to talk to him, tell him you love him, tell him you miss him, beg him to please talk to you. With a soft sigh you turn around, facing his back and you want to reach out, caress the warm skin with your fingertips, but you don’t dare to. Instead your eyes take in every little detail of the skin that is illuminated in the soft light of the moon.

A lump forms in your throat, and you swallow it. “John?” Your soft whisper fills up the night.

John remains silent, a low growl rumbling from within as he tries to resist the urge to lash out at you for talking. The gentle rustling of the sheets and his light, consistent breathing signals to you that John is awake, but he won’t budge and acknowledge you.

The tense atmosphere in the room is suffocating, forcing a sharp breath out of you, as you contemplate reaching out, despite knowing that John had grown to hate your touch.

He had been like this ever since he came home from a mission, finding out that you had miscarried. You had wanted him to be there for you, and you wanted to be there for him, but instead he shut you out.

Refusing to talk to you, to even look at you. You bring the covers up to your chest, you back exposed under that same soft moonlight. “I love you.” It is a soft whisper again, almost as if you don’t dare to say such words to him.

His body tenses up, a deep inhale hissing through his clenched teeth as he fights with his own conflicted thoughts. His silence weighs heavily on the air, like an ominous cloud looming over you, his face and body hidden from you as he tries to resist giving you even a little sliver of comfort. Your soft whisper into the silence of the room stirs John’s heart in the depths of his soul, his body wanting to relax but his mind telling him not to.

You had expected this reaction from him, you got it every time you tried, but that didn’t mean it would hurt any less. You press your eyes shut in an attempt to stop the tears, you had learned to cry silently, not a sob, not a single sound would come out of you, just your hot tears. So you rolled over again, your back facing his so you could let your tears roll freely.

Hours drags by as you both lie in the darkness, your tears cascading down your face while John remains turned away from you. His mind is locked in a struggle, the memory of your sweet smile and sparkling eyes haunting him. His body yearns to reach out to you, wrap his arms around you, and finally pull you close, but his mind won’t let him.

If you listen close enough you can almost hear John’s tortured heart, fighting his own self-created demons within, the pain in his soul tearing him apart.                                                                                                                                                                   

You watch until the clock reaches 5AM, and you can’t stand to be in bed any longer. As you get out of bed the silken covers slide off your body as you put your robe on, you hair sways with your movement as you walk out of the bedroom, the floorboard creaking under your weight. Your breath hitches in your throat when you have to walk past the unfinished nursery, a reminder of what you have lost.

John watches you as your bare feet slip against the wooden floors as you make your way outside of the room. John’s body is tight, his muscles trembling as he hears your footsteps leave the room, his body urging him to rush after you and force you to come back to bed with him.

But his mind keeps him rooted to the bed, his brain frozen in the memories of your miscarriage as the guilt tears him apart. His eyes are glazed over and wide open, the sight of you in the unfinished nursery burning a painful memory into his mind.

Your fingers caress the unfinished crib, your fingertips gliding across the wood. As you look through the room the little clothes break your heart, your hand automatically goes to your stomach, as you miss the little kicks you once felt.

You lean forward to press a kiss on the little teddy bear John had won for you on the fair, right after the two of you found out about the pregnancy. The memories, the pain, it all becomes too much and you know you have to leave the nursery before you can’t hold back the sobs any longer. Your footsteps are the only sound in the house as you walks down the stairs, leaving an air of sadness behind.

John forces himself to his feet, his body tense with grief and rage as he hears you make your way back downstairs, the moonlight slipping through the blinds, casting an eerie glow over the bed.

He steps towards the nursery too, and a millions thoughts flow across his mind as he hears your footsteps disappear back downstairs, his heart wanting to follow your and beg for forgiveness but his mind is telling him to stay put.

His fingers tighten into fists as he fights against every fibre of his body to stay hidden in the darkness. His eyes are wide and wild as he looks into the nursery, the memories of your miscarriage play on a loop in his head.

You’re seated at the dining table, a mug of warm tea in front of you, another mug across from you. You had always made John a mug of tea too, you had done if before the pregnancy, during it, and you hadn’t stopped after. John hadn’t drank your tea in a while now, just like he hadn’t spoken to you. You can hear his get on his feet upstairs, and in response you just blow on the hot tea, before you bring the mug to your lips and take a sip. Your eyes wander to the window, and you take in the beauty of the world, even when that same world is being cruel to you.

John walks by and he sees you sitting at the dining table, the moonlight spilling into the window, revealing the pain in your eyes. His heart tightens with guilt as he sees you, his body shaking with every emotion that runs through his.

He takes a seat across from you, his muscles tense and tight as he stares at the mug of tea in front of him, breathing out with frustration and grief in every sigh. His face is twisted in frustration, anger, guilt and pain but he remains silent. He can’t bring himself to look at you, unable to look into those sad eyes he once adored.

You know he has taken a seat across from her, but you can’t bear to look at him too. No matter how desperate you want to reach out again, you can’t anymore, your heart being broken enough already. The grip on your mug of tea tightened as you took another small sip, your eyes staying on the backyard, the flowers you planted earlier this your are blooming.

One of your hands lets go off the mug, and while you still can’t look at him, you place your open hand on the table, the palm facing upwards, an invite to take it.

John stares at your outstretched hand on the table, his own hand trembling violently as a part of him desperately wants to take it. The memories of you together wash over him, his mind drifting back to the joy and love you felt together, the future that was denied to you by a twist of fate. The feelings of guilt, anger and regret rush through his veins as every fibre of his body yearns to take you hand an make everything better. But his mind is holding him back, the pain of the miscarriage overwhelming every other thought within his tortured soul.

You take the hint, and you pull back your hand again, gripping your mug tightly. You don’t know how much longer you can take this, how much longer you can stay in a marriage like this, but the thought of divorce scares you, besides, who in their right mind leaves while you are both grieving?

But you’re only human, and you crave someone to hold you and console you.

John takes a deep breath, willing himself not to give in. He wants to hold your hand, hug you and console you like he once used to.

The cold war between the two of you has been going on for far too long and John’s mind can’t take the emotional damage anymore. He can’t bear to see the emptiness in your eyes,, or the sadness in your voice, and he can’t stand not touching you ever again. He takes a moment to prepare himself before leaning forward to take your hand.

Your breath hitched in your throat as he takes your hand and it caused you to freeze. You don’t know what to do, if you should caress the back of his hand with her thumb, or if you should kiss him, talk to him. You’re scared, scared that you’ll ruin this little moment, so all you can allow yourself to do is to look at your hands and have the tiniest smile on your face.

John’s hand trembles as he firmly grasps yours, your skin feels warm and gentle. Despite his efforts, the floodgates of his emotions break loose, tears streaming down his face. He can’t help but lean forward, to pull you off you chair and into his body, holding you in a tight embrace as he finally snaps. He cries into your shoulder, his whole body shaking in grief and regret. The weeks of trauma and pain all come out at once in a deep sob – a cry for help and for you, a cry for love and for comfort.

Your heart feels heavy as he finally snaps, and all you can do is hold him. Hold him in a way he hadn’t allowed you to hold him for weeks. He is crying into your robe, but that is the least of your concerns, you’re just grateful to have your husband in your arms again, to see him release the emotions he has been building up for so long. So you just continue to hold him, your hand on the back of his neck, gently cradling him.

John buries his face into your shoulder, wrapping his arms around you as he sobs into your chest, his whole body is tense, the weeks of  trauma and agony slowly seeping from his soul.

He’s finally able to find comfort, the touch of your skin soothing his pain and the warmth of your embrace calming the storm inside his soul.

He could stay like this forever, the feeling of your body against his a reminder of the love and tenderness he once felt for you. You break through the wall around his heart and shatter the barricade that had kept you away for so long.

You’re hesitant, not wanting to push him way, but you need him just as much as he needs you. You press your lips against his hair, taking in his scent once more. Your arms tightening around him, as you hold him close to your heart.

John sighs heavily, the warmth of your touch and the sound of your heartbeat filling him with joy as he clings to you. His grips tightens around you, his heart filled with love and gratitude as the feelings of pain and anguish slowly fade away, replaced by the joy and tenderness he once felt with you.

He breathes in deep, the smell of you filling his nose and flooding his mind with wonderful memories of your time together, the love that once defined the two of you.

“Talk to me.”

[aij-writes]

Quarter Past Wrong, Pt 1

Rating: Teen, Swearing, Mild Fantasy Violence

Pairing: Ignyx (Ignis/Nyx)

Summary: Ignis is fifteen and at the start of his Crownsguard training.  Nyx is twenty-four and a bit of a show-off, already earning his Hero moniker from battles with the Kingsglaive.  Cor Leonis decides Noctis’s retinue might need magic training.  Ignis is eager to show off in the ring. Nyx thinks he’s only helping.  Ignis wants to get away and Nyx doesn’t want him to give up.

Warnings: So...these characters first interact at a questionable age but there’s no romancing (yet).  Age range is nine years because I accidentally bump up Ignis’s age to three years older than Noctis (instead of 2 1/2 of canon) and Gladio a year older than Ignis.  Also, I have a headcanon I’m carrying over that Dragoon is a race and Ignis is a Dragoon.  If I ever write an explanation to this I’ll link it.

Other Tags: Canon compliant, Brotherhood Era, Best friends Gladio & Ignis, Slow burn?, Trying to be your mentor but you just find me annoying

For @ffxvignyxzine using all the prompts on day 1, why not?  “Stay with me”/”Don’t go”, Ring, Help/Rescue

First part of a multi-part fic trying to tie it all together

“Glaives!” Drautos called over his men.  “You see we have a few guests joining us today.”  He spread his arm out.  “The Marshal and two Crownsguard recruits.”

“Sir!” they yelled in acknowledgment.

Cor eyed the men, before turning to Gladiolus Amicitia.  “Recruits, he says,” he said in a carrying voice.

“Well, you look good for your age, Marshal,” Ignis Scientia said in a droll tone.  “Perhaps they have you confused for me.”

Cor shook his head, but there was a slight twitch in his expression.  He ruffled the kid’s grey hair.  “You’re a hoot.”

“Is something funny, Leonis?” Drautos asked.

“No,” he said.  “I leave two of my most promising soldiers to your dexterous hands, Titus.  I have others to babysit.”  He shook his head to Gladio.  “Don’t hold back now,” he said, calmly walking away.

Drautos shook his head, sighing.  “Most Crownsguard don’t fight with magic,” he explained to his battalion in a carrying, commanding voice.  “That’s why the King has so graciously extended his magic to the Kingsglaive.  But these two pipsqueaks are a special exception.  I want you all to meet Ignis Scientia and Gladiolus Amicitia.  You may know them as our dear Prince’s babysitter and manhandler.  As they’ve recently began practicing magic as connection to our future king, they need training the typical Crownsguard does not receive.  Something to say, Furia?”

“How old are they?  Sir?” Tredd, a red-headed Glaive asked, bumping Luche with his elbow.

“Old enough,” Drautos offered.  “Everyone knows us to be war heroes.  Now let’s prove that we know how to play nice.  Exception being they will not being joining us in warp practice.  Now!  To the training yard!”

They were put through the paces, starting with perfectly normal training exercises.  Warm ups that lead to sprints.  Ignis was fast, but he was young so the older Glaives had him beat.  Gladio didn’t even try to compete, comfortable in his stance, but Ignis had a hard enough time proving himself in Crownsguard training to not feel discouraged.

Luche, the unofficial second-in-command, pulled them aside when warp warm ups were announced.  He took an appraisal of their abilities.  Gladio could summon his sword after a few tries, but was hopeless with elemental.  Ignis had his daggers in hand before asked, but only seemed to be able to get a small flame going across them and had no projectile or release abilities.  Luche tried not to come off as condescending, but it was hard.  They were kids.

“How’s it look? Drautos asked, coming up behind them.  “Anything?”  He listened to Luche’s summery and frowned.  “Alright,” he said with an annoyed sigh.  He eyed them.  “Alright,” he repeated.  “Okay, so how old are either of you?”

“Fifteen, Sir,” Ignis answered respectfully while Gladio answered over him a gruff and defensive, “Sixteen.”

“How long have you been tapped into Prince Noctis’s magic?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

“Uh...about a year,” Gladio answered.  “Since he turned thirteen I guess?”

“For eight days now,” Ignis said.

Drautos’s eyebrows raised further.  “Let me see you summon fire.”

Ignis looked at him with a calm expression, but argued quietly, “With all due respect Sir, I can’t--”

“I want to see you do it so you’ll do it.”

Ignis, the picture of control and respect, gave him an icy look.  “I can only enchant things.”

“Fine,” he said, hand waving.  “Wouldn’t want to burn the little adviser's hands now.”  He turned his back on Ignis, smirking at his crew.

Ignis frowned, throwing his hand out.  Though he’d not managed to do it before, Ignis’s hand sparked briefly with fire.

Luche nudged Drautos, speaking in an undertone about what Ignis had managed to do.  Turning back to him, Drautos gave him a grim look.  “Be careful being motivated by anger, no matter how checked you keep it.  You’ll have to dig deeper and deeper for your fuel.  Finding out how deep the vein runs is dangerous.”  He eyed Gladiolus.  “Alright, Shield-in-Waiting.  You focus on getting a little more graceful and Scientia, you go with Altius.  She’s my best mage.  Maybe she can teach you a thing or two.”

---

“You ever get tired, Iggy?” Gladio asked, doing squats in front of their tutor’s office.

Ignis looked up from placing a tab on the report.  “All the time,” he said, tilting his head.  “I require sleep like everyone.”

Gladio laughed, huffing and falling down on the bench next to him.  He shared a smile with his best friend.  “Wiseass.”

“Better than being a dumbass,” Ignis shot back.  He took his binder and bopped Gladio on the head.  “Of course I’m tired.  But I worry that if I don’t attend to it, it won’t get done.”

“Are you doubting me?” Gladio asked, throwing an arm around him.  At sixteen, he was already larger than many men.  “I’m here to kick the princess into shape and you’re...well, what are you supposed to be doing?”

“Right now I’m making sure he has all the required--”

“Nah, Iggy, right now, you’re doing stuff you’re not supposed to be doing but do anyway to coddle him.  You’re his adviser, not his--”

“I’m his chamberlain,” he pointed out.  “I manage His Highness, too.”

“No one can manage him,” a new voice spoke up.  Nyx Ulric slid against the wall rounding the corner still leaning against the new wall.  He was a tall Galahdian with bright blue eyes.  “I commend you both for trying.”

Ignis scowled and Gladio glared.

“Alright, alright, protective to a fault.”  Nyx put his hands up in defense.  “But you know, the Shield’s got a point, kid.”  Nyx was in his twenties, already a veteran of so many battles against Nifleheim and Tenebrae forces.  He had seen battles Gladio and Ignis had only simulated.  He was the Hero of Insomnia.  He leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest and smiling.  “I mean, you have to admit, Scientia.  No one’s expecting a servant to take on actual battle duty.”

Gladio stood up so fast he nearly bowled Ignis over.  He got into Nyx’s face.  “Ignis isn’t a servant.  He’s smarter, sharper, and ten times the tactician than most Crownsguard and he’s already nipping on the heels of any Glaive in magic.”

Nyx laughed.  “Sure, big guy.  I bet he’s juggling that along with the rest of everything he does, but honestly, who’s he to lay down his life for the Kingdom?  That’s what I do.  That’s what you might have to do if not the Prince himself.  But Ignis Scientia?  No one’s going to expect more out of him than a spare pen.  So honestly?  You’re both wasting your time.  Maybe go act like teenagers for a minute while you still can.  You’re going to hate it when there’s nothing left but full time duty.”

“Thank you for the unsolicited advice, Mr. Ulric.  If I wanted to know what you thought about my ability to balance my work, I’d have asked.”  Ignis raised his eyebrows, shooting him a sharp look learned from raising his own kid since he was six.

Nyx shrugged.  “Only trying to help.”

---

Drautos yelled commands before finally giving up.  He fell back, frowning.  That disappointment rippled through the practicing Glaives until one by one they stopped, settling their gaze on him.  He raised his eyebrows.  “Oh, now you stop?” he asked, shaking his head.  “Alright, well, I didn’t know this was an exposition and not a practice.  Someone else must have ordered it.”

“Sorry!  Sir!” they called in unison.

“Are we here to help the Prince’s retinue or make asses of ourselves showing them our flashy moves?  What if they go back to the King and Shield, reporting the waste of magic?  Enough!  One-on-one sparing.  I want you all practicing form and observing, so two in a ring a time.  No warping!  Practice knives only!”  He eyed Gladio.  “Good luck.”

Drautos moved through the group, jostling people together and pairing them off.  He gave each of them two minutes to knock one of them out of the ring.  But as Gladio approached, he glared.  “I thought I put Ulric with you.”

Libertus eyed Drautos warily.  “Well, uh, Sir...we switched.”

“Did you now?” he asked, unimpressed by the initiative.  “Why?”

“I thought it’d be helpful if the bureaucrat didn’t get crushed so soon,” Nyx offered.  “Motivate him to keep trying.”

Ignis scowled but didn’t voice his displeasure.  Gladio wasn’t quite so tactful.

“That’s bullshit!”  Gladio jabbed a finger towards Ignis.  “Ignis has been training with the Crownsguard and he’s not merely a show piece!”

Nyx shrugged.  He was flipping a practice dagger in his hand.  “You can be quick and still lack any strength behind it.  He needs to work on his physique to be any good.  Otherwise, he needs to stay on the books and let the men battle.”

Drautos stared at Nyx, but allowed a faint smirk.  “Alright, Nyx, maybe you’re right.  Maybe Ignis doesn’t belong here.”

“That’s--” Gladio started.

“You know, I think maybe my authority here wasn’t properly explained by the Marshal, since now I got everyone telling me how to train these Crownguards.  Okay, Nyx...you run practice with Ignis and I’ll observe.  Make it a real show.”

Ignis let his daggers appear with a blue flash.  “Real weapons then,” he said, unable to more than set the wooden knife on fire rather than enchant them.

“Alright,” Nyx agreed, pulling out his set of kukri.  “No time limit.  No out of the ring BS.  First person to yield.”

“Feel free to warp,” Ignis offered, taking his glasses off and handing them to Gladio for safe keeping.

Nyx raised his eyebrows.  “Oh boy...skinny, blind, and turned around.  Make sure you say uncle before I kill you, kid.”

“I don’t need anymore of your help, thank you,” Ignis replied crisply.  He joined Nyx into the ring, offering him a handshake as was custom in the Crownsguard.

Nyx took it and bowed as was custom in the Kingsglaive.

Ignis darted back as soon as he released.  He was quick.  Rapid and smooth with movements, but as Nyx soon critiqued, “You waste energy staying on the move.”  He dove towards Ignis, not quite aiming with his knife.  He did grin though as Ignis swept and turned, rolling his back against Nyx’s and catching him on the side with a well-placed slice.

The Kingsglaive as a collective let out a groan.

“Alright, teasing?” Nyx asked.  He caught Ignis as he swung around, blades clashing.  They traded quick swipes, each catching the other.  Nyx pushed out with his hand, knocking the much smaller kid back easily.  “See, you can’t possibly--”

Nyx’s advice was cut off as Ignis had performed a handstand only to flip back and kick him in the mouth.  He fell back, but caught himself.  He stayed crouched, eyeing Ignis as he wiped blood off his mouth.

“Sir?” Pelna spoke up.

Drautos raised a silencing hand.  “Let Nyx learn his lesson.”

“Sir!” Libertus and Crowe insisted.

Ignis darted around Nyx, avoiding his furry of swipes.  He was as quick on his feet as suspected and left Nyx little time to offer his brand of help.  He finally took the chance he saw in Ignis’s opening, throwing his kukri at one of the looming stone pillars.  He warped to catch it before releasing it and diving at Ignis.

Raising his head, Ignis watched Nyx’s falling form, the Galadian all smiles and him a frowning concentration.  Gladio tried to shout a warning for Ignis to Wake up! but he waited for the last possible moment.  His knives disappeared with a flash and in their place was his polearm.  Not quite as practiced and with admittedly all the problems of lacking core strength, Ignis relied on whatever reserves he had in magic to get more lift in his Jump.

Now Nyx was the one looking up, stunned.  It wasn’t a warp technique, that was for sure.  He didn’t even respond, just letting Ignis land on him, kicking him onto his ass and standing over him.  His staff was stabbed into the mats right next to his head at the crock of his neck.

“Wow...” he said unabashedly.

Ignis was heaving his breath, though.  That’s taken all of it out of him.  He slid down the pole only to sink to one knee.  He huffed before tapping the mat.  Using the leverage again, he stood up and started to walk away.  “You’re right,” he said over his shoulder as he let the polearm fade into the Armiger.  “I have to get stronger.”

“Hey wait!” Nyx called, looking devastated.  “Hey...come on!  Don’t go!”  He watched Ignis pick up his pace as he scurried away but for some reason couldn’t move after him.  Gladio glanced at Nyx and didn’t wait to be dismissed by Drautos before going after him.

Nyx glanced at Drautos, frowning.  “I think he won fair and square.”

[miraimisu]

The Ironclad Pharmacist | To Hell, If You So Desire [13/16]

Summary: "What will you do then, Colonel? Your dear man is going to bleed to death if you don't act soon." Then, he rummages through the inner pockets of his dirty lab coat. "But I happen to be a doctor, and I can cure him with alchemy, and…" he takes out a little container with dancing red liquid, too familiar for her to not hold her breath. "I have a Philosopher's Stone right here."

Wordcount: 2143

A/N: HAHAHAHAHAHA I forget to post HAHAHAHAHA I’m such a mess HAHAHA I apologize I am like NECK DEEP into writing and I just forget to post. I’m not kidding. I forget. Because I’m very busy I’m sorry I’m such a klutz

Anyway here starts the real angsty bits and the next one is gonna be angst too

ALSO BEWARE THIS CHAPTER HAS SPOILIES FOR THE REAL SERIES SO

—

The doctor shifts his glasses. "I told you we're running out of time, Colonel."

The gross noise of a blade meeting soft flesh fills her ears somewhere to her right.

And what she had never expected, she realizes in absolute horror, was for a blade to pierce right through her Lieutenant's throat, his expression turning confused and pained. His green eyes open wide in dread, blood spraying out of the wound as her subordinate falls to the ground, motionless.

The girl thrashes, her whole body shaking as she tries to get him to no avail. "Lieutenant! Answer me, Lieutenant!" Her body suddenly feels heavy, something burning and throbbing in her heart as the blood, his blood soaks the tiles and taints her sight in red.

Gladion doesn't move. He doesn't even flinch or respond to her desperate calls, and is instead dragged before her, right above an alchemy circle she cannot understand. The doctor puts his arms behind his back as the girl tries to free herself to get to her subordinate.

"What the hell have you done!?" Moon screams, her subordinates watching her lose all control as the only person people can't touch is almost murdered in front of her. Somewhere she cannot control. "Leave him alone! This is not his business!"

"Oh, but it is, considering he is your dear Lieutenant, isn't that right?" Moon's expression falls into one of absolute terror, paling on sight. Her eyes widen and her irises tremble, breath staggering within her throat.

She should have known he would be in danger the first minute he joined her side, all those years ago.

She should have stopped him.

Because she cannot lose him. Not him.

—

[Continue reading on AO3!]

[owlways-and-forever]

A Christmas Delivery

Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and Darcy is away at the annual Netherfield Christmas Party, leaving Elizabeth alone in a snowstorm, and expecting their first child.A little bit of Christmas fluff to kick off the Christmas writing season. Links: AO3 Wordcount: 2143 A/N: This is my first attempt at writing P&P (or at least finishing & posting it), and I hope I do the characters justice. But I just needed a little bit of Christmas fluff today, so this was begging to be written.

Elizabeth stood by the window, watching as snow fell softly to the ground, enveloping the world in a blanket of silence. Darcy should have been home by now, and she was beginning to grow worried. It was possible that the snow had just kept him at Netherfield with Jane and Charles, but Elizabeth thought it was far more likely that Darcy had insisted on making his way home to her. He hated leaving her alone overnight, and Elizabeth was not overfond of it either. They’d hardly spent a night apart since they were married. What if something had happened to him? His carriage could have been run off the road, or gotten stuck in the snow. He could be sitting and freezing as she stood there, waiting. She hated the waiting. Her whole life seemed to be waiting now. Waiting for Darcy to return home, waiting for this baby to arrive. Elizabeth ran her hand over her large belly, crossing the room and sinking into the large armchair by the fire.

She had begged Darcy not to go to Netherfield. She was far too close to her confinement to travel so far, no matter how much she wished to, and she didn’t want to be left alone at Pemberley. But he had insisted that they had presents for little Charlie and baby Henrietta from their trip to Paris two months ago, and they needed to be delivered. Besides, several of Darcy’s colleagues would be at the Christmas party, and he had business with them that needed attending.

Elizabeth groaned, the stress of worrying over Darcy giving her pains, and for a fleeting moment she thought her mother might not have been crazy with her smelling salts after all. She tried to close her eyes, hoping that the warmth of the fireplace might lull her to sleep, but her body had no such plans. Her stomach clenched painfully, and Elizabeth gritted her teeth until it passed, knuckles white against the arms of the chair she was sitting in.

“Mrs. Reynolds!” she called when the pain had subsided somewhat, and she pushed herself up from the chair with great difficulty. “Mrs. Reynolds!”

“Yes, ma’am?” the housekeeper answered, appearing in the doorway of the library. How she always seemed to hear Elizabeth no matter where she was in the house, Elizabeth would never understand.

“Please send for Dr. Whitby,” Elizabeth directed, struggling toward the door. “I’m a bit anxious about Mr. Darcy’s journey, and I don’t want to upset the baby. I would be most appreciative if he could bring me something to calm my nerves a bit. I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

“As you wish, ma’am,” Mrs. Reynolds replied, sweeping from the room.

Moments later, Isabella, her lady’s maid, appeared, taking Elizabeth by the elbow and offering as much support as she could.

“May I assist you ma’am?” she asked, although she had already taken the initiative to do so.

“Yes please, Isabella, to the bedroom if you will,” Elizabeth said, leaning on her as much as possible.

They moved down the hall together, slowly, every now and then stopping so Elizabeth could breathe through another pain. The more spasms she felt, the more Elizabeth began to worry about her child, desperately hoping that it would not choose to appear this night, in the middle of a snowstorm and with Darcy missing. They made it to the bedroom, and Isabella made quick work of loosening Elizabeth’s dress, until it slid to the floor in a puddle around her feet. She slid her dressing gown onto her shoulders, and Elizabeth tied it around her belly, before sinking onto her bed. She felt the cold suddenly, despite the fire roaring in the fireplace, and shivered, pulling her blankets up around her shoulder.

It felt like hours passed before Dr. Whitby arrived, holding his little black medical bag. His assistant, Tom, stood behind him, holding a larger bag, and grinning goofily at Isabella.

“I apologize for the delay, Mrs. Darcy,” Dr. Whitby said, and Elizabeth grimaced. In nearly four years of marriage, she still had not gotten used to being called Darcy instead of Bennet. “Let us see what I can do for you.”

He spent several minutes examining her, taking her pulse and checking her belly, before he was ready to issue a diagnosis.

“Mrs. Darcy,” he said with a broad grin, “I think it is about time for you to meet your child.”

“I can’t,” Elizabeth replied almost reflexively, her heart pounding, “not without Darcy, I need him here.”

“My dear lady, babies wait for no man,” Dr. Whitby answered with a wry smile. “Besides, you would not want your husband to witness this anyway.”

“Ma’am, you must,” Isabella encouraged, reaching out and taking her hand.

Elizabeth nodded, steeling herself for what would come next. Dr. Whitby and Tom began bustling about, occasionally recruiting Mrs. Reynolds or Isabella to assist in the preparations. She felt as though she were in a daze as they whirled around, whisking in and out of the room, and she tried to focus on preparing her mind. Yet two thoughts kept running through her mind – first, that it was too soon, and her child would be unwell, and second, that she needed Darcy with her. She could not help but worry that this night would be the end of their little family.

“Mrs. Darcy, are you ready?” Dr. Whitby asked at last, taking Elizabeth’s hand with a reassuring smile.

Dr. Whitby and Tom helped lift Elizabeth from her bed, escorting her to the birthing bed that they had purchased some time ago, the first time they had thought she might be with child. She had nearly cried when the table had arrived, by which time she had discovered that it was not to be. They had offered it to Jane to use, though neither family’s wealth necessitated that they share – it had seemed only fitting for two sisters so closely bonded. Now it was her turn to climb onto the birthing table and labor to bring her child into the world.

Isabella squeezed Elizabeth’s hand as she pulled her shift up above Elizabeth’s large belly, and Elizabeth hugged her knees to her chest as best she was able, feeling the urge to push her child out. But it was slow going, and the child did not seem to want to budge, despite her best efforts, crying out with the strain of it. After over an hour of laboring, Elizabeth pushed herself up and onto her knees, not caring what was dignified for a lady of her station.

“Listen to what your body tells you,” Dr. Whitby advised, though his tone of voice clearly exposed his shock.

Her fingers dug into the edge of the table, knuckles white as every muscle in her body seemed to clamp down, urging this child out. She could not see, but she felt as though finally she were making progress.

“Nearly there, ma’am,” Isabella spurred, and Dr. Whitby repeated the encouragement.

It took only a few moments longer, and then Elizabeth knew that she had done it. Relief flooded through her that the ordeal was finally over, but it was swiftly replaced by concern. She had not heard the baby cry yet, and she feared for the worst. She dropped her hips to the table, turning to face Dr. Whitby, and wincing in discomfort as she attempted to sit up. She could see a bundle in Mrs. Reynolds’ arms, with Tom attending it, while Dr. Whitby attempted to get Elizabeth’s attention.

“My child –“

“Mrs. Darcy, we still must deliver the placenta,” he argued, but her focus was solely on the bundle in Mrs. Reynolds’ care.

“Tell me, is my baby –“

“Mrs. Darcy, please –“

Cries sounded from the bundle of blankets, and Elizabeth dropped backwards in relief. Her child was alive. She felt weak from the effort of labor and the relief that her baby seemed to have been safely delivered, and she hardly noticed that Dr. Whitby was still at work between her legs, trying to extract the placenta. Jane had been able to deliver it naturally, which was preferred, but Elizabeth did not feel strong enough for that, and she was glad that Dr. Whitby had taken the initiative.

“Ma’am?” Tom said, hesitantly, approaching Elizabeth’s head. “You have a daughter. She is perhaps a bit small, but on the whole appears to be fighting fit.”

“Can I see her?” Elizabeth asked, tears of joy streaming down her face.

“Once you have both been cleaned up a bit, ma’am,” Tom reassured her. “We’ll get you back to bed and then you may hold her to your heart’s content.”

Isabella helped Elizabeth change into a clean shift and climb into bed, getting settled softly amidst the mounds of pillows. She looked over to Tom expectantly, and he drew nearer, gently laying her baby girl in her arms. Elizabeth sighed happily as she felt immediately more complete. Her daughter was beautiful, smelled beautiful. She had pink skin and a layer of dark fuzz atop her head, little rosebud lips opening in a tiny little yawn. Elizabeth stroked her daughter’s small hand, letting the baby’s fist close around the tip of her finger, and smiled wistfully. Darcy should have been there to see this, he should have been there for his daughter’s birth. Once more, Elizabeth was struck with concern that he would not make it home to her, and a tear slid down her cheek. This time, she was unsure whether it was a tear of joy or sorrow.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, and Elizabeth could hear footsteps pounding across the marble floor of the sculpture room. Her heartbeat quickened to match the footsteps, and she sat up a little bit straighter, praying that whoever it was had news of her husband.

“Elizabeth!"

She heart the voice and knew at once that it belonged to her husband, tears of relief falling fast. Somehow, he was safe, and though he had missed their daughter’s birth, he was there now.

“Elizabeth!” he sighed, bursting into their bedroom and rushing to the bed, where she reclined, their baby in her arms. “What is it, what’s amiss?” he asked when he saw the tears on his wife’s face.

“What’s amiss is that you weren’t present at your own daughter’s birth,” Elizabeth sighed, teasingly reprimanding her husband.

“My daughter,” he sighed, turning his attention to the baby for the first time. “Our daughter.”

“Would you like to hold her?” Elizabeth asked, but Darcy looked at her with trepidation. “Oh, don’t be silly, you’ve held a baby before, you won’t break her.”

“I know,” he admitted, moving to sit next to her on the bed.

Elizabeth twisted slowly, handing their daughter to Darcy, and she watched as his eyes grew wide with amazement and affection. He seemed to stop breathing as he looked at his soundly sleeping daughter. Seeing them together, Elizabeth thought that the baby had much more of Darcy’s looks then her own, but she didn’t mind that one bit.

“My love, she is positively perfect,” Darcy breathed, barely tearing his eyes away from the baby.

“You’re not disappointed she is a girl?” Elizabeth asked, though she had little anxiety about the matter. Darcy was not the type to cast aside his child just for being a girl.

“Not in the least, she is the best Christmas gift I could have hoped for,” he answered, meeting her eyes. Elizabeth could see that he was already so in love with their child, and her heart swelled.

“She needs a name,” Elizabeth said quietly, resting her head on Darcy’s shoulder, and reaching out to draw a finger lightly across the baby’s soft cheek. “I was thinking Anne, after your mother.”

Darcy wrinkled his nose, ruffling the baby’s hair. His disliked the name Anne, even if it was his mother’s. He associated it more with his cousin and her hateful mother, and he didn’t much want the baby to have that burden.

“Perhaps Jane, after your sister?” he suggested, but Elizabeth shook her head.

They both thought in silence for a few minutes, trying to think of the right name for their beautiful little girl.

“Alice,” Elizabeth said at last, looking fondly at their daughter.

“Alice Anne Darcy,” he replied, smile spreading.

“It’s perfect.”

“You’re perfect.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, and Elizabeth yawned, the exhaustion of the night catching up with her at last. “Rest, my love, I shall stay with Alice.”

Elizabeth adjusted until she was lying down, still snuggled close to Darcy and keeping one hand on her new daughter. As she drifted into sleep, she heard her husband talking softly.

“Hello, my darling Alice, I am very pleased to meet you. I am your papa, and I love you very much, you and your wonderful mama.”

[lextenou]

lazylaziel replied to your post: Wordcount on Doctor Mechanic fic started today

We need this. And we need the answer to the question burning through us all: Tomato revolution… was it pro or con?

IT SHALL COME AT THE MOMENT FORETOLD IN THE PROPHECY AND NOT BEFORE otherwise known as when I get it back from beta.

The Great Tomato Revolution of 2143 was spoken of in hushed tones and glaring silences. Spurred as it was by the ill-advised teachings of one teacher, may he float forever, the attempt to spur the children of the Ark to think for themselves instead led to a tow-headed Clarke screaming for JUSTICE! and throwing salad throughout the mess hall in the midst of Go-Sci Station. Much to the surprise of the bewildered guards, and their parents, the class of 75 elementary and middle school aged children managed to not only find an unlocked (and thankfully, disused after the Unity Day kerfuffle)  environmental control station room, but to barricade themselves inside until their parents acquiesced to their demands.

Namely, that there stop being “so many fucking tomatoes in the fucking salad, is that really so much to ask, Mom!”

It should come as little surprise that Clarke was not allowed to draw for a month - though whether it was for the action, or for the cursing is yet to be determined. It should also be noted that this moment, more than any other, is what led to Thelonious Jaha deciding to include her in Jake Griffin’s treason charge.