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aquietwritingcorner · 3 years ago

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Embers of Revelation

Author: RealityBreakGirl/aquietlearningcorner Word Count: 12296 Rating: T Prompt: FMA Big Bang 2021 Warnings: Child abuse/neglect Characters: Riza Hawkeye, Roy Mustang, Jean Havoc, Heymans Breda, Vato Falman, Kain Fuery, Black Hayate Pairing: Royai Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Family Chapter: 2 of 7 Summary: Tasked by Fuhrer Grumman to investigate a suspected alchemic incident, General Mustang’s team finds themselves stranded in Hawkeye’s hometown. Needing a place to stay, they find themselves taking shelter in her childhood home. However, her past can’t stay buried there, and as revelations come to light, they also bring embers of danger with them. Sequel to Embers in a Wounded Heart AO3 || ff.net

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Chapter 2

The night didn’t pass too peacefully for Havoc or Breda. Havoc’s legs were giving him quite a bit of trouble and he was restless most of the night. He tried to sleep or hold still, but after a while he gave up, and went downstairs where he could move as much as he needed too. Eventually he fell asleep on the couch. He thought, at one point, that he heard someone else up, but shortly after Hayate joined him, which explained a lot. Eventually the two fell asleep together.

The morning dawned early, but not too bright. He was woken up by the sounds of someone in the kitchen, and groggily drug himself up. He stumbled into the kitchen, wincing as his legs tried to work themselves out. They functioned just fine, but there was still an ache to them. Not to his surprise, both Hawkeye and Fuery were up and in the kitchen, coffee already going. They looked up at his entrance.

“Oh—did we wake you?” Hawkeye asked, looking at him.

Havoc yawned. “Yeah, but don’t worry about it.”

Fuery had gotten up and was busy fetching a cup for Havoc. “Didn’t sleep well, sir?” he asked.

“Yeah… this weather is messing with my legs,” he said. “Makes them ache more and more the longer it goes on.”

Hawkeye frowned. “Do you have anything you take or do for them?”

“Yeah,” Havoc said, “but I try not to take it too much. I don’t like being too compromised.”

“It’s not like we’re doing anything dangerous here,” Fuery said with a smile as he handed Havoc a cup of coffee fixed just the way he liked it. How did Fuery remember little details like that anyway? And why would he bother?

Still, it didn’t stop Havoc from accepting it.

“Yeah, but still. Don’t worry, if it gets to be too much, I’ll take one of those pills.”

Hawkeye was frowning. “Have you ever tried any herbal or folk remedies?” she asked him.

Havoc shook his head. “Nah, I haven’t. to be honest, even if my ma used them, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Hawkeye nodded. “Let me see what I can find and put together. I might be able to give you something that’ll help.”

“You know herbs?” Fuery asked, sounding a little surprised.

Hawkeye nodded. “I learned when I was younger from books, and an older woman in town. They were useful things to know, especially when a doctor wasn’t always an option.” She stood up, heading over to the refrigerator. “I’ll see what I can look into. For now, though, we had better start on breakfast.”

With a nod, Havoc and Fuery both got up, and the three of them started working on the food.

It wasn’t too much later that the others started filing down the stairs, Falman first, then Breda, and finally, Mustang. Like all good military men, they started their approach with a trip to the coffee pot. Once the coffee was fixed, each of them sat at the table, where they slowly woke up and, eventually, started to help with breakfast. It didn’t take long until they were all sitting around the table with a full breakfast laid out in front of them and another pot of coffee ready.

“So,” Breda said as they ate, “What’s the plan for the day?”

Mustang looked out the window, where the rain could still be seen pouring. “Well, there’s not much we can do here about our mission,” he said. “Fuery, did you get the radio working?”

“Not to my satisfaction,” he said. “I mean, it works, yes, but not as good as it could.”

“Can you make it work as well as you want it to?” Mustang asked.

“Maybe, with the right tools and supplies,” he responded.

Mustang and Hawkeye looked at each other, silent communication passing between them again.

“We’ll see what we can find you,” Hawkeye said. “I’m sure there’s something laying around. If there’s nothing in the house, there might be something in the barn.”

“If you can get that repaired, then we’ll use that as our primary means of updates on the weather and the train station.” Mustang said.

“What about calling the station?” Breda asked.

Hawkeye shook her head. “There was never a phone installed here. Father saw no need, and we didn’t have the money for something like that. I didn’t see the need after he died, as I didn’t plan to stay here for long.”

Breda nodded, and Havoc supposed that made sense.

“Havoc, will you take care of the horses?” Mustang asked.

“Sure thing, Boss. Although if anyone else has experience, it might not be a bad thing to have someone else that knows what they’re doing as well.”

“I can help,” Falman said. “I did a few turns taking care of the horses at Briggs.”

“You any good?” Havoc asked.

“The horse master wanted to see about getting me transferred down there,” Falman said.

Havoc raised an eyebrow. “Alright, good enough for me.”

“Okay, so that’s settled. As for the rest of us…” Mustang shook his head. “Well just do as we need to. There’s plenty to read, and always work to do. We’ll figure it out. However,” he said, “when what needs to be taken care of this morning is taken care of, we can dive into the intel that we were given, see what we can learn.”

“We can go head and pool what knowledge we have and get something of a plan in place for when we do get there,” Hawkeye said. “It can’t hurt anyway.”

Breda grunted. “That’s true enough. And it’ll certainly be something more productive then just sitting around reading random books. No offence, Falman.”

“None take, sir.”

“What chores and the like need to be done?” Mustang asked.

Hawkeye considered for a moment. “Well, our uniforms need washing, and the boots demucking. That will take a while. Sir,” she turned to Mustang. “I need you to check for some things for me in the basement.”

He looked at her with a bit of concern in his eyes, obviously willing, but, again, the basement brought up something bad, just like the last time they had been here. Hawkeye obviously wasn’t willing to go down in it still. Havoc couldn’t help but wonder, once again, just what it might be.

“Of course, Captain,” he said. “Just let me know what it is you need.”

“Just to check for some dried herbs and ingredients for me. I’m going to work on something for Havoc’s legs, see if it helps.”

Understanding seemed to bloom in Mustang’s eyes, and he settled down. “Ah, I see.”

“You’re going to what now?” Breda asked.

Hawkeye smiled at him, “Just apply some good country remedies. Hopefully one of them will help. If it helps his legs, it might help your arm as well.”

They had all noticed, but had chosen not to comment on, the way that Breda seemed to be favoring one arm. It was the one with the elbow he had broken, and Havoc knew that it was giving him trouble as well.

Breda still looked a bit surprised. “If it works, I’ll give it a try,” he said. “You I trust. Him,” he pointed to Havoc with his fork, “not so much.”

“Gee, thanks,” Havoc deadpanned. “See who makes sure there’s enough coffee for you next time.”

“Alright, so, I’m going to look for herbs for the captain. And the rest of you?” Mustang said, interrupting the play argument before it could get started.

“I’ll go check on the horses,” Havoc said, “And Falman can come with me.” Falman nodded his agreement.

“I’ll be working on that radio,” Fuery said. “Although it would be good if someone could show me where theses spare parts might be.”

“I can show you here in the house,” Hawkeye said, and Fuery nodded.

“So that just leaves the dishes and the uniforms,” Havoc said, and shot a grin Breda’s way.

Breda pulled a face. “Oh no. I’m not doing all of that alone!”

Luckily for him, Hawkeye came to his rescue. “I’ll help you,” she said. “It’s my house, and besides, I’m sure that Fuery needs some time to decide what he needs.”

Fuery nodded. “Yes, sir, I do,” he said. “So, it’ll be a while yet.”

“I can help you in the meantime,” Hawkeye reassured him, and Breda seemed somewhat mollified.

Breakfast didn’t last much longer after that, and they all finished and then cleaned up their places. Breda and Hawkeye set about putting away any extra food and cleaning the dishes. Anyone, they all knew, could wash dishes, so after Riza gave him a rundown of where things went in the kitchen, she left him to it to start on the uniforms.

Havoc and Falman pulled on their muddy boots from the day before, and their coats, and headed out the backdoor towards the barn, not only with instructions to see to the horses, but to bring back anything useful from the barn or the shed. Havoc was still a little concerned about that shed and the chemicals in it, but he couldn’t deny that Hawkeye seemed to know what she was doing—not after she had somehow miraculously saved the pot that Havoc would have sworn up and down Mustang had ruined. He was highly suspicious that she wanted him to bring back in a number of those.

Well, if the house blew up, at least the rain would put out any fires.

Falman, it turned out, was very good with horses. Something about his demeanor seemed to sooth the animals, and they let him do almost anything. The two men both mucked out the stalls, laid fresh hay, and then fed them. After that, they poked around the barn to see if there was anything useful in it.

“Sir?” Falman said from one of the corners. “What about this cart?”

“Hm?” Havoc walked over to him. “Oh that. Hawkeye said last time that she used to take that to town with her when she knew that she’d need to pick up a lot of materials or supplies. She said that sometimes she tied her goat to it to pull, and sometimes she just pulled it herself.”

“She pulled it herself?” Falman said, sounding a bit incredulous. “All the way to town?”

“That’s what she said.” Havoc repeated.

Falman fell quiet, thinking for a moment. “Sir…” he said carefully. “About the captain. Some of the things she says about living here, or the ways that she acts—”

“I know exactly what you mean, but you need to drop it,” Havoc said sharply. “Even when we were here last time, I learned very little solid facts. I just had snippets and conjecture to go off of. If Hawkeye wants us to know, then she’ll tell us. Other than that, it’s best not to say anything.”

Falman nodded. “Understood, sir,” And, bless him, Havoc believed that he did. Falman was a good man. He understood when to back off and not to push.

They did manage to collect a few things that they thought would do Fuery some good and put them in the spare basket that Hawkeye had given them. After that they stopped by the shed, and Havoc got to watch the wonder and the fear of this shed creep into Falman’s eyes. After all, a lot of these chemicals could be dangerous if they broke down or were too old.

All Havoc could do was shrug and load some up into the basket. “Hawkeye seems to think they’re safe,” he said, and that seemed to be the end of that.

By the time that they got back inside, both Breda and Hawkeye had moved on from cleaning the kitchen. It was clean and ready to go. Remembering Mustang’s warning about a child Hawkeye hitting him with a mop when he tracked dirt in, they headed straight to the washroom to remove their boots and hang up their coats. Riza and Breda were in there, Breda working on cleaning up their boots, Riza working on the clothes.

“Hate to say, but we brought you some more work,” Havoc said as they walked in.

“Oh, good,” Breda said sarcastically. “Riza, not to question you, but our boots are just going to get muddy again. What’s the point of cleaning them?”

“It’ll get the worst of it off,” she said. “And it’ll keep them from getting so mucked up.” She looked at him. “You know the dangers of letting a boot get too wet.”

“Yeah, but that’s for marches, not taking the boots on and off,” he pointed out.

“Still. Better to keep them clean—and you know it, Lieutenant,” she said, although there was a bit of a tease in her voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, pulling a slight face at the work.

“How were the horses?” Riza asked. “And did you find anything?”

“We found several things that Fuery might find useful,” Falman said “and we retrieved a few bottles of chemicals for you, Captain.”

Riza smiled at them. “Thank you.”

“The horses were fine,” Havoc said. “A little ancy because of the weather, but fine overall.” He shifted, his legs just constantly aching in this weather. “I can’t blame them much for that, to be honest.”

“Hopefully this rain will let up soon,” Hawkeye said. “And then we can all leave.”

“We were lucky that you had this house we could stay in, though,” Falman said.

“Yes, I suppose so,” she murmured.

“We’ll leave the chemicals on the kitchen table, yeah?” Havoc said, “And then take these parts to Fuery.”

“Alright,” Hawkeye said. “I’ll tend to them later.”

Havoc gave her a wave, and he and Falman exited the small room, leaving Hawkeye and Breda working. It didn’t take long to unload the chemicals on the table.

“What’s the captain going to do with these?” Falman asked as they put them on the table.

“I don’t know,” Havoc said, “but the last time we were here Mustang ruined a pot trying to cook something. I thought for sure that the pot was done for. But Hawkeye brought in some of the chemicals, did something to the pot for a few days, and then somehow, amazingly, she managed to clean off whatever it was that the general had done.”

Falman didn’t look terribly impressed, but Havoc pushed his point. “I’m not kidding, Falman. It was black and burned and there was smoke coming out of it. I don’t know what he managed to burn that bad. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pot or anything burned quite that badly. Trust me, you don’t want to let him cook.”

“The general is an accomplished alchemist,” Falman said. “Surely he can do something like simple cooking.”

“You’d think he could,” Havoc said. “But trust me, he can’t.”

Falman seemed to take his words into consideration but didn’t comment more on them. Instead, they finished unloading the chemicals and took the pieces to Fuery, who had the big radio pulled out and the back of it off.

“How’s it looking?” Havoc asked.

“Not unfixable, but it’s not going to be easy, especially without some of the proper parts. But I think I can make do. General’s volunteered to make some of the parts I need, if he can.”

“Well, that’s handy,” Havoc said.

“Yeah, I’ve got him looking though one of the technical manuals I brought with me so that he’ll have an idea of what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, giving the General orders now,” Havoc teased.

Fuery looked up from his work and grinned. “Well, when he asks what he can do…”

Havoc laughed. “I get that. Alright, keep working—maybe we’ll get more than scratchy ballroom music at some point.”

“Here’s hoping, sir!”

There wasn’t too much more to do after that, except clean up a little more. Falman went off to read, and Havoc, needing something to do, decided that he might as well go ahead and start working on lunch for everyone. True, it hadn’t been terribly long since breakfast, but it did take a while to prep things for six people plus one dog. He moved some of Hawkeye’s chemicals from the counter back to the table—who had moved those? —and got to work preparing the vegetables for what he hoped was going to be a good meal.

The finishing of chores and the smell of cooking food eventually brought everyone out from their jobs. Hawkeye and Breda had finally finished the uniforms, which were now drying in the washroom, and Fuery took a break from the radio, with Hawkeye promising to show him around the house a bit more to see if there was anything else he could use. Mustang complained about the technical manuals, and Hawkeye teased him about not complaining about paperwork any longer. They all enjoyed lunch together, and, after it, Breda took care of cleaning up the washroom while Mustang went to look around the basement. Hawkeye showed Fuery the attic and Falman went outside to make some observations. Havoc took care of the kitchen. By the time the afternoon rolled around, everyone was either finished with their chores or ready to take a break. They all moved into the living room where there was more space and the warmth from the fireplace. Fuery still had his radio to tinker with as well, which kept the younger man quite happy.

“Alright, before we start, status update. Fuery, the radio,” Mustang said.

“I’m working on her sir. She’s an older model and I don’t have access to parts, but I think with your help and some of the things I’ve found around here I should be able to get her working well by this afternoon. Of course, she’d work better with an antenna, but we don’t have one and it would be dangerous to put one up in this weather.”

Mustang frowned but seemed to put a pin in that idea. “Keep working, Fuery. I’m sure you’ll get it.” He turned his attention to Falman. “Weather report, Falman?”

“Yes, sir,” Falman said. “I went out and made some observations. Without the proper tools I couldn’t be sure of several things, but there is a still a wind coming out of the west and the clouds appear to be low-hanging cumulus and still saturated with rain. It’s still as unusual as it was back in Central, sir, and it doesn’t show any signs of letting up. However, they do appear to be mostly rain clouds and not necessarily storm clouds, which does make a difference.”

“Right,” Mustang said. “Havoc? The horses.”

“They’re doing fine, sir,” Havoc drawled. “A little ancy, but that’s to be expected in weather like this. We’ve got enough supplies to keep them for a couple of more days, but then we’d probably want to see about taking them and the wagon back. When we do, I suggest we take that small cart with us, and we can load it up with anything we need and pull it back.”

Mustang nodded. “Hawkeye? The house?”

“Seems mostly as we left it,” she said.

“Mostly?” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she said. “I do hire someone to come in, check on things, and make sure there’s basic upkeep, so anything that seems a bit out of place is probably due to him.”

“I wondered why this place was in so good of shape, considering no on lived here,” Havoc said.

“Yes, well, I had thought about just abandoning it to its fate, but… well, it’s always good to have a backup,” she said.

“It worked out well for us, at least,” Breda said.

“But the house and all seem fine to you,” Mustang pushed.

“Yes,” she said. “Everything seems to be in order.”

“Good.” Mustang nodded at Breda, a bit of a smirk touching his lips. “And the state of the laundry?”

Havoc heard Breda mumble something under his breath, but he couldn’t catch what it was. “It’s fine, sir. Clean and drying out. Hopefully we won’t get that muddy again anytime soon.”

“Maybe,” was all Mustang said in response to that, and moved on. “Alright, you all have your files, correct?” Five heads nodded at him, and one tail wagged. “Good. Let’s go over what we know.” He flipped open his file.

“This is yet another society formed after the Promised Day. It’s very secretive and very hard to find. If it was just about being secret, we wouldn’t have had any problems with it. However, there have recently been attacks that have been traced back to what the local authorities are calling the Spark. Apparently, people in the area haven’t been overly happy with the government, and this group is trying to spark some sort of conflict or knowledge to life.”

He flipped the page. “There’s several photographs of areas that they’ve attacked or been spotted at,” he said, taking the photos out and passing them around. “Unfortunately, the perpetrators themselves are never caught at the area.”

“How do we know that these are all the same group?” Breda asked. “It could be several different groups of people that the local authorities are blaming on one group.”

“That’s true,” Mustang said. “However, there is other evidence that links to this group. Unfortunately, it’s circumstantial at best, supposition at worst.”

“If it’s that unclear, then how come we’re being sent on this mission?” Havoc asked.

“We’re being sent because it’s unclear,” Mustang said, “And because of our expertise in dealing with alchemists.”

“There’s alchemy involved?” Havoc asked.

Mustang nodded. “One of the signs that has been seen at every crime scene are signs of alchemy. It’s a very good, very specific kind of alchemy. It’s almost impossible to spot if you’re not directly looking for it and covers its tracks very well.”

He pulled more papers out of the folder and passed them around. “This is Herman Stitue. He was an alchemist that specialized in Alchemy that was difficult to see, mostly for the restoration of objects, buildings, and other places like that. Fifteen months ago, he disappeared, and all of his research was stolen. Seven months ago, his body was found. Six months ago, these alchemic incidents that were covered up started happening. It’s suspected that he was kidnapped along with his research and made to train this group.”

Hawkeye seemed to tense up a bit at that, and Havoc wondered why. Sure, part of it, he knew, probably had to do with the General’s flame alchemy. It was a very secretive, very specialized form of alchemy itself. But this seemed to be a bit more than that. Maybe she was worried about Mustang getting taken on this mission too?

“In fact, when the disappearances of other alchemists were looked into, similar circumstances began to emerge. Investigations has been tracking this one for a while, as it seems that it’s mostly been alchemists with very unique or secretive forms of alchemy that have disappeared. This is the first real lead that has been discovered, and the Fuhrer decided it was best to send us on this mission.”

No one seemed willing to address the elephant in the room, so Havoc, as usual, bit the bullet and did it himself.

“Begging your pardon, General, but doesn’t it seem a bit risky sending you in? After all, Flame Alchemy isn’t exactly well known, and you yourself have the hands-free alchemy going on now. Seems like you’d be a prime target.”

“I know,” Mustang said, and glanced at Hawkeye, who seemed to be sitting very straight, clearly not happy with this turn of events, but also clearly having foreknowledge of it. “But that’s part of the point. It’s hopeful that my presence will draw them out and that we’ll be able to find and apprehend them more directly.”

He closed the folder. “It’ll be dangerous, but if we can ever get there, it’ll be worth it.”

“Yeah, well, first we have to get there,” Breda said. He looked out the front window, which someone had opened the curtains to, for whatever reason. “But that’s not going to happen any time soon, it looks like.”

“Alright. Then the question becomes, what do we do in the meantime?” Mustang asked.

“Not get wet,” Breda suggested, and Havoc rolled his eyes.

“We have enough supplies to stay here for a few days,” Riza said. “We can stay longer if I go hunting.”

“If we go hunting,” Havoc said. “I’m pretty good too.”

Riza conceded that with a nod. “You know how to dress a kill too, don’t you?”

“Of course. You got a place to do it? It won’t be good to do it in the barn with the horses.”

“No, that won’t work. It’ll make them too skittish. I used to just do it in the backyard, but with all this mud that won’t work.”

“I’d say your shed, but there’s too many chemicals in there to make me comfortable.”

“Mm, true, and it’s not very big.”

“What about the chicken coop? If Mustang can fix it up like he did that gazebo.”

“That might work.”

“Alright then! What kinds of things can we hunt around here?”

“Well, I’ve let the land grow wild, so probably a decent verity. Squirrels, rabbits, things like that obviously, but there should be some deer too.”

“That sounds good. Hey—ever get any waterfowl on that pond?”

“Okay—” Mustang interrupted them. “So, Hawkeye and Havoc are going to go hunting. What else?”

“Well, sir, if someone else doesn’t mind getting a bit dirty, there’s always the orchard and whatever is growing out there, and the old garden plot. Could be some vegetables still growing wild.” Hawkeye said. “I don’t mind taking care of it all, but that is something that someone else can do.”

“I can do it,” Falman volunteered. “I’ve been reading over some of the herbology books as well and I think that I might be able to identify other useful plants. I’ll be out anyway making my observations on the weather, so if I do it, no one else has to worry about being out in the rain.”

Mustang nodded. “Good.”

“I’ll keep working on the radio,” Fuery said. “And, when I’m finished, if there’s anything else that needs repairs or fixing, I can always take a look at that. Otherwise, just point me where I’m needed, sir.”

Mustang nodded. “We’ll probably take you up on that, Fuery.”

“I’ll help out with whatever needs to be helped out with around here,” Breda said, “but I’m also going to be working on these files. I want to be as prepared as possible for it, when we actually go.”

“Good,” Mustang said. “I’ll work on it too. We can discuss it. But I’ll also be on standby for any help that might be needed. If we can make it easier with my alchemy, then I’m more than happy to help.”

Hayate stood up and barked from where he was next to Hawkeye, his tail wagging.

“Ah, yes, good, Second Lieutenant Hayate,” Mustang said. “You’ll take guard duty. Excellent.”

“At least the pooch is being useful,” Breda muttered. He had a truce with the dog, but it was obvious to anyone that he was still not overly comfortable with him.

“For downtime, you’re welcome to make use of the library,” Hawkeye offered. “Or explore the grounds, if you want. Just please stay out of the study and unoccupied bedroom on the second floor, and the basement.”

That was at least twice she had mentioned for them to stay away from the basement and Havoc couldn’t help but wonder why. There hadn’t been anything special about it that he had seen when he was down there, except that it looked more like a lab then a basement, including a large table with a bright light over it. Maybe it was some alchemy thing, like telling them to stay out of her father’s study. He didn’t know, but Havoc had to admit that he was curious.

The rest of the day went fairly peacefully. Havoc and Hawkeye talked hunting strategies, and the best places to find things. Fuery worked on the radio, getting Mustang to help him make some parts. Dinner time rolled around, and they paused to eat, and then with some unspoken agreement, sat down their work after that and retired to the living room.

Havoc was glad to see that someone had closed the living room curtains, although he hadn’t recalled anyone doing it, cutting off the sight of the pouring rain and adding a layer between the window and ever-present chill the rain seemed to bring.

Fuery kept working on the radio, almost finished with it, and Havoc laid in the floor, stretching out his legs. Falman was in a chair, absorbed in a book, and Mustang and Hawkeye were on the couch, seemingly reading the same book, although Havoc was sure it was just an excuse to be close. Although, looking at them sitting there, a blanket pulled over their laps as they looked at a book, Havoc couldn’t help but wonder if he was looking at a picture of a younger Roy and Riza, sitting on the couch, reading, as children.

“Hey,” Breda had gotten up and come over to him. “Com’on.”

Havoc knew what Breda was talking about, and he laid on his back, lifting his legs up in the air. Breda pressed down on them, and they ran through some of the exercises that Havoc had gone through in Physical Therapy. While he no longer actually needed the exercises for his legs, as he had built up all of his former strength, it was still good to go through them. They felt good to his legs and sometimes they helped him sleep better as well. Breda knew the exercises well, as he had been with Havoc for a lot of his recovery, egging and pushing him on.

They were partway through this, when Fuery suddenly let out a satisfied noise, and all attention turned towards him.

“I think she’s fixed!” he said, and went to the front, fiddling with the nobs. He turned her on, and they all waited to see what the radio would bring. To everyone’s happy surprise, and Fuery’s eternal satisfaction, the radio seemed to find a station in all of the rain and began to play it.

“—was ‘The Xingese Sandman’ sung by Anette Hanshaw. And now we bring you an hour of your favorite instrumentals to dance along to. Find your girl, fellas, and hold her tight as you dance the night away with these favorites!”

“Hey, good job, Fuery!” Havoc said.

“See if you can find some news on somewhere,” Mustang instructed. “Or some sort of weather update.”

“Yes, sir,” Fuery said, turning the dial.

He switched through various channels, trying to find something, and Havoc couldn’t help but notice the way that Hawkeye and Mustang would give each other looks when they landed on the music stations. These two were just getting worse and worse at hiding this, weren’t they?

Ah well. It wasn’t like anyone here was going to rat them out. And maybe, just maybe, Grumman could do something about it. Havoc had seen the way he eyed the two of them. He wanted them to get together just as much as anyone else did.

Finally, Fuery landed on a station, and they listened as the news played out. There were, apparently, torrential rains over most of the country. Up north it had turned to freezing rain, and there were reports that even Drachma was having to shut down several things on account of it. There was widespread flooding, and stranded passengers from washed out tracks and roads. The military was as mobilized as it could be, but with the problems in transportation, there was only so much that could be done. Most places were simply working with what they had.

Mustang looked a bit grim as the news went off. “That doesn’t sound too good,” he said.

“It sounds like we’re going to be stuck here a while,” Breda said. “Means our chance might slip away.”

“Or they might be as bogged down as we are.” Mautang looked over at Havoc and Falman. “When were you planning on taking the horses and the cart back?” he asked.

“In about two more days,” Havoc said. “Why?”

“Well, I left word for Grumman about where we were and what happened, but it would probably be a good idea to check in. I might go with you,” he said.

“It’s too bad we don’t have a phone here,” Havoc said. “Then you wouldn’t have to leave.”

“Um, well, if someone in town is selling one, I could hook it up,” Fuery said. Eyes immediately swiveled to him. “It wouldn’t be too hard. I’d just need the phone itself and some cable. There’s already electricity in place, so there’s poles to run the phone wires on. And I think there was a place we passed that had a phone line, so it would really only be running it from there. It’s nothing I’ve not done before.”

Mustang frowned. “But in this weather?” he asked.

“Well, it’s not thundering and lightening, so it’s just the rain and wind I’d have to watch out for, which isn’t as dangerous.” Fuery said.

Mustang looked at Hawkeye, who nodded.

“Alright,” he said. “When we go into town, you come too and see if you can find what you need.”

“Can do, sir!” he said.

Havoc, meanwhile, had gone back to his stretches, grimacing a bit, and Hawkeye had taken note.

“Are your legs still hurting you?” she asked him.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll probably be up again tonight.”

She looked at Breda. “And your elbow.”

“Yeah,” he said, removing his hand from it as she spoke, like a little kid caught by a parent.

She frowned. “Sir,” she said, turning to look at Mustang. “Did you get those herbs I asked for?”

“I did,” he said. “They’re in the dining room.”

“Good,” she said, and got up, leaving the men behind. She came back a few minutes later with a pestle and mortar, and several different kinds of herbs and flowers and dried things that Havoc would have probably chalked up as “weeds.”

Falman was looking at it, intrigued. “What are you doing, Captain?” he asked.

“Well,” she said. “It’s a poultice I used to make as a girl, when my own limbs would ache. It’s not perfect and it’s not as strong as a lot of medicines, but it does well in that gap between “nothing” and “medicine that leaves me compromised.” Her hands were deftly working, almost as if they were moving on their own accord. She clearly knew what she was doing.

Havoc watched her and he and Breda continued to exercise and Fuery put the back on the radio again. Falman had moved next to her, and she was explaining what she was doing in very detailed language that Havoc honestly didn’t understand or could hope to understand. All he knew was that she was grinding things up in that little bowl and then adding things to it, making a poultice that would, hopefully, help him.

“Where’d you learn to do all of these things, Captain?” Fuery asked, and Havoc could see Mustang tense at the question.

“Oh, here and there,” she said. “From books, and from a few of the older ladies in town,” She paused, did something, and then went back to work. “Doctor’s visits were expensive, especially for minor things that could heal on their own, so I learned to take care of as much as I could myself. I’m hoping that this will help. As I said, I used it myself when my own limbs would ache.”

“Growing pains?” Fuery asked, but he sounded fairly confident in his answer.

“No,” Riza said, surprising them all. “I would typically use them after a hard day of cleaning, or cutting wood when I was a little bit older, or any other manner of physical stress, but it was also effective after father’s discipline.”

She said it like it was nothing, but Havoc couldn’t help but notice the tightening of Mustang’s lips, or the way the other men seemed to pause.

“…you mean like after that thrashing you said your dad gave you when you broke that dish?” Havoc asked, wondering if he could get a little more information.

Hawkeye let out a snort. “I wish I had this then. But I was five. I didn’t know about it yet. Besides, I understand why he was so upset.”

That didn’t make Havoc any more comfortable, but it was clear from Mustang’s look that Havoc—and the rest of them—weren’t to pursue. Instead, he changed the subject. “That’s the same stuff you gave me after that fight with Henry Thompson, isn’t it?”

“It is,” she confirmed. “And it helped, didn’t it?”

“It did,” he said. “It really did. I definitely was hurting then.”

“I’d say that it should have taught you not to pick a fight with someone bigger than you, or a larger group, but it didn’t do any good for that.”

“Hey—I couldn’t let them just push you around like that!”

“I’d have been fine. They pushed me around before and I always came out of it okay.”

“It wasn’t right.”

“Neither was you getting your face bashed in. You’re just lucky I got help and found that slingshot.”

Mustang laughed. “You took us all by surprise with those marbles and that slingshot.”

She looked up at him, amusement on her face. “Well, someone had to do something effective,” she teased. “You certainly weren’t.”

Before he could say anything more, Hawkeye got up, taking the bowl with her. “I need to add some water to this. I’ll be back in a minute.”

She got up and left and the men watched her leave the room before eyes slid back towards Mustang.

“It’s the captain’s private life, and I’ll let her decide what to tell you and what not to,” he said.

The men exchanged looks but didn’t say anything else.

Soon after Hawkeye walked back into the room with the bowl, it being full of something that smelled good and seemed, well, goopy.

“Here,” she said, handing it to Havoc. “Try this tonight after your shower. It should help, I hope. I’ve never tried it on something like this, specifically, but it’s worked on other aches and pains before. It’s worth a shot.” She looked at Breda. “I made enough for you to have some too, Breda,” she said. “It should work on your elbow as well.”

“Thanks,” he said, looking a little surprised. “I’ll try it out.”

“If it doesn’t work, let me know. I might can find something different. It just might take a little trial and error.”

Havoc was sniffing at it. “Huh. Maybe you should have become the local witch woman instead, Riza,” he teased.

“You hush,” she said. “There’s nothing magical about it. It’s just a knowledge of herbs and other plants.”

He just grinned at her.

It wasn’t long after that they all began retiring to bed. The showers had to be taken in stages, although Mustang was good at reheating the water for them. Havoc opted to go last, and so stayed downstairs for a bit longer, leafing through a book he had found. Hayate was down there with him, seemingly taking his guard duties seriously, padding in front of the doors and sniffing around, although he seemed to like sniffing around that basement door the most. It was almost enough to make Havoc want to open it and go back down there.

“Yo, Hav, your turn!”

Breda’s voice traveled back down the stairs, and Havoc turned from his musings. “Yeah, coming,” he said. He left his wanderings downstairs with his book and headed up the stairs to take his shower. It didn’t take him long to shower, and soon he was in the room with the stuff that Hawkeye had made for him. He looked at it, until Breda griped at him.

“Just try it already,” he said. “I’ve already put some on my elbow and it seems to help. It’s worth a shot.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Havoc replied. He scooped a bit out of the bowl it was in and started rubbing it on his legs and lower back. It soaked in like a lotion or oil would and he found it did start to help after a few minutes. “Wow,” he said blinking at the poultice. “Alright.”

“Yeah,” Breda said. “Whodathunk that Hawkeye would be a freaking herb lady.”

“Yeah,” Havoc said, and frowned a bit.

“Hey,” Breda waited until Havoc was looking at him. “What did you mean by that question you asked Hawkeye earlier? About a thrashing.”

Havoc frowned. “When we were here last time, I asked her about a broken dish. She said that she had tried to look at it as a child and broke it, and that her father gave her, her ‘first thrashing’.”

Breda frowned. “First thrashing?” he said.

“That’s what she said,” Havoc said. “She never really explained it more than that, and I didn’t think it best to push. Besides…” he frowned more. “She didn’t seem to think that it was a big deal, either, which… I’ll be honest, concerned me.”

Breda frowned, clearly starting to piece some things together. “Hav… what was she like the last time you were here?”

Havoc was silent for a moment. “…not good. She wasn’t doing well here. This place seemed to hold a lot of bad memories for her,” he said honestly.

“Anything in particular?” Breda asked.

Havoc’s brow furrowed. “Only one particular thing stood out to me. She wouldn’t go in the basement.”

Breda’s frown deepened. “She didn’t want to go down to it earlier, either,” Breda said. “Asked Mustang to go down there for her.”

“Yeah,” Havoc said. “When we were searching, she refused to go down into the basement. Mustang and I went down there, but she didn’t.”

He wasn’t going to mention how she had turned pale at it and then disappeared, having a breakdown on the roof of the house. It seemed like a private moment, and not something that she would want to spread to her men. She trusted them a lot, but Hawkeye had her pride.

Breda grunted, thinking, and then sighed. “Well. It’s not our business, unless it becomes our business. We might as well see if we can get any sleep tonight.”

“Yeah,” Havoc said, pulling back the blankets. “Night, Breda.”

Breda grunted, and nothing more was said.

Havoc slept better that night, although he still woke early with his legs still hurting him. The longer the rain went on, the worse it seemed to get. Still, he pushed on. Morning went as mornings did, with him, Hawkeye, and Fuery the first ones up. They worked on breakfast, and everyone stumbled down the stairs and to the coffeepot before they all settled in for breakfast. Riza worked on the kitchen while Havoc and Falman went out and tended to the horses. Then, rain gear on, Havoc and Riza went out to get the lay of the land. Getting lucky they managed to kill a few things for their hunt, and set a few traps, but they mostly found good places where they could probably bag a few deer.

They spent at least half the day out there, looking over places and tracks. There were a few human tracks that Havoc spotted, but Hawkeye reassured him that she allowed hunting on her land, since it was one of the few areas where the woods were allowed to grow wild. It was probably another hunter thinking about the fact that there wasn’t going to be much food coming via the trains or the roads anytime soon. Havoc couldn’t blame them for that.

They returned to the house muddy, but with a plan for the next day, and stripped out of their muddy clothes in the washroom before heading up for showers. Havoc let Hawkeye go first, taking care of their boots while she was showering, and then taking his turn.

Not long after that was lunch, and then they all started going over the information that Breda and Mustang had laid out. They put together a few more theories and ideas on what could be going on, but there was truthfully not much more they could do.

The next couple of days were much of the same. Hawkeye and Havoc got up early the next day, went hunting, and came back with a couple of dear which they spent the rest of the day preparing. Falman found and harvested some food from the orchard trees and from the remains of the old vegetable garden while making his observations. Fuery worked on things around the house, improving them or just outright fixing them. Mustang and Breda helped out where they could—except no one allowed Mustang in the kitchen after another near disaster that was only averted because of Breda’s quick thinking.

Although the days passed with a slow pace, all of them felt the urgency that was needed for their travel to continue. Finally, the horses were out of hay, and it was decided that the next day they would need to go back into town. Havoc was set to drive the wagon, as he was the most experienced out of them all, and the roads were still nothing but muck. Unfortunately, when Havoc woke up that morning, he was in a great deal of pain. His legs were aching more than normal and he winced as he sat up, relying more on his arms then anything else.

“Hey—Hav, you alright?” Breda asked him. The movement must have woken him.

“…. There’s… a lot of pain this morning,” Havoc said as he attempted to stand with some stability.

Thunder crashed overhead, and Breda looked up. “I wonder if that’s why,” he said. Concern creased his forehead “Hey—you lay back down, alright? You look like you could use it.”

Havoc wasn’t one to typically give in, but today the pain was pretty severe, and he laid back down in the bed with a grimace. “Yeah,” he said a bit breathlessly. “Yeah, I think I will.”

“Guess you won’t be making it to town today, huh?” Breda said.

“Nah, I’m afraid not. Probably best for me to take one of those pain pills and just not do much today. Sorry.”

Breda shook his head. “You can’t help it. I’ll let the others know.”

“Yeah… I’ll try to make it down in a bit.”

“Okay.”

Breda dressed then, and left, heading down the stairs. Havoc could hear the movement and the voices of the others as they woke and moved around, getting their day started. He grimaced. He felt useless, but there really wasn’t much that he could do about it. When he was in this much pain, there wasn’t much he could do at all, except sleep it off.

He let himself doze, at least until he heard some footsteps, and a knock at the door.

“Yeah?” he said, automatically starting to push up, and then aborting that when pain flared through his lower back.

Hawkeye appeared at the door, a tray for eating in bed in her hands. Havoc suddenly remembered that she had cared for her father near the end of his life, and he wondered if maybe she had used trays like that when he needed to eat.

“Heard that you’re feeling pretty bad today.” Thunder rumbled again, and she grimaced. “Think it’s the change in the weather?”

Havoc shrugged, and pulled himself to more of a sitting position, bracing himself through the pain. “Not sure. I wouldn’t be surprised, but all I know is that I’m in a lot of pain today.”

“Well, hopefully you can eat a little,” she said. “I brought you some breakfast.”

“You’re the best, Ri,” he said, shooting her a grin. He waited until she approached and noted the way that she settled the tray on his lap like a pro, and then set about making sure that things were in easy reach for him, almost without even thinking about it. “So, what’s the plan for the day?”

“The others are still going to go to town. Falman thinks he can drive the wagon, and if not, then between the four of them, they should be able to figure it out,” she said. “The General wants to call Headquarters and check in, Fuery wants to see about getting a phone set up, Falman thinks he’ll be able to take care of the wagon and the horses, and Breda has to ‘get out of this house’ or he’s ‘going to go stir crazy’,” she said with a grin.

Havoc laughed, but then gave her a sympathetic look. “Hey, Riza, if you want to go—” He felt a little bad about making her stay behind, and so he couldn’t help but make the offer.

But she shook her head. “No, I’m going to stay right here,” she said. “I had enough of the rain and muck when we were hunting. Besides—It’ll be easier to get some of the cleaning down without you men tromping around everywhere,” she teased.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You just want some peace and quiet to yourself.” He teased her right back.

She laughed. “Maybe so. But even with that, if you need anything, just call.”

He shook his head. “Honestly? I’m going to take one of those strong pills and probably try to sleep this off. Although if someone could snag me a book or two that would be great.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Riza said with a smile. “I’ll be back in a bit to get that. You just rest up.”

“Yeah, sure,” he said. “Thanks, Riza.”

She just smiled at him, and then left the room.

Havoc started eating, listening to the sounds going on down below him. He wished he was down there with them, but his legs ached like mad when he moved them, much less tried to get up. Riza came back for the tray, and Breda came back up later to finish dressing. He brought Havoc a stack of books and promised to look for something more his speed in town. Havoc pulled a face at him, but thanked him nonetheless, and got Breda to help him up and to the bathroom once before he left. Once he was settled back in bed, he took one of those little pills, and then listened as he heard the others leave. The pill did it’s work and, as he fell asleep, the last things he heard were the sounds of Hawkeye turning on the radio and getting to work downstairs.

The pills always sacked him out hard for a few hours, so Havoc wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he heard the noise of the others coming back in. They were being noisy, and something about it had Havoc trying to shake himself out of his drug-induced fog. He blinked, trying to focus and wake up. They seemed to be… calling for someone?... Riza? They were calling for Hawkeye? That didn’t make sense. He heard footsteps coming up the stairs, and then making their way around the rooms. That was confusing as well, and he tried to make sense of it, at least until Breda opened the door.

“Hey—you seen Hawkeye?” he asked.

Havoc shook his head. “Naw. I was asleep until just now.”

“Hm,” Breda said.

Havoc was waking up more now. “Why?” he asked.

“She’s not down there. Could she be out hunting or something?” Breda asked.

Havoc forced the sleep away as best he could, and sat up fully, ignoring the pain he felt. “She shouldn’t be,” he said. “Mornings or evening are best, and we’ve got plenty. I don’t even think she’d be checking the traps right now.”

Breda’s frown increased. “Alright. I’m going back downstairs. Something’s not right here.”

“Wait—” Havoc said. He pushed the blankets back and swung his legs out of bed, wincing. “I’m coming too.”

“You sure?” Breda asked, looking a bit concerned.

“Yeah—the pain’s not as bad right now, not with the medicine on board.” Havoc said.

“Alright,” Breda said, but he waited on Havoc to get up and pull on some pants before they both made their way down the stairs together.

Downstairs was not in good shape. Mustang looked grim and didn’t waste any words.

“Her boots and coat are still here,” he said, “and she’s not in any of the outbuildings. There’s no signs of foul play, but that doesn’t mean that there wasn’t any.”

“She’s not upstairs,” Breda said. “I checked all the rooms.”

A dusty Fuery came out from the kitchen. “She’s not in the attic either,” he said. “And no signs of any windows being opened.”

“Hey—where’s Hayate?” Havoc asked, suddenly realizing that the little dog was missing too.

“Maybe outside?” Fuery asked.

“If you’re asking about Hawkeye, she’s not there either,” Falman said, coming in the front door, dripping wet, his back to them as he closed it.

“What about Hayate?” Mustang asked.

Falman turned around. Nestled in his arms was a hopefully asleep Hayate, soaking wet and muddy.

“I found him outside, locked in the chicken coop,” he said. “He seemed to have been drugged.”

“Drugged?” Mustang said. The ramifications of that hit all of them. Hawkeye certainly wasn’t drugging Hayate and putting him outside. That meant that someone else had to have. That also meant that someone could have taken Hawkeye.

But there were no signs of foul play, and she most certainly would have put up a fight.

“…There is one place it doesn’t sound like you’ve checked,” Havoc said, and looked over towards the door that led to the basement.

Mustang paled immediately and turned on his heel to head straight for it. The others followed suit, Falman carefully hurrying to put Hayate down in front of the fireplace before joining them.

Mustang was already at the door, reaching to unlock it. The fact that was locked from the outside might have normally been reassuring, as it would have been impossible for the lock to be locked from the outside if someone was inside but considering that it was clear someone had been in the house, it wasn’t a reassurance anymore.

Mustang threw open the lock and pulled on the door, but the door didn’t budge. He tried again, but it didn’t move. He cursed, throwing the lock back into place, and then clapping and laying his hands on the door. A circle of it fell out, part of the door and part of the door frame, large enough to house the entire locking mechanism. Mustang didn’t even look at it. Instead, he threw the door open and raced down the stairs. The rest of them weren’t far behind him.

The basement was much as they had left it, with the same items around it. The only difference Havoc could see now was that the light over the table was on, and Mustang was trying to talk to Hawkeye, who was crouched in a corner.

No. Wait. She wasn’t crouched. She was curled into it, eyes blown wide, clearly terrified. Havoc glanced at Breda. Neither of them knew what was going on.

“Riza?” Mustang called out to her. “Riza?” he reached for her, and she flinched back.

“N-no!” she said, and there was thick fear coating her voice. “No, no, please! Not again! Not yet!”

“Riza—Riza please, it’s me, it’s Roy.”

“No, no, please, no, don’t, not again, not yet—”

She was pleading with him, begging for something—for something to stop, to not happen again, or to be delayed, and Havoc felt his stomach turn.

“Riza…” Mustang reached a hand towards her, and she closed her eyes and turned away from it, huddling into the wall as much as she could, letting out a sob. Her hands immediately came up to her mouth as if she had said or done something wrong, and she trembled.

“Riza, please! It’s Roy! Come on—” Mustang sounded desperate, and he reached out and touched her. She startled, terror flooding her eyes and suddenly she was moving, scrambling back, finding another place to hide under a desk that was down there. Sobs poured out from under it.

“No, no, Father, please no!” She was out right crying. “It hurts��please Father not again! Let me heal first! Please!”

“Roy—what’s going on here?” Breda asked, moving a step forward. “What’s she talking about?”

“Later,” he said. He glanced back at them. “I’m not putting you off—but we need to get her out of here first.” He turned to look fully at them. “Please.”

It wasn’t the commands of a superior officer. It wasn’t even the words of a leader. It was, instead, the plea of a friend.

“She doesn’t look like she wants to come out of there,” Falman said.

Mustang’s face was distressed. “I know—we’ve got to get her out there. Breda.”

“Yeah.” Breda’s voice was serious, and he moved next to Mustang. With a look at each other, they reached down and grabbed her arms, pulling her out.

Riza screamed as they did, thrashing in their grip. “NO! No Father, please no!” She twisted in their grip, and Havoc couldn’t help but notice that her gaze was fixated on the table that was down there. “Please, please, please, the drink doesn’t work anymore, it hurts, please don’t, don’t use the ropes again, please father no, don’t please!”

She was clearly caught in the full-on throws of a flashback, with no idea what was going on around her anymore. She was in a panic, not seeing anything around her, not fighting so much as reacting, and begging through tears for her father not to do something to her—all of which was… disturbing wasn’t even a strong enough word in Havoc’s opinion. It made him feel sick.

“The stairs,” Mustang said over her cries, and he and Breda hauled her over to them and up, Hawkeye still begging and pleading the whole time.

Fuery followed after them, and after a moment, Falman did too. Havoc brought up the rear, but he couldn’t help but look back at that table. The last time he was down here he had assumed that it was just a table, maybe for doing experiments on. But Hawkeye’s words, her begging, the talking of ropes, and those odd-looking metal loops in the table brought new possibilities to mind. Images of a young Hawkeye being strapped down to that table, tied down on it by her father while he… what? What did he do to her? His mind rebelled against imaginong any further, although dark thoughts of what it could be circled in his head, unacknowledged.

Whatever her father did, though, was traumatizing, and Havoc could feel dread living in his stomach from this. It was clear that Hawkeye had been through something awful at the hands of her father, and that it was more than a one-time event. With a last look at the table, he climbed the stairs, hoping that the situation would be improved when he got up there.

The situation was little improved. Hawkeye was still clearly upset, her cries still going on. She had been taken to the couch, where someone had put a blanket around her. She huddled in it like she was hiding, keeping it pulled closely around her, her back pressed into the couch. Mustang was kneeling in front of her, talking to her. Getting her out of the basement seemed to have done something, though, because she didn’t seem to think that anyone in the room was her father anymore.

Instead, she was upset about Mustang.

“R-Roy?” she said, and he reached out, gently putting his hands on her face.

“Yes, Riza, I’m here. I’m here, Riza.”

She was trembling, and her face crumpled, tears falling. “Roy…”

He smiled at her. “Yes—Yes, I’m here, Riza.”

“You—you came back.”

Havoc watched as understanding and disappointment flickered across Mustang’s face as her words made it clear to all of them that she wasn’t back with them yet, but that she was still caught in the past.

“Yeah. I came back,” he said, apparently deciding that it would be better to play along with this for the moment.

She closed her eyes and let out a sob, leaning into his hand. Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and her hands darted up to grab his wrists. “You—you have to leave! You have to leave! Father doesn’t approve of the military! He’ll kill you! He’ll—” She sounded so certain, so desperate, and Havoc exchanged looks with Breda.

Mustang shook his head. “No. No, I’m not leaving you.” His voice was firm, but there was something that Havoc thought sounded like regret in it.

“But father—” she started.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Mustang said.

Her gaze crumped again. “He’ll never stop looking for me, Roy—you don’t understand! He won’t give up! Not after what he’s done to me!”

“No!” Mustang snapped out the word with fierceness. “No, I promise you, Riza! He can never hurt you again! Never! I’ve made sure of it, and I’ll protect you! I swear it!” He moved quickly, wrapping her up in a fierce hug, holding her tightly as they sat there on the couch.

“…y…you promise?” she said, her voice trembling.

“I promise,” he said. “I swear it, Riza Hawkeye.”

She seemed to fall apart on him there, but they were tears of relief, and she clung to him, sobbing, thanking him, all the while he apologized for not coming sooner.

It was, to an extent, play acting, but Havoc could see clear regret in Mustang’s eyes—he regretted not stopping whatever had happened to Hawkeye sooner, not coming here sooner to save her from whatever it was that her father had done to her. Whatever this was, it went deeper than he had imagined.

The team still hovered, none of them sure of what, exactly, to do, and yet none of them wanting to leave Hawkeye’s side. Hawkeye’s tears eventually calmed, although it was because she fell asleep on Mustang, having cried herself to sleep under his reassurances that he wasn’t going to leave her.

Fuery was the first to speak. “…is she going to be alright?” he asked softly.

The room seemed to hold its breath.

“I don’t know,” Mustang finally said, which was not an answer any of them wanted to hear. “But I’m not leaving her. I promised her I wouldn’t.”

That much was pretty clear, Havoc thought, and to be honest, no one looked like they wanted to try moving him from the couch anyway—not when they could still see Hawkeye’s tear stained face and the way that she clung to him even in her sleep. Not when they could hear the echoes of her screams and sobs.

“What happened to her?” Falman asked and looked as if he immediately regretted saying it out loud, even if it was what they all were thinking.

Mustang just looked down at the woman in his arms, and gently stroked her hair. “Something traumatic,” he said. “Something horrifying. But… it’s not mine to tell. I won’t tell it. It’s up to her if she wants to entrust you with it or not. It’s not my decision to make.”

There really wasn’t any arguing with that, and the room fell silent. After a few moments, Fuery got up, and went to the kitchen. Havoc could hear him turning on water and starting to move pots around, clearly starting on supper, even though it didn’t look as if any of them were particularly hungry. Breda got up not long afterwards, and Falman as well. Havoc sat for a few minutes longer, and then he, too, got up and started to wander towards the kitchen. His legs were aching again, but he could at least sit and help cut up vegetables.

He walked solemnly out of the room, intent on heading straight for the kitchen. He paused, though, when he saw Falman and Breda looking at the lock that came from the basement door. It was still sitting where it fell when Mustang has used his alchemy to remove it.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Falman was saying. “I didn’t think it did then either, but I wasn’t as worried about it at that moment as I was about whatever had happened to Hawkeye.”

“No, you’re right,” Breda said, picking it up and looking at it. “It’s locked from both the inside and the outside. The outside makes sense, if someone wanted to keep her in there. But the inside? From the way she was acting, I doubt Hawkeye locked herself in there.”

“So then, how did the inside get locked?”

“That’s the hundred-million-cen question,” Breda said. “The only thing I can think of, is that there’s another way in and out of there.”

“If there is,” Havoc tossed in. “It either wasn’t there when Boss, Hawkeye and I came last time, or it’s extremely well hidden.” He shook his head. “I never saw any sign of a door or other opening down there. And you know Mustang would have mentioned it by now if he knew of one being down there.”

“Yeah,” Breda said, rubbing his chin. “Hey—how old do you think this house is?”

Falman and Havoc both looked around. “I’d guess over a hundred years old,” Havoc said.

“I’d say somewhere around one-hundred fifty, with renovations happening every so often.” Falman said. “Looking at the general style, the heights of door frames, and the way the foundation looks around the outside of the house, that is.”

“Yeah, okay, so, it’s old,” Breda said. “So, here’s a question: Why doesn’t the basement have an outside entrance? Just about every old house I’ve been in has an outside entrance to the basement for anything from coal to potatoes, to just a quick way to get in and out. So, where’s the one that belongs to this house?”

“There… isn’t one,” Havoc said, puzzled.

“Maybe,” Breda said. “Or maybe, there isn’t one now. If there is one and it’s somewhere, or if the remnants of it exist somewhere, then that might be how someone got in, locked the door from both sides, and still got out.”

“We’re going to need to find that, then, and see if we can prove it,” Havoc said.

“I’ll start looking around outside tomorrow,” Falman said.

“I’ll poke around too, if I can,” Havoc said. “I owe it to Hawkeye, at least.”

He felt a little guilty for the whole thing. How long had she been down there while he was sleeping in his bed, passed out from a drug? Had she called out for help? Had she screamed for him? Had whoever this was done something to her? He didn’t know. He didn’t know, because he had been sleeping instead of being up and facing the day like he was supposed to.

Pain be hung, he wasn’t going to let that interfere with his ability to be around or help his friends anymore. If he had to put up with pain so that they didn’t, then he would. He honestly never wanted to see Hawkeye in that position again, not if he could help it.

Breda seemed to sense what he was thinking and clasped his hands on Havoc’s shoulders. “Hey,” he said. “This wasn’t your fault, okay? You didn’t know and you couldn’t know. And taking that pill because your legs were in pain is not a bad thing. This was unpredicted. Don’t blame yourself.”

“Yeah, well…” he sighed. “I’m going to go help Fuery with supper.”

Breda let him go, obviously reading that, at the moment, there wasn’t a good way to convince Havoc to let go of the guilt. Logically, Havoc knew it wasn’t his fault. But knowing that didn’t make him feel less guilty, especially when he thought about Riza’s pleadings, screams and tears.

“Hey, Fuery, need a hand?” he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

“Hm? Oh, yeah… sure. Just... cut up these vegetables for me, will you? I’m going to make a soup for tonight. I think we could all use something a little warm and comforting.” Fuery said.

He wasn’t wrong, and Havoc knew it, but he also knew that he didn’t currently feel like eating. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, getting to work cutting the piles of vegetables that he had laid out. It was good mindless work for his hands as his brain thought and rolled over the knowledge that he had.

He knew that this place held bad memories for Hawkeye, ones that she didn’t want to discuss and that he hadn’t pushed. Mustang knew most of them, although clearly not all of them. Riza had told them that story about her and the water jars when they had been here earlier in the year, and he hadn’t known that one. Also, from the stories, he was about twelve when he arrived, and Hawkeye somewhere around nine. That left a lot of years for Riza to be on her own here. Her mother had been alive long enough to teach Riza some things, but not long enough for Riza to form good solid memories of her.

Riza’s father had been harsh to say the least. That thrashing she talked about getting after she broke that plate, the one that she said was the first thrashing that her father had given her. Havoc was pretty sure that it wasn’t an over-statement of the past anymore, but a legitimate thrashing that her father had given her when she was five years old because she had dropped a plate he could have put back together again with alchemy.

He also knew that Her father had died in the house, and she had cared for him up until the end.

And now he knew that her father had done something horrific and traumatizing to her, something that, apparently, she was tied down for. The implications of that made a shudder run through him, and he now wondered if that had anything to do with the reason that she always wore shirts that completely covered her back, refusing to take them off.

What kind of a man was her father? And just how twisted up had he gotten her that she wouldn’t leave him after that and would, instead, care for him until his death? How had that been broken? He was beginning to understand now why she was so angry about coming back here those months ago. He’d have hated to be shoved back into a place that held a deep trauma like this too. He knew that she had trauma from Ishval as well. Just how had Riza Hawkeye managed to become so stable an individual after all of this? How had she survived in this house and come out as normal as she had? He didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to, but he was also worried about her. There were too many questions and not enough answers for his liking.

With a sigh he focused on the vegetables and chopping them up. He would likely get no answers tonight. None of them would. He didn’t know if they’d get answers tomorrow or not—it really was a long shot. But he did know that he would be there for Riza no matter what.

As Havoc predicted, no one was especially hungry, although they all tried to eat at least a little of the soup. Most of it was put into the refrigerator for later. Hayate, at least, was feeling better, although it was clear that the little pup was still groggy. He mostly wanted to curl up and lay on people. Even Breda was gentle with him this time, gently pushing the little pooch away from him.

Havoc didn’t particularly want to leave Mustang and Hawkeye down here on the couch alone—none of the team did—but staying up all night would do no good either. Breda and Falman told Mustang of their concerns about the basement. Together with Fuery, they worked on something to make sure that if there was an entrance to the house from the basement, whoever it was either wouldn’t be able to get into the house or would set off alarms if they did. Mustang was armed with his gloves and a small pistol, and Hayate was sleeping on the couch with them as well. In an unspoken agreement, Havoc, Breda, Falman, and Fuery all took turns standing watch that night. However, even for those that attempted sleep, there were a lot of wandering feel and frequent bathroom trips. It seemed no one could quite relax.

Havoc laid in bed and tried to sleep, although it didn’t seem to be working. Outside, the rain poured even harder than before, drowning out any other sound he might have heard. The thunder and lightning came in waves of noise. It all seemed strangely appropriate for this day, and it felt like a bad omen somehow. Was something worse to come in the future? He wasn’t one to believe in such things, but he still found himself hoping that favor would look kindly upon them. This had surely been enough excitement for one trip, right?

#fullmetal alchemist Big Bang 2021 #FMA Big Bang 2021 #Fullmetal Alchemist #fma #royai #riza hawkeye #Roy Mustang #Jean Havoc #Heymans Breda #Vato Falman #Kain Fuery #black hayate #fan fiction #fanfic

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redex-writes · 4 years ago

Note

If you are still doing fic request, AWO , Vincent/Leo Adopting a rescue dog( can be any breed)

Me, sobbing: please just let me write some short fluff This prompt, holding a gun to my head: plot or perish.

I’m sorry for making this so long ^^’ Anyways, this prompt killed me in every conceivable way, so thank you! It was genuinely fun to write, and I hope you like it!!

CW: (Very brief) description of animal neglect

“Leo, what the hell is this?”

Leo blinked at him, for all the world looking like an innocent man—despite the sopping wet, blanket-wrapped retriever he had just returned home with.

“I know it’s been like eighty years since you were in school,” he said, “but this, Vincent, is what they call a dog.”

“Funny,” Vincent deadpanned. He closed the door behind Leo to keep out the nearly torrential rain, grimacing when Leo knelt to place the shivering dog on the ground.

“May I ask why you thought it would be a good idea to bring a stranger’s dog into our house in the middle of a record-breaking rainstorm?”

Leo was already discarding the filthy blue blanket, tossing it to the side; it landed with a wet plop by Vincent’s feet, and he cringed.

“I don’t think she belongs to anyone,” he said, carefully running his fingers through the matted fur around the dog’s neck. “No collar. Besides, just look at her.”

Vincent had to admit that the dog did look rather worse for wear; its fur was tangled and muddy, and it was definitely quite thin. It looked up at him with big brown eyes, as if it were agreeing with Leo.

“Still,” he said, eyeing it warily, “you don’t know where it’s been. It could have fleas, or rabies, or god knows what else.”

Leo looked up at him, and Vincent was caught off guard by the intensity of his glare.

“So what, you wanna just kick her back out on the street into the rain?”

“Christ--no, Leo.” Vincent frowned, feeling a bit like he was being scolded. “But you need to think about stuff like this before you do it. We should take it to the shelter.”

Leo gave him an incredulous look.

“Are you kidding? Vince, half the city’s shut down from this rain; even if the shelter was open, there’s no way we’d be able to get there in this weather.”

“Well, we can’t just keep it here!”

“Why not?”

Vincent grit his teeth, resisting the urge to snap at him.

“Well, number one, we’re renting this house. Do you even know what the policy is on pets?”

“Do you?” Leo countered. Vincent took a deep breath.

“Number two: if it was a stray, there’s no telling what it could’ve picked up out there.”

“I’m not asking you to stick your head in her mouth,” Leo snapped. “We wash our hands regularly and make sure she doesn’t get into any of the food.”

Vincent pointed at him.

“Three: what will we feed it? It’s not like we keep dog food laying around.”

Leo huffed.

“Dogs can eat other stuff too, you know. And as soon as the rain dies down, I can run to the store and pick something up.”

“As soon as the rain dies down, we’re taking it to a shelter,” Vincent said firmly.

They stood in tense silence for a few moments, glaring. Finally, Leo sighed.

“Fine. But until then, she stays here.”

Vincent pursed his lips. It wasn’t ideal, but it wasn’t like there was much of a choice.

“Fine.”

Leo insisted on giving the dog a bath that night, which Vincent didn’t protest--if they were going to be keeping it in the house, it might as well not be dripping mud everywhere.

Deciding to make himself useful, he opened the linen closet and started rifling through it to find some old towels or sheets they could use for a makeshift bed. Once he’d gathered a suitable pile, he made his way back down the hall. Passing the partly-open bathroom door, the sound of laughter caught his attention, and he peeked inside.

The bathroom was positively soaked--the floor, the towels, and Leo himself. He was kneeling next to the bathtub, holding a bottle of dish soap in one hand and trying to keep the dog at bay with the other. It had obviously perked up since coming into the warm house, trying to lick at Leo’s face while he scrubbed it down.

“C’mon, cut it out,” Vincent heard him chuckle. “Gotta get you all nice and clean, then you can have a little something to eat. That sound good to you?”

As if it could understand him, the dog’s tail gave a happy little wag. Leo grinned.

“Thought so.”

Vincent eased the door shut, a strange warmth in his chest.

To Vincent’s dismay, the rain hadn’t let up by the next morning. If anything it had gotten worse, dark clouds hanging low in the sky and the almost constant sound of rain against the windows echoing through the house.

“Said on the news that lots of roads are flooded,” Leo told him as he sat down with his toast and coffee. Vincent grimaced.

“No doubt. At this rate, even when it clears up it’s going to be a few days before everything’s dry again; not to mention how many basements have flooded, too.”

“At least we don’t have a basement to flood,” Leo joked. Vincent rolled his eyes, hiding his fond smile behind his cup of coffee.

He nearly jumped out of his seat when he felt something furry brush against his bare foot. He looked under the table to see the dog laying curled against Leo’s feet, sleeping quietly.

“Leo, why is it under the table?”

Leo shrugged.

“She wandered in while I was making breakfast. I think the storm’s scaring her; she hasn’t let me out of her sight since I got up.”

Vincent sighed, taking another look under the table. The dog definitely looked better since Leo gave it a good clean up the night before, and he figured that with some proper food and rest it would start to look like itself again.

Once they got it to the shelter, of course.

As if reading his mind, Leo piped up.

“She’s brightened up a bit since I found her. And she’s housetrained, which means someone did own her at one point.”

Vincent hummed, frowning.

“Wonder why they’d just abandon it like that.”

Leo huffed.

“I don’t know, but if I ever find them I’m going to kick their ass so hard they’ll be shitting out of their ears.”

Vincent snorted, failing to hide his grin.

“Classy.”

“I’m just saying,” Leo defended, raising his hands, “anyone who does that shit deserves to be put in their goddamn place.”

“Agreed.” While Vincent may not have been thrilled about their unexpected house guest, he wasn’t a monster.

The dog snuffled in its sleep, its tail flopping against Vincent’s foot.

“Vincent!”

Leo’s call rang out from the living room. Startled, Vincent poked his head inside.

“What?”

He was sitting on the couch, grinning excitedly and holding the old banjo they’d fixed up some months prior. The dog was sitting a few feet away, and it cocked its head curiously as Vincent entered the room.

“Watch this.”

Leo began to strum the banjo, playing a simple tune. As Vincent watched, the dog cautiously started walking towards the couch. Leo paused, and the dog stopped, then started again when he continued to play. He did that a few times, playing some sort of musical ‘red light, green light’ with the dog, until it was right at his feet. It laid its head on Leo’s knees, looking up at him as he finished the tune with a mellow strum.

Vincent couldn’t deny the way his heart warmed at the sight, but he still clapped sarcastically.

“Congratulations. You’re the pied piper of stray dogs.”

Leo didn’t react to the teasing as he scratched behind both of the dog’s ears, grinning at the happy thump of its tail against the carpet.

“Y’know, she looks like a Banjo.”

Vincent stared at him. “Leo, we’ve been rained in for less than a day. It’s way too early for you to be confusing animals with musical instruments.”

Leo gave him a look. It took a moment for his meaning to sink in, but when it did, Vincent’s eyebrows shot up.

“Oh, no. No, no no no. Leo, you are not naming it.”

“Why?” Leo ruffled the dog’s ears.

“Because we’re not keeping it.”

Tension thickened the air, the only sound the rain pounding against the window. Leo set his jaw.

“Yeah, you’ve made that plenty clear by now.”

Something in his voice made Vincent falter, but before he could analyze it, Leo was standing and brushing past him out of the room, leaving him alone with the dog.

Vincent sighed. The dog looked up at him, and Vincent had the distinct feeling he was being judged.

“Shut up,” he muttered to no one in particular.

Leo avoided him the rest of the day. By the time Vincent was able to get him to stay in the same room, he had already fallen asleep on the couch. The dog was, of course, laying on the floor next to him; it looked up when Vincent walked over.

He sighed, sinking down to the floor and leaning against the couch. Leo’s hand was hanging down by his face, and he gently lifted it and placed it on the cushion beside his head, giving it a fond pat.

A weight in his lap startled him. He looked down to see the dog looking up at him with big brown eyes, and he gave a reluctant smile.

“It’s not your fault,” he muttered, giving the dog a few gentle pats. “I’m...not used to dogs.”

The dog, of course, just stared. Vincent laughed under his breath.

“He loves you already, though. You must not be so bad.”

His smile fell, and he sighed.

“Though, maybe I’m not the best example.”

As if she could sense his sadness, the dog nuzzled closer to him and closed her eyes. With a soft hum, Vincent scratched her behind the ear as he leaned back against the couch.

“Not so bad at all.”

Despite Vincent being the one who fell asleep on the floor, Leo looked like the walking dead as he dragged himself into the kitchen the next morning. Vincent looked up at him from where he leaned against the counter, giving him an amused once-over.

“Morning, sunshine.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Leo grumbled. Vincent chuckled into his cup of coffee--at least he didn’t seem upset anymore.

“I hope you’re planning on changing your clothes before we go.”

Leo frowned at him, blearily rubbing his eyes.

“What?”

Vincent gestured to the window, where the heavy rainclouds had been replaced by a bright blue sky.

“Rain’s let up, and I called ahead to the shelter.”

Leo seemed to deflate.

“Oh. Right.”

“...They redirected me to the veterinarian, but luckily they’re open too.”

Vincent had to work to keep his straight face as he watched Leo process the words.

“What? Why?”

Vincent took a sip of his coffee.

“Well, they don’t do vaccinations at the shelter, and she should get a checkup and maybe some vitamins.” He nodded to the dog, who had padded into the room to sniff at Leo’s socked feet when she’d heard him walk in.

Leo looked at him suspiciously, but Vincent could see the faintest trace of hope in his eyes.

“Why do we need all that?”

Vincent let himself break into a grin then.

“As much as I love you, I think we could both do with the help of a trained professional to take care of our dog.”

Leo stared at him for a few long moments, face blank. Then he crossed the floor in three big steps, grabbed Vincent’s face, and kissed him hard.

“You mean it?” he asked breathlessly, a brilliant grin on his face. “We’re keeping her?”

“If that’s what you want.”

“Fucking--yes, of course! Oh my god--”

Vincent laughed as Leo kissed him again.

“Go change,” he said, gently pushing him back. “Don’t want the vet mistaking you for the stray.”

“Fuck off,” Leo laughed. He gave Vincent one last peck on the lips before hurrying off to their bedroom.

Vincent set his coffee down on the counter, still smiling. A gentle nudge at his leg made him look down.

“Don’t worry, Banjo,” he said softly, reaching down to ruffle her ears. “You’re home now.”

#a way out fanfic #a way out oneshot #vincent x leo #vincent/leo #reqs

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yourfriendslimey · 4 years ago

Text

7 Minutes

Bambam x fem. Reader

Genre: smut if you can call it that

TW: mild sexual content

WC: 2.5k

Author’s note:took me long enough. this is literally my first smut (r.i.p.). also the ending is a nit dumb but wow did I not know how I wanted to end it.

Preview: “I can hear you heart beating,” Bambam spoke softly. His face was inches from yours; a soft hand placed gently on your jaw…

You melted into an old beanbag chair slumped haphazardly against the corner and let your eyes wander the smoky room. Lit only by a few table lamps, the whole space seemed to rock to the R&B music being playing around you. Even though you were hesitant at first, coming to this party was the best idea you’d had in weeks. Well it was less of a party and more like you and 11 other people sitting around in your close friend, Yugyeom’s apartment. You didn’t know most of the people here, but social interaction was social interaction, nonetheless. It felt like ages since you’d had any actual fun.

The smell of sweat, weed, and hours old pizza filled your nose with each breath. Your eyes traced over the mostly unfamiliar faces in the room and landed upon Yugyeom’s roommate, Bambam, causing your stomach to float.

You didn’t know him very well, but the longer you looked at him, the more you wanted to. However, he seemed to almost avoid you whenever you came by; ducking into his room or leaving the apartment altogether. On the rare occasions you were both in the same room, you’d barely acknowledge each other, giving only a polite wave and a short “hey”. You never really asked Yugyeom about it, opting to just admire him from a far as you were doing now.

His slender frame was leaned against the wall as a bored hand scrolled aimlessly on his phone. A red plastic cup occupied the other. He wore white skinny jeans paired with a pale brick turtleneck that hugged his form. Short snow-white hair and small silver earrings contrasted with his golden skin.

“Hey creep.”

Your heart leapt to your throat at the shock. You shot a stern look to your left to see Yugyeom crouched playfully beside you. “Enjoying the view?” The shit-eating grin plastered to his face made your cheeks burn. He’d known for a while about your feelings for his roommate and took every chance to tease you about it. Honestly, he probably needed to bug you as much as he needed to breathe.

Yugyeom lightly patted your cheeks, giggling at the pissy look growing on your face. “Go to hell, Kim,” you pushed his hands away and threw a punch at his shoulder. “Ow, hey! C’mon, I’m just messin’ around, lighten up,” he pouted as he rubbed his shoulder. “Seriously though, why not just ask him out already? I mean what’s the worst that could happen?” You leaned back with folded arms and sighed, “Well for one, he could laugh in my face and say no. And if that happened I would not and could not EVER come over again. Our friendship would then slowly dwindle away to dust since I rarely see you anywhere other than here. And I honestly don’t know if you’re prepared to handle life without me,” a smirk found its way your face. Yugyeom rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to retaliate but stopped himself and smiled impishly, “I have an idea.” He gave one solid clap of his hands, jumped to his feet, and breezed away, leaving you in a pool of confusion and frankly, mild terror.

You watched as he traversed to the stereo and turned the music down, the sudden silence pulling all eyes to him. “Alright guys, it’s that time…” he paused and rubbed his hands together dramatically, “Anyone down for seven minutes?” The room whooped and laughed excitedly, everyone already moving to sit in a circle on the floor.

“Seven minutes” was shorthand for Seven Minutes in Heaven. From what Yug had told you, he and his friends always played when they got together like this. Your stomach formed a knot as Yugyeom moved the small coffee table off to the side and an empty beer bottle was placed in the center of the carpet. Yug found himself a spot, patting the floor next to him for you to join in. Lazily you made your way over and sat cross-legged beside your friend.

You noticed that Bambam was sat across from you leaning back on his hands. He eyed up everyone in the circle and the moment he landed on you, a slight smirk crept to his face. You quickly looked away, feeling your cheeks grow hot. Excitement sparked within you as you silently wished you’d be paired with him.

Yugyeom piped up, “Before we start, I’m gonna explain the rules since y/n hasn’t played with us before.” You listened intently, “I’ll spin to see who goes first. Then that person spins for their partner. No re-spins. You get who you get. The pair will go into the coat closet together for exactly seven minutes. They’re free to do whatever they want with each other, no questions asked. When seven minutes is up, we open the door and let them out. Then we just go clockwise from the first pick. Questions?” Yugyeom looked directly at you.

You shook your empty head. Even if you did have any questions, you didn’t want to make yourself stick out even more than you did. “Then let’s begin,” Yugyeom said as he spun the bottle.

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

The rounds passed by quickly. Couples were sent into the closet one after another. Each time the timer went off, Yugyeom unceremoniously swung open the door. Make-out sessions were cut short, wandering hands returned to their owners, faces were flushed red.

You remained mostly uninvested, only taking interest when Bambam was finally up. The circle whooped and whistled, a ring of excitement. You could see almost everyone crossing fingers and leaning in, hoping to sway the bottle in their favor. He smugly chuckled and gave a few flirtatious glances at girls he’d probably been paired with before. A pang of jealousy took root within you. Bambam obviously got around and at least half of these girls have gotten a taste before. You watched intently as he reached out and spun the bottle; your heart a lump in your throat.

You weren’t sure if you were hoping to be chosen or not. If you got paired up, would he even be into it? Into you? Would he be disappointed? You mind did somersaults. Time seemed to slow down, the bottle taking its sweet time before finally stopping. Your heart paused; your eyes widened.

You sat frozen, staring at the bottle waiting for it to somehow move to someone else. This moment was too perfect to be true. Your face grew redder; your cheeks hot. For a moment, you only heard blood pumping through your ears. The sounds in the room grew muddy and you thought you might pass out from shock alone.

Yugyeom laughed and nudged your side, bringing you back, “you’re finally in the game!”

He stood and made his way to the closet, opening the door and gesturing inside. Bambam appeared in front of you. He looked like an angel; a vision too good to be real. Smiling he extended a delicate hand. You gently took it, thinking if you grabbed too fast, you’d pass right through him. He pulled you up and guided you towards a giddy Yugyeom who was practically bouncing on his toes. You watched your feet as you walked, too nervous to look anywhere else. Bambam entered first; you crept behind, taking your spot opposite from him.

Dimly lit only by a small strip of purple LED’s the closet took on a cozy air. Save for a few scattered jackets and the building tension, the space was empty. You were practically shaking, wondering if anything would happen between you two or if you’d both sit in awkward silence. “Have fun,” Yugyeom teased in a singsong voice, winking at you as she slowly shut the door.

You were practically glued to the wall, your sense of time skewed. These first few seconds felt as if minutes had already passed by. Now what? You thought. Do I say something? Make a move? Keep looking at my feet, twiddling my thumbs? You swallowed hard, finally working up the nerve to look up.

Bambam was looking right at you. The weight of his stare keeping you pressed in place. He seemed to take notice of how tense you were.

“We don’t have to do anything, you know. We could just talk; get to know each other better. I mean you’re hear all the time, and I only know your name,” his smile was genuine. It helped to slow your heartbeat just a bit. Even still, your head was swimming.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds great… What do you wanna talk about?”

Bambam thought for a moment, “Well to start, how long have you and Yug been hanging out? He’s never been one to brag about that kinda thing, but he’s never been shy about it either.” You raised a curious eyebrow, “Honestly I thought you were just some onetime hookup, but when you kept coming back-“

A wave of laughter erupted form you. Bambam jumped a bit in shock. “What’s so funny?” he laughed uncomfortably. “I’m sorry,” you wiped a tear from your eye and took a deep breath in, “We’re not sleeping together. I love him yeah, but as a friend. That’s it.”

Bambam’s eyes widened, “Oh. That’s good then…”

“What do you mean ‘good’? Would it be bad if we were?”

“Well yeah,” Bambam’s voice was low, the lighthearted smile now replaced by a sultry smirk. He stepped closer to you, “Cause then I’d have to keep staying away from you.” He pressed both hands against the wall on either side of your head, locking you in. You felt your breath leave you.

You stammered a bit. The air in the closet grew thicker. Bambam’s soft features were illuminated by a purple glow; his eyes grew darker and sharper the longer you gazed into them. For a moment, you thought the floor had collapsed under you. Your eyes darted down, making sure there was still solid ground below your feet. There was. You pinched your arm to make sure you were awake. You were.

He leaned in close to you “I like you, y/n.” The musky smell of his cologne took over your senses. Your heart picked up pace, your knees almost buckled, and your breath became shallow. You swallowed hard, your mouth an arid desert. “I can hear you heart beating,” Bambam spoke softly. His face was inches from yours; a soft hand placed gently on your jaw. “Do you want me to stop?” You shook your head and before you knew it, Bambam’s soft lips connected with yours.

Electricity shot through your body. A soft moan left your mouth as the warmth of his body overtook you. Bambam released you face, his hands finding their way to your hips. Without much thought, you brought your arms around his neck and pulled him in deeper. His tongue knocked at your mouth’s door. You willingly let him in. Your tongues battled back and forth; teeth clashing wildly. He pulled your hips into him and you could feel the growing mass in his jeans push against you. He wanted you as bad as you wanted him.

Bambam broke the kiss and set his sights on your neck. You welcomed him, craning your head to the side to give him room. You felt your core grow warm, beginning to throb with desire. He left a trail of animalistic kisses, pulling at the collar of your shirt. Your breath became hollow. A sharp gasp left you as he grabbed your left leg and pulled it up to his hip.

“You don’t know how bad I’ve wanted this…” he groaned before lightly biting your collar bone.

“Tell me…”

“I’ll do you one better,” he lifted you, pressing your back to the wall. His hips ground into yours all on their own. You couldn’t help but let out a moan, your hands finding their way to his shirt, tugging it desperately. As his fingers dug into your thighs, you pulled harder, craving the feeling of his naked skin. He let you down, lip still attached to you, before unbuttoning your jeans. You were practically dripping, your panties ruined. He toyed with the hem of your panties, knowing fully well what he was doing to you. You bit your lips, frustrated, desperate for his touch. He slid his hand down, rubbing his first and second fingers against you through the thin fabric. You groaned. Two can play at this game…you thought, moving to undo his belt and pants button.

You teased back, palming him through his boxer-briefs. The soft groan vibrating against your neck felt euphoric. He grabbed your wandering hand with his free one, pinning it by your head. “You’re so mean,” you sighed. He said nothing, giving only a deep chuckle; his fingers finding, their way into your underwear, lightly brushing against your outer folds. Your hips moved on their own, instinct taking over. You wanted, no, needed Bambam to go further. If he didn’t, you were sure you’d lose your mind.

He slipped a digit in between, lightly feeling out your entrance. “Holy shit you’re wet...” He brought his lips to your ear, nibbling your lobe, “Do you get like this for every guy?” You shook your head and hummed in reply, too lost to speak. “Good,” and he pushed his finger inside.

You bit your finger as you forced yourself to stay silent. Slowly, Bambam curled his fingers in and out, savoring the feeling of you on his hand. You whimpered, trying your best to keep your sounds to yourself. He met your gaze, smirking smugly. “Having trouble keeping quiet, are we? You better be care, or else everyone’s going to hear you,” he pushed his fingers deeper, beginning to pump faster. You bit your bottom lip hard, your breath fast but deep. You began to feel yourself tighten on him, your body on autopilot, chasing a high so out of reach. You needed more so damn badly you thought you’d die. But you knew time was limited. If you both lost control then you’d for sure be exposed to a room of curious eyes. Bambam knew too, slowing his pace to a halt before slipping out of you. You whined in frustration, throwing a pair of big puppy eyes and a pout at him.

“Our time’s almost up,” he sucked you from his fingers, while using his dry hand to caress your cheek. You looked at him inquisitively. “We’ve played so often; I’ve gotten pretty good at gaging the time. We’ll pick this back up later,” he winked and fastened his jeans and belt. You follow suit, quickly straightening yourself out to avoid suspicion.

The two of you returned to your original spots, leaning against the walls. A bright smile stretched across Bambam’s face which you mirrored. The closet door swung open to reveal Yugyeom still bright eyed and grinning. The two of you stepped out and returned to your spots in the circle. Yugyeom took his seat next to you, shaking your shoulder and quietly whispering, “Well? Well?” You smirked, glancing at Bambam before looking back to your friend. “We’re gonna play again later.”

#got7 #got7 smut #got7 bambam #got7 yugyeom #bambam #got7 fluff #got7 imagines #kpop smut #got 7 jaebeom #got7 jackson #got7 mark #got7 jinyoung #got7 youngjae #bambam imagines #bambam smut #kpop imagines #kpop fluff #got7 scenarios

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darkblueboxs · 4 years ago

Text

Ursa Major

i.e. the beardrew fic 🐻😉

Read here or on AO3 *

“What brings you to town?” The lodge manager flashes Neil an easy smile as he holds the cabin key in one hand. They clink together just out of Neil’s reach, as though he won’t relinquish them until Neil has provided a satisfactory answer.

“Business,” Neil answers shortly, and reaches for the keys.

“Let me know if you want to squeeze a little pleasure in, too.” The manager, whose name badge reading Nicky is almost lost amongst an array of rainbow pin-badges, winks exaggeratedly. Neil keeps his expression carefully blank as he all but pries the keys from him. “Andrew will show you which cabin is yours. He’s chopping wood out back.”

Neil steps out onto the back porch of the reception building, takes one look at the guy ripping logs apart with his bare hands, and decides that he can find it himself. He tries to avert his eyes, but the man stops to watch him pass, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He looks like such a stereotypical woodsman that Neil wonders for a second if he walked straight out of a Brawny advert, muscles flexing as he heaves a lump of wood half his size onto the log pile, several days’ worth of stubble dusting his jawline gold and a glowing worker’s tan defying the encroaching winter. He’s so stocky that Neil almost misses the fact that the man is somehow shorter than him, and for a moment his brain short-circuits as he tries to match his impossible presence to his impossible height.

Andrew – because this must be Andrew – barely spares Neil’s scars a second glance, eyes catching instead on the camera swinging around Neil’s neck. Neil’s hands go to it automatically – the device is worth more than his life – but he stills as Andrew drops the log with an earth-shaking thud. “Point that thing at me and I’ll break it.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Neil takes a step back, holding his hands in the air as though proving himself unarmed. “Sorry.”

“Whatever.” He turns back to his work, and without looking at him, adds “Yours is the last on the left.”

Neil makes no effort to hide his relief as he turns and heads up towards the row of log cabins, stumbling over exposed tree roots and pushing branches out of the way where the trees have begun encroaching on the dirt path. The place is quiet, which suits Neil perfectly; he didn’t pick wildlife photography because of his love for human company, after all. Of the dozen or so suites clustered around the central building, only two or three appear to be occupied, muddy hiking gear drying on doorsteps, BMWs with kayaks and bike racks strapped to the roofs parked down at the car park below. Neil chose the single bus that runs back and forth to the town across the lake once a day over risking a car rental on the worn dirt track; for better or for worse, he’s trapped there for the night.

Not that he expects to finish his assignment in the span of a day, but old instincts cry out for getaway options. He and his mother spent months in secluded mountain ranges like this one, but they were as much a threat as they were protection. It was easier to hear of visitors as soon as they arrived in the area, but harder to blend in amongst non-existent crowds.

He dumps his rucksack on his bed – he hasn’t broken the habit of travelling light quite yet – and takes in the neat little cabin (cosier than he expected, like it leapt out of a rustic furniture catalogue) before grabbing his kit and heading out into the hills.

He loses track of time quicker than usual, as he always does when he’s in new places, busy taking in the lay of the land, figuring out which trails are worth his time and which are too packed with litter and foot traffic to be of any use. The vistas are breath-taking; glittering pearl lakes studded throughout the endless verdant valleys, mountain ranges that draw across the swirling skyline like theatre curtains. Landscape photos aren’t Neil’s strong suit, but he snaps a few anyway, just for himself. They never had photos on the run, nothing that could be used as evidence, no footprints left in their wake. Neil likes having the mementos now, thin slips of glossy film that prove that he was alive, he was there, that he was real.

Sunset has bathed the woods in rich oranges as he makes his way back to his cabin, legs aching pleasantly with the memory of a good day’s exploration. There’s a packet of instant noodles waiting in his bag and a kettle in his cabin, but the smells drifting from the eatery in the central building convince Neil to forgo solitude for an hour and cough up for a real home-cooked meal.

Either Andrew has shaved since this morning or he has an identical twin; either way, the man who serves him chunky soup and bread does so with the barest pretences of politeness. Neil ignores the chatter of the other guests and staff as much as possible, flicking through the images on his digital display as he chews through a freshly baked roll. Neil’s twin theory is proven correct when Andrew sweeps into the dining room just as dessert is being brought out, windswept and scowling. Neil watches as he begins arranging kindling in the hearth, and soon the room is glowing with dancing light. Andrew stares into the flames, and the flickering glow carves deep shadows into his features, as though his face is transformed by the light. Neil doesn’t do portraits, but if he did, it would be perfect.

He snaps his gaze away as Andrew looks up, unfortunately catching the eye of the man at the next table.

“Photography, huh?” he says, grinning. He’s muscular too. Neil wonders if there’s something in the water here. “Got any good ones?”

Neil hands him the camera in lieu of answering, trying not to twitch his fingers as the stranger handles his most valuable possession.

“Oh, shit. These are seriously good, like, professional standard. Is this what you do for a living?” He hands the camera back and offers a hand with it. “I’m Matt, by the way.”

“Neil. Yeah, I work for National Parks Magazine.”

Matt whistles. “Fancy.”

“I guess.”

“Well, I’m no expert, but those look great to me. What is it, a tourism piece?”

“Oh, no, these were just for me. I do wildlife photography.”

“Plenty of that out here. I come down most weekends, usually see a few hawks, eagles too. We get lots of bird spotters in the Spring.”

“That’s great,” says Neil, “But not what I need for this assignment.”

“How mysterious.” Matt leans his chin on his hand. “Tell me more, Mister Bond.”

“I’m looking for bears, actually.”

There’s a clatter from across the room that cuts off Matt’s reaction as Andrew’s twin drops a stack of plates.

“Did I hear you say bears?” Nicky appears at Neil’s shoulder as if from nowhere. Neil fights back the impulse to bolt. “Mine is working at the reception desk if you want me to introduce you.”

Matt snorts. “Not that kind of bear, Nicky.”

“I heard there were grizzlies up here,” Neil says. “What do you mean, there’s a bear in the reception?”

“Oh, that’s adorable. No, I just meant my boyfriend. Though he gets a bit grizzly before his first cup of coffee most mornings-”

“There aren’t any bears here,” interrupts another voice, and Neil needs to learn to stop jumping if all the staff are going to sneak up on him like this. He turns to see Andrew’s brother wiping coffee stains from his sleeves. “You might as well leave.”

“Aaron,” Nicky says, “It’s fine, he’s a photographer, he isn’t here to hunt or anything-”

“Pretty fucked up face for a nature photographer.”

“Hey-!”

“It’s fine,” Neil cuts off Matt’s objection. “The scars were my father’s doing. He loved hunting. Me, not so much.”

The group falls quiet, which is the usual reaction his explanation gets. He has never gotten used to the awkward silences that his past invariably invokes, even when he leaves out the years of running, capture, his mother’s slow and terrible death at his father’s hands, his last-minute escape, the months of FBI interrogations and his eventual release. His father had deer heads mounted in his study and Neil remembers vividly the glassy, dead eyes that seemed to watch his every move. No, Neil is not a fan of hunting; he has spent far too long being the prey.

It’s at that moment that Andrew looks up from the fireplace, and Neil can tell from his expression that he has been listening. There’s a strange understanding which has no place on this stranger’s face, and for a moment Neil feels as though he’s stuck in the amber gaze like a fly caught in a honey trap.

“Why bears?” Matt says, and his words are like a hook pulling him from a lake. Neil forces air back into his lungs and turns back to the group. Nicky’s expression has softened, eyes still on Neil’s burns, while Aaron has sunk back into disdain. “Surely there’s less dangerous things to photograph.”

“They’re not dangerous if you’re careful,” Neil replies patiently. “Treat them with respect and they’ll do the same. Besides, I like bears.”

“I hear that,” says Nicky. Aaron pops him in the back of the head, but he waves him off, undeterred. “You should talk to Andrew. He might be able to help you-” There’s a muffled thud which sounds suspiciously like Aaron aiming a kick at Nicky’s shins out of Neil’s line of sight. “-or not, you know, whatever,” he finishes lamely.

Neil glances furtively over at Andrew, who has gone back to staring into the hearth. “It’s fine,” he says, wondering why his mouth feels so dry all of a sudden. “I’m used to finding my own way.”

Desert finished and cleared away, Neil sits with Matt on the couches that occupy the other portion of the communal area along with rows of bookshelves and a desktop computer that looks as though it hasn’t been touched since the nineties. Matt flicks through more of Neil’s photos, stopping on occasion to gasp or croon, while Neil accustoms himself to trusting Matt with his camera. The coffee table is stacked high with leaflets on hiking trails which Neil sets himself to memorising as well as pamphlets on good camping etiquette and forest fire prevention. When Aaron returns and announces that the main lodge is closing for the night by abruptly flicking the lights off, Neil is surprised to realise how late it is already. The fire Andrew started in the hearth has collapsed into flaky grey embers, and when Neil steps out onto the porch the thick smell of smoke clings to his clothes.

Neil and Matt part ways for the night, but only after Matt has extracted a promise from Neil that he will let him show him some of his favourite trails the next day.

Neil thinks he may be unconscious before his head even hits the pillow, and the rustle of the forest follows him into his sleep. In his dreams, wild creatures circle his bed, close, curious, watching, waiting.

He spends most of the weekend letting Matt show him his favourite routes that weave up and down the mountain peaks. Neil wouldn’t usually tolerate so much company, but it’s clear from Matt’s eager nature that he likes having someone to talk to, and his girlfriend, he explains, is on a work placement out of state until next month. Neil is surprised to discover that he doesn’t mind Matt’s presence, and at Matt’s insistence he takes several shots of Matt posing with the valley at his back, which Neil promises to email to him for his girlfriend.

Their hike isn’t all sightseeing, however; Neil pays close attention to any tracks and prints that could point him in the direction of bears, making a note on his map of everything he spots in hope of discerning a pattern. He’s surprised to see a lot of marks close to the popular footpaths, and centred around the lodge, too. Bears usually avoid humans unless driven from their own habitat. Neil wonders if the owners have been less than careful with the bins, encouraging raiders into the foothills scavenging for food.

He spends his evenings in the main lodge, where Matt draws him into conversation with the staff and other regulars. Nicky joins them whenever he isn’t working, and will drag Aaron over when their breaks coincide. Kevin, who is renting one of the upstairs rooms in the central lodge, will occasionally be persuaded to look up from his laptop, upon which he is typing meticulous notes about conservation of historically significant ruins in the area, a topic which Neil pretends to understand on the one occasion that Kevin tries to explain it to him. Andrew, on the other hand, shows no further interest in Neil following their first encounter. Other than occasional odd jobs around the cabins, Neil still isn’t clear on what he actually does, if anything. He seems to spend most of his days out in the wilderness, although Neil and Matt never pass him on any of their walks. Neil almost asks Nicky, but thinks better of it, sensing that such a query would be met with more glee than he is comfortable with.

On Sunday, Matt packs his gear into the back of his pickup and rolls his way back towards the main road, promising to return the following weekend. Neil waves him off, surprised by how quickly the quiet chases away the hum of the engine. He distracts himself from the returning solitude by taking himself off the marked trails and deeper into the wilderness, where the trees grow thick enough to block out the sky and the trickle of springs leads him into sludgy banks that threaten to suck his boots from his feet.

Eventually the earth flattens out as Neil reaches the valley floor, and the springs pool into a small lake that winks at Neil through the trees. Neil finds an embankment to set up on, and is so absorbed in fidgeting with his lenses that he misses the faint crack of branches breaking underfoot.

A shadow looms suddenly in front of him. Neil looks up, and goes still, breath caught in his throat.

The bear hasn’t noticed him yet. He – which he must be, going by the size – is reared up on his hind legs, eight feet tall at least, nose twitching. Neil would normally be jumping at such a stroke of luck, but the shocking bright blond of the bear’s fur stills his fingers on the shutter. He would say polar bear if he didn’t know better, but he does, and they’re about a million miles too far south for that to make sense. So maybe it’s the surprising colour, or the surprise of being so lucky as to just stumble across him, but some combination of the two causes Neil to do something incredibly stupid.

He opens his mouth.

“Oh, you are beautiful.”

The bear goes still. Then he turns, hazel eyes fixing on Neil.

Neil suddenly feels very, very small. Rule one of tracking bears – don’t surprise them. Weirdly, though, this bear doesn’t react in typical bear-like fashion. There is no reflexive snarling, no intimidation, no panic. Just the faintest twitch of his ears, a huff of… irritation?

“Sorry,” Neil says automatically, then winces, because he is talking to the bear now, for god’s sake-

Then again, it isn’t like he’s doing any harm. “You are just adorable. I hope you know that you are so cute. Look at those chubby cheeks!”

And, okay, maybe he’s using the same voice he uses to talk to stray cats, but in his defence, how often does he get the chance to baby-talk a bear?!

The bear just sort of stares at him, which is… odd, probably, but as long as he isn’t snapping Neil like a toothpick Neil isn’t too concerned. The gaze is piercing, like the bear is seeing right through him, and it’s disconcerting enough that Neil almost loses his grip on the camera.

Speaking of which…

Click.

The bear… pulls a face. Neil is about to apologise again, but the words die in his mouth when he drops onto his front paws with a thud that shakes straight through the earth. The urge to run seizes Neil suddenly, hand-in-hand with a familiar burst of adrenaline, and for a moment he’s twelve years old, tripping over his own feet as his mother yanks him through the dark with heart-stopping urgency.

You can’t run from bears, is the thing.

Slowly, Neil pushes himself up the bank, leaning heavy on his arms because he doesn’t trust his legs to support him. The bear just…watches. No, glares.

All at once, the fear that seized him so suddenly is gone, and Neil lets out a shaky breath.

“Thank you,” he says, because it seems rude, almost, to do otherwise. He taps his camera. “You were amazing.”

He scrambles up the bank and back into the woods, heart thudding in time with his footsteps.

Back at the cabin, he plugs his camera into his laptop with shaking fingers. He doesn’t stop to check the photo preview on the camera’s digital display, wants to see it blown up on his laptop screen in full jpeg glory.

It’s been a while since he backed up all his pictures, and as the loading bar trickles towards 100%, Neil’s stomach starts to growl. Grumbling, Neil leaves his computer to finish compiling and heads down to the main lodge in search of food.

It’s midweek, so the dining room is emptier than usual, although Neil spots Andrew in his usual place by the fireside almost immediately. They’ve been successfully ignoring each other since the day of Neil’s arrival, but the day’s events spur him to take a seat at Andrew’s side. “Nicky said you know about bears.”

Andrew flicks a scrap of newspaper into the flames. “Nicky says a lot of things.”

“I saw…” Neil winces. This is going to sound insane. “He looked like a polar bear.”

Andrew huffs, although it’s hard to say whether in scorn or amusement. “You saw a Kermode bear. They’re a subspecies of the American black bear.”

“You see a lot of them here?”

“No.”

It isn’t that Neil thinks Andrew is lying, not exactly, but there’s something he isn’t saying. Neil knows the shape of a secret, how it weighs in one’s chest, and Andrew is keeping something big in there, bristling beneath his skin.

“He was beautiful,” Neil says. “The most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”

“I don’t care,” Andrew replies, and this time Neil swears he can see the bristling. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not? I’m a photographer. Finding beauty is my job.”

“Your job is to take pictures of shit and persuade people to pay you for it. Beauty is a construct.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.”

“Exactly.”

“But not in your eye?” Neil guesses. Andrew’s brow creases in irritation. He dismisses Neil’s comment.

“What are you going to do now that you have found your precious bear?”

Neil shrugs. “Onto the next assignment. Wherever that is.”

“Sounds like a strange life.”

“I’m used to it.”

Aaron clatters into the dining room, grinding their conversation to a halt. His irritation turns to an open glare when he sees Neil at Andrew’s side, so Neil moves off to take his usual seat.

After dinner he calls his editor with an update, slouched in one of the communal couches and watching as Aaron and Nicky squabble over a game of pool.

“Neil, I’m telling you, there’s no way you saw a Kermode bear.” Robin says as paper rustles furiously on the other end of the line. “You’re on the wrong side of the continent.”

“But I did. I wish you could have seen him. He was so… calm.”

“Neil,” Robin says, “Are you sure?”

“I have the picture to prove it. I’ll send it over as soon as I’m back in my cabin. Is this, like, a big deal? Do you think there’s some kind of undiscovered subspecies, or… I don’t know, this seems like the kind of thing bear scientists would care about.”

Nicky and Aaron’s bickering suddenly falls silent. Neil doesn’t bother looking up to see why, not when Robin is snorting on the other end of the line. “Bear scientists.”

“I don’t know what they’re called. I’m just the dumbass who takes the photos.”

“Maybe they’ll name it after you. The Josten bear.”

Neil winces. “Poor bear.”

“Alright. I’ll be waiting at my desk. But I swear, if this is another prank or something-”

“I would never,” Neil says innocently. “I know you find my pranks un-bear-able.”

“Oh my god, shut up,” Robin says, and promptly hangs up.

He’s eager to deliver on his promise as soon as possible, but Nicky catches him on his way to the door. Aaron disappeared at some point while Neil was on the phone, which is the only reason he accepts Nicky’s offer of a drink on the house, even if he won’t be persuaded from his soft drink of choice.

“That sounded like a big deal,” Nicky says, gesturing at Neil’s phone while not meeting his eyes. Once again, Neil’s neck prickles with the sense that something is being kept from him.

“Apparently I’ve found a bear species a million miles from where it should be,” Neil says. “It could be a big deal for you, too. Researchers coming to the area means more business for you, right?”

“Wow, yeah, sure.” Nicky’s smile is as pasty as it is wide. “Brilliant.”

“Speaking of,” says Neil. “I’ll be checking out a few days early. If you see Matt, can you tell him I’m sorry I missed him?”

“Sure,” says Nicky, although Neil isn’t sure he’s really listening. Neil glances at the amber liquid swirling in the bottom of Nicky’s glass and wonders if it’s stronger than it looks.

The temperature has dropped sharply in the time it took Neil to eat his dinner, and as he trudges back uphill to his cabin on weary legs the wind cuts through his light gear like a blade. His cabin windows spill orange on the path, a lamp left on, dumb, wasteful, isn’t he always complaining about light pollution-?

Neil stops dead a foot from his cabin door. He knows, knows, knows, that someone has been in since he last was there. The lodge offered daily cleaning services, but Neil had opted out for the duration of his stay, uneasy about strangers having access to his belongings even now that he has nothing left to hide. He wants to believe that they made a mistake in the cleaning schedule, but the same gut instinct telling him someone has been in his cabin tells him that it was no accident. Something is wrong.

Neil pushes the door open with the lightest press of his fingers. Adrenaline hums through him, old instincts reawakening as he prepares to be attacked.

The cabin is empty. No, not empty; the furniture, his clothes, phone charger, hiking gear, all still there…

But no laptop. And no camera.

Neil swears viciously. Before he knows it, he’s back at the central lodge, even though all the lights are out and they’re clearly closed for the night. Neil’s hand hovers over the bell at the front desk as the haze of his panic and fury lifts. They’re in the middle of nowhere, meaning the thief was either another lodger or a member of staff. Any accusations he makes won’t go anywhere.

Neil thinks of Aaron disappearing after his phone call, and instead of ringing the bell he clenches his hand into a fist.

The staff and permanent lodgers live over the main building, and although Neil has never seen the upper floor he can tell which windows are theirs by the glow on the other side of the curtains. The walls are made of thick, horizontal tree trunks that make for easy grips. Neil barely has his foot lodged against the first rivulet when he is caught in amber torchlight.

“Can I help you?” Andrew says rhetorically.

Neil drops back to the ground, teeth grinding together. If Andrew’s brother has resorted to a life of crime, there’s no way his twin hasn’t noticed. “Just looking for my things.”

“You won’t find them up there.” Andrew’s eyes flick up. “That’s Nicky and Eric’s room. I can only imagine what horrors would await you.”

“Which is Aaron’s?”

“You won’t find anything in his, either.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you?” Neil snaps. Andrew’s expression is infuriatingly impassive, and Neil knows that arguing any longer will be as productive as shouting at a brick wall. “Tell your cousin I won’t be checking out early after all. It turns out I have more work to do.”

Andrew clicks the torch off, plunging them both into sudden darkness. “I’m not your messenger boy.” Even in the dark, Neil can feel heavy hazel eyes burning into him.

“I don’t care.” Neil storms back off to his cabin, not waiting for a response. He sends Robin an apologetic text and drops onto his bed. Half-formed plans buzz around his mind like flies, but when he eventually falls asleep, it’s with the memory of a ghostly-white bear looking into his very soul. * Thanks for reading! Chapter two is on its way. <3

#andreil #all for the game #the foxhole court #aftg #tfc #my fic

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number-one-micoverse-fan · 4 years ago

Text

Everybody Knows That Dom Has Depression Except For Dom

It’s what it says on the tin, fellas.

----------

“And I have a couple of pre-made meals for you too!” Miranda heaves a giant refrigerated bag onto the table, beaming at Dom as she rips open the velcro and starts pulling out stacks of tupperware containers.

“Pre-made…?” Dom ventures, watching with growing wonderment as the stack of containers continues to grow. That bag must be bigger on the inside.

“Yeah, meals that are already cooked up and ready to go,” Miranda explains, finally setting the bag aside and walking around to open the fridge. There’s plenty of room inside for the castle of tupperware, “So you can just pull one out, stick it in the microwave, and you’re all set! It’ll be great for those days when you’re too tired or worked too late to make something.”

Dom blinks, considers, makes a soft noise of agreement. He absently hands containers to Miranda as she fills his refrigerator. He’s trying to figure out why someone would spend this much time on him. The only conclusion he manages to come to is that he definitely needs to find a way to pay Miranda back for her generosity.

He doesn’t deserve this kind of attention.

*******

“I—I’m so sorry about this!” Dom is scurrying around the house in the pre-dawn gloom, lit only by the sodium yellow burn of the streetlights through the window and the dim light over the kitchen sink. He’s flustered and tired, his tie undone around his neck, his shirt half tucked in, and his hair a mess.

“It’s fine,” Jake is hovering in the doorway to Dom’s kitchen, his hands wrapped around a thermos of of coffee. His expression is sympathetic, if a little strained, “Seriously, it’s not a big deal.”

“I know, I know,” Dom says in a stag whisper, struggling to do up his tie and tuck in his shirt at the same time, harried and fretting and continuously glancing towards the stairs to the second floor of the house, “B-but it’s just—it’s so early and—“

“I was already up anyway.”

“—you have Milo—“

“Dan’s still at the house for him.”

“—this meeting was so last minute—“

“Employers can be jerks.”

“—but Cody—“

“Dom.”

“—I didn’t want him to wake up alone—“

“Dom!” Jake snatches at Dominic’s shoulder, stopping the other man in his tracks. Dom’s eyes are wide and worried, heavy with exhaustion and stress. Jake gives his best comforting smile, changing his grip to a gentle pat,

“It’s okay. Honestly. I’m happy to help. You’re a—a friend. And you’d do the same for Milo, yeah?”

Dom swallows, takes a deep breath and smooths the front of his shirt down, “Yeah. Of course. Thanks Jake.”

“Anytime.”

*********

Cody flops onto the couch next to his dad and offers him a bowl of popcorn.

Dom takes it hesitantly, his brow furrowed, “I thought you were going to spend time with Milo…”

“He needs to do homework,” Cody says, settling into his spot. The light from the television reflects off his glasses, “And I wanna hang out with my cool dad!” He beams up at his dad, honest happiness on his face, “What’re we watchin’?”

“O-oh, um…” The hollowed out cavern in Dom’s chest is suddenly flooding with warmth and it makes a wobbly smile spread slowly across his face, “I…I dunno, actually, I just…had the TV on. Was there something you wanted to watch?”

“Mmmm, not really. Maybe we should channel surf until we find something good!”

“Okay…”

Dom flips through some channels rather absently, asking Cody about his day, about homework, about the MiCo channel. Cody happily rambles at him about everything and Dom listens, questions, smiles until his smile can’t get any bigger. He’s not really paying attention to the television, watching Cody talk and gesture animatedly about his latest attempt at catching proof of ghosts. The teen is lit up, literally and figuratively, glowing in the blue-white of the screen, smile flashing in the shadows, hands directing his words, a conductor of his own story.

“—so the audio should be finished by—ooh! Wait go back! Go back!”

The remote almost falls out of Dom’s hands as he fumbles to change the channel again. The sports cast flickers to something softer; a crowd of people milling about or standing in lines in a large indoor area. There are tables and booths set up in the background, but the foreground is dominated by a table at which sit a middle-aged woman and an older man in a tweed jacket. On the table between them is an intricately designed lamp with a garish shade made of bright glass and brass swirls. The man in the tweed jacket is indicating areas of the lamp with a pen and talking about the authenticity of the item in a low rumble of a voice.

“The…Antique Roadshow?” Dom questions, glancing at Cody.

“Yeah! It’s kind of cool to see what historical stuff shows up and to learn the history of it,” Cody says, “Also, sometimes, me and Milo would play this game where we would guess if something is haunted or not and then try and decide what kinda ghost is doing the haunting. He gets bored of it real quick though.”

“Hm…” Dom looks back at the—frankly hideous—lamp on the screen, “Well, uh, I don’t know a lot about ghosts but…if there was a ghost haunting that thing, it would probably be someone really annoying with no taste.”

Cody laughs, “I think I would feel bad for anyone who was stuck haunting that! It’s ugly!”

Dom finds himself chuckling along with him, “A, uh, I think the word is…ostentatious?”

They both laugh.

They’re still laughing an hour or so later, when the popcorn bowls are empty and it’s gone dark outside. Cody has tucked himself against Dom’s side, Dom’s arm around his shoulders, holding him close.

The cold, bitter hole that had been chewing him up on the inside is long gone. It’s nothing but tenderness and warmth and little rays of sunshine. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Dom knows it will come back. But it’s gone, for now. And he’s warm.

He’s happy.

*********

“Ah! Here! Lemme help with that!” A burly arm sweeps out of nowhere and scoops some of grocery bags from Dom’s struggling grip. Most of the grocery bags, really.

“Thanks…” Dom breathes, sending an uneven smile up at Dan, “Sorry about the trouble…”

“Not trouble at all!” Dan’s own smile is wide and bright and honest, his stride confident and comfortable as he follows Dom to the front door, “I was just coming home and you looked like you needed some help. And it never hurts to help.”

Dom only hums in response, holding open the door to let Dan sidle past and set the groceries down in the kitchen. The house is quiet—Cody’s out, probably getting into trouble with Milo—and Dom feels selfish for enjoying the peace of it. He’s exhausted, drained, his entire body feels heavy and his thoughts are muddy. He sinks into a chair at the kitchen table and rubs his eyes. He still has to put away the groceries and make some dinner and he should probably shower and maybe he should fold those clean clothes he hasn’t touched in a week and when’s the last time he vacuumed and—

“Long day?” Dan’s voice cuts through the deluge of thoughts threatening to drown him. Dom sighs into his hands, can only nod in response because even talking feels like it would take too much energy, “Sorry you had a rough day, buddy. But, hey, lookit that! You still went and bought groceries and you’re home now! So you can relax, just a for a bit. Take a breather, Dom, you look like you need it.”

His fingers tangle in his hair as Dom raises his head to explain that while he appreciates Dan’s advice, he really doesn’t have time to sit about and daydream. But he finds himself struck a bit speechless because Dan has put all the groceries away while Dom’s just been sitting on his ass feeling sorry for himself. It doesn’t shock him that Dan knows where everything goes, just that Dan would even take the time to do it. Dom could have done it, he’d just needed a minute.

Dan’s still smiling as he folds up the paper bags and stows them in the pantry, “Oh yeah, almost forgot—would you and Cody like to join us for dinner tonight?” He straightens up, hands on his hips, a life preserver to a man floundering in a sea of responsibilities and fears, “I’m making lasagna and I always make way too much of it. And it’s been a while since we’ve had dinner together.”

The relief that makes the burdens of the day slough off his shoulders makes Dom feel like he could float away. It buzzes in his chest, louder than the nasty little voice that says he’s lazy or that he’s taking advantage of Dan’s good nature.

“Thanks, I…I’d like that…”

********

Miranda hands him a small stack of thick, hardcover books. They’re a little banged up and well loved, the spines soft and their corner dented, but they’re well cared for all the same. Dom cycles through them—there’s four of them and all of them are about woodworking of various degrees. He glances up at her, half from confusion and half from wondering if she’s trying to say something.

She’s twirling a strand of her hair around her finger, something he recognizes as a bit of a nervous habit, a twinge of uncertainty, “A coworker had a bunch of old books they were getting rid of. Brought in a couple of milk crates worth of them. I know you like working with your hands and—and building stuff, that kind of thing. So I thought I’d…snag them for you.” Her face is a delicate shade of pink and she keeps glancing at him from under her lashes.

Dom looks from her to the books. He opens the top book to a random page, skims a description of re-scaling an existing design to make a miniature version of it. He might have gotten caught up in it completely if he hadn’t been hyper away of Miranda standing in front of him.

He lets the book fall closed and smiles at her. That pleasantly warm feeling is curling in his chest again, pooling wonderfully in his stomach until his cheeks flush,

“These are—they’re awesome. Wonderful, Mira. I love them. Thank you.”

Miranda’s smiles explodes and she throws her arms around him. Her lips touch the corner of his mouth and Dom feels soda bubbles burst inside him like fireworks.

*********

Something a little like frustrated panic clutches tightly at Dom’s throat when he hears a knock on the front door.

It still feels like its on the verge of choking him when he opens the door and finds Milo standing there with a folder clutched to his chest.

“Hi, um, I know Cody’s sick but I brought his homework from school so if he feels kinda better sometime he won’t get behind in class.” Milo is unusually subdued, no doubt missing his usual partner in crime and as equally worried about Cody as Dom is.

“Thank you, Milo, that’s very kind of you.” Dom runs a hand through his hair, realizes it’s shaking and quickly takes the offered folder from Milo before the teenager can notice.

Milo rocks back on his heels, glances from Dom to the house behind him and then back to Dom, “Um. Dom—um—Mister Bridges—uh, I know—um. That is, uh…” He fidgets, fumbles, wrinkling his nose as he searches for the right words and Dom is more than prepared to tell him that no, he cannot see Cody, Jake would hang him for it if he did, when Milo blurts out,

“Do you need help with anything?”

“You ca—I…I’m sorry, what?”

Milo’s ears are red, “I, uh, d-do you need any help? With anything?” He’s tugging absently on his hoodie strings, self conscious and still rocking back and forth on his heels, “You’re probably—well I know—um. Shoot. Y-you’re taking care of Cody so I wanted…to ask…if there’s was anything…you needed help with…”

Dom hesitates, wants to tell Milo to just go home because he’s a teenager and he’s been in school all day and he deserves to enjoy his youth. But Milo’s expression is so earnest and he certainly looks like he’s been worrying and fretting all day. Dom wants to think that maybe Jake or Dan put him up to this but Milo’s still got his school bag slung over his shoulder which means he hasn’t even been home himself yet. Dom can’t fight the soft and gentle smile that appears on his face,

“Go ask your dads if they’re okay with it first. Then maybe you can help me tackle these dishes, okay?”

Milo brightens instantly, “Okay!” And he scurries off to burst into the house next door.

To be honest, Dom doesn’t expect him to come back. But he does, full of energy and ready to go. He’s a bit infectious and soon Dom finds himself caught up in the whirlwind that is Milo Junior. Dom spends his time flitting up and down the stairs between Cody’s room and the kitchen and by the time he’s gotten some food in his son and coaxed him to go back to sleep, Milo has washed and put away all the dirty dishes in the sink.

“Shhh! Don’t tell Jake I know how to load a dishwasher!” Milo hisses in a loud whisper as he shoves Dom’s dishwasher closed with a clunk, “I’ve been doing it bad on purpose so he stopped asking me!”

Dom laughs. It feels bright and hot and brilliant inside him, spilling liquid honey up his throat,

“Your secret’s safe with me.”

********

Miranda’s humming something, her fingers carding lazily through Dom’s hair. Her other hand is draped over his chest, their fingers woven together, puzzle pieces that click together perfectly. Dom’s free hand is resting at the base of his throat, his thumb idly rubbing against the edge of the top button on his shirt. He has his head on her lap, his eyes heavy and lidded and unfocused. In this moment, he simply is. He is safe and comfortable and the warm gentleness of the whole thing has him floating on a delicate cloud of candy floss and downy feathers, lethargically sinking into a hot bath of love, attention, and affection.

More out of habit than anything else, Dom glances at the clock on the television stand. It takes his tired brain a moment to process the time, but once it does, he jolts into alertness,

“Dinner! We—we gotta get ready if we’re gonna make it!”

He goes to get up, already dreading the notion of being out in public where people can see him and judge him and make their assumptions, where he has to communicate with those who don’t understand him, where out there will never be as safe as in here. It makes his stomach clench and his appetite sink rapidly into a tar pit of nausea.

“Wait.”

Miranda presses a hand to his shoulder, steers him to lay back down in her lap. Dom holds her wrist, brow furrowed,

“Mira, our dinner…”

“Let’s just…stay in.” She says in a low voice, leaning over him. Her golden hair frames her face in the lamplight, curtaining them both off from the rest of the world, “We can order some pizza or something, I don’t mind. I’d like it to just…be you and me.” She leans closer and the heat rises in Dom’s face, “Just the two of us,” She’s a breath away and Dom can smell peppermint and lilacs and just a hint of that clean, slightly chemical scent that follows a doctor everywhere,

“Together.”

If they kiss, no one would be able to see it past the golden cascades of Miranda’s hair.

Her hand stays in Dom’s and he forgets about how relieved he is that they’re staying home because he’s too busy falling in love with her all over again.

********

Cody sets a glass of water down in front of Dom, smiles when Dom looks up at him with a question on his face.

“I was getting one for myself so I got one for you too,” Cody says with a shrug, “You looked thirsty!”

It’s not until Dom takes a drink that he realizes how parched he is.

It also strikes him that he hasn’t gotten up from the table in several hours. His joints pop and groan in protest when he stands up.

The numbers and words on the bills in front of him were blurring into obscurity anyway. He’s going to check on what Cody’s up to instead.

The bills are long forgotten as he spends the rest of the day watching his son play video games, simply enjoying the enthusiastic company.

********

Dom pushes his safety glasses to the top of his head and gives up starring at the miter saw with a heavy sigh. He’s not going to be getting anything done today.

He wanders to the front of his garage and sinks down onto the pile of lumber by the open door facing the street, peeling his work gloves off his hands and dropping them onto the wood beside him. He feels heavy, like something’s pushing down on him, crushing him slowly into the dirt. All the plans he’d made for the day feel pointless and empty.

He feels pointless and empty.

And stupid.

He’s staring an infinite black hole into the pavement between his peeling sneakers when someone’s approaching footsteps make him raise his head. It feels like lifting a thousand ton weight.

Jake is standing a few feet away, hands in the pockets of his slim jeans, his button up open to show a faded band t-shirt underneath. His expression is carefully blank but he’s chewing on his bottom lip in a manner that suggests there’s a thousand thoughts going through his head.

“Hi,” Says Dom and his voice sounds flat and lifeless and it makes his throat close up.

“Hey,” Jake nods, shifts his weight awkwardly, “Mind if I, uh, take a seat?”

Dom pats the lumber next to him and Jake eases down, glancing at the wood as if checking for splinters. His hands leave his pockets and his fingers get tangled in each other, twisting in and out and over as he fidgets. Dom can see the movement out of the corner of his eye but it’s much easier to keep staring at the sun bleached pavement.

“Thought I would have heard your power tools going by now.” Jake says in a somewhat forced conversational manner. Dom shrugs, makes a noncommittal noise. Jake sighs, takes a deep breath, lets it out again, finally says in a stern voice,

“Dom. You have depression.”

That startles him out of his stupor enough to turn and look at Jake, “What? What, no. I don’t.”

Jake frowns, not in disappointment, in something like solidarity and determination, “Yes, you do.”

“No, I—“

“Dominic, I literally have depression. I know what I’m talking about.” When Dom opens his mouth to protest further, Jake cuts him off,

“You feel tired almost all the time, even when you’ve gotten enough sleep. Sometimes you don’t sleep at all and sometimes that’s all you do. You either eat too much or you don’t eat at all or you eat just enough to keep going, even when you feel nauseous at the idea of food. You get frustrated with yourself because you can’t do what you want, you feel like you never have enough energy, and you blame everything on yourself.” Jake’s talking faster now, words spilling out, a floodgate of awful truths and buried thoughts cascading out in an awful tidal wave that’s black as pitch, “You feel like everything is your fault and nothing will ever be okay ever again and you’re going to be stuck in this hellish tar pit for the rest of your life! Because there isn’t anything better! There’s nothing outside the tar pit and you’d rather let yourself sink to the bottom and drown there than try to struggle anymore because you’re tried and you’re hurt and no one can ever understand how hard it is to live like this! And even though you hate yourself for giving up you just can’t do it anymore!”

The words break off into a ringing silence.

Jake is trembling slightly, shivering in the summer heat, because it feels so damn cold all of a sudden. His eyes are bright and hard but there are tears clinging to the corners and his jaw in clenched and his gaze pins Dom to the spot with accusation and something like desperation. And maybe not a hint of fear. Dom wants to look away, to shake his head, to tell Jake he’s got it wrong. But, god, he can’t.

Not when Jake’s dropped his guard like this.

To his eternal shame, Dom’s eyes get hot and his lower lip trembles. He drops his face into his hands with a muffled curse, trying to push it all back down, trying to bury it all back where it belongs deep inside him where it can’t bother anyone else.

“Dom, please…” Jake’s hand is on his shoulder, squeezing, grounding, reassuring, “I’ve…I didn’t want to say anything, I really didn’t because—I know it’s such a hard thing—personal. And I wouldn’t have said—I would have left this alone if I thought you were…” He trails off, steels himself, takes a shaky breath,

“Cody came to talk to me.”

Dom looks up at him, can’t decide if he’s horrified or in despair or hurt. Jake looks apologetic, his expression crinkling up and his hands shaking, holding himself steady despite the lingering threads of fear tugging at him to run from the situation.

“Cody?” Dom croaks, hates that he sounds so damaged, hates that it’s another thing to prove Jake right, “Is he—“

“Cody’s fine, this was a while ago.” Jake’s gaze darts away, comes back, drops to his knees, looks up at Dom again, “I just…wasn’t sure how to approach you about it.” A weird, slightly manic and cynical chuckle rattles out of his lungs, “I guess now’s a good a time as any.” Seriousness falls back into place, a door clicking shut but the key still in the lock,

“He approached me because…because he knows you’re hurting. Dom, he came up to me and he was trying hard not to cry and he told me “I think my dad’s sick and he won’t get help”.”

Dom thinks his heart shatters into a million pieces when he hears those words. His shaking hands fist into the front of his paint-stained shirt and he makes a choked off noise that desperately wants to be a sob, but Dom refuses to let it be.

Jake expression is desperate, begging, pleading for Dom to understand, “He knows something’s wrong and he wants to know how to help you. I know this probably isn’t something you want to hear, that it’s—it’s such an impossible thing to try and process but, Dom, he’s just a kid and he knows that you’re not doing okay.”

And Dominic Bridges finally breaks.

Right there, on a pile of lumber in his garage, talking to his neighbor, he puts his face in his hands and he cries.

Because he knows Jake is right.

And it kills him.

********

“It’s okay, I’ll be right out here for you,” Miranda says quietly, squeezing Dominic’s hand in her own, “I’m really proud of you for doing this.”

Dom is shaking in his seat, his leg bouncing insistently, cold sweat sticking to the back of his shirt. His mouth is dry and every time he swallows that just seems to make it worse. He feels like his voice is stuck somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes and he wants so badly to trample it as he runs out the building.

But there’s a fee for canceling appointments after 24 hours and Miranda has taken the time to come with him and she’d be so disappointed and—

—and Dom actually wants to try.

So when the therapist steps into the waiting room and calls his name, he takes a deep breath and stands up. His legs are jelly and he thinks he might pass out and some part of him is screaming that this is a waste of his time and money and he shouldn’t be here. But when he glances over his shoulder at Miranda before he walks through the door, she gives him a huge smile and makes a little heart with her hands.

And Dom thinks that maybe, just this one time, he can try and do something for himself for a change.

#-dabs in clinical depression-#whoa sage wrote something that's not angst and horror! surprise!#dominic #fan fiction

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introvert-no-chameleon · 4 years ago

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Chapter 2: Monstrous Consequences

I almost forgot to put the text version on Tumblr!

Here’s chapter 2 of Of Monsters and McGuckets. The next chapter will probably be a big one, since I have a better idea where the story is going now, so it might take longer than just a couple of days for me to write and edit.

Don’t worry, folks. I fully plan on seeing this fic through.

Chapter 1 on Tumblr, if you don’t use/like Archive of Our Own.

Fiddleford usually made a point to ignore the way the Pines brothers acted on the rare occasions where they all shared a meal, despite the offense it was to his Southern upbringing. His Ma would’ve slapped him across the head if he didn’t chew with his mouth closed or say grace before every meal (a habit he kept even long after he stopped going to church).

He’d hate to imagine what she’d do if he ever ate like his two housemates. Stanley paid as much mind to table manners as he did the law, which was none. Sometimes he’d chew with his mouth open just to tick Fiddleford off, and even go as far as putting his muddy boots on the table if he really wanted to get a rise out of his boyfriend. On the other end of the spectrum sat Stanford, who either inhaled his food in a hurry to get back to his research or left it on his plate until it got too cold to eat while he made field notes.

Yet even those memories were not nearly as bad as the scene unfolding in front of him. Stanford had his paws splayed on the table, his face shoved on to his plate. Egg and grease smeared all over his mouth, and Stanford didn’t seem to notice. The silverware lay unused next to Stanford’s plate, jingling whenever he shifted to get a better angle.

Fiddleford held the edge of the table in a death grip to prevent his employer from tipping it over, and only for that reason. It certainly wasn’t because he was getting very uncomfortable staring at those large, powerful jaws rip into his bacon with a growl, while he held it in place with one paw, like a lion would, he imagined, tear into a dead gazelle. Nor did it have anything to do with the earlier, far too casual comment about Stanford wanting to maul things.

Not at all. If Fiddleford happened to take a big gulp of coffee that felt like tar coming down his throat, that was just because of something else.

He took a chance to see how Stanley was doing. His boyfriend poked at his food with the edge of a claw, and Fiddleford wondered if he could even eat, or if he needed to in this form. Just as he meant to ask, Stan chewed his bacon, shrugged, tipped the contents inside his mouth, and swallowed his entire breakfast and the ceramic plate with a loud crunch. And burped afterward.

Fiddleford quietly sipped the rest of his coffee for the remainder of the meal and made a note to avoid eating with them until they got turned back to normal.

After the ordeal that was breakfast, they finally began retracing their steps to the lake. The woods in Gravity Falls managed to have an underlying, buzzing energy to it. It felt as if everything, even the trees themselves, were teeming with life, a fact that used to fill Fiddleford with wonderment. However, as he became aware of the fact that not everything in the forest was as keen as respecting sentient life as he was, that excitement got replaced by the kind of dread that settled heavy on his shoulders and wouldn't be shaken off until he was back in the safety of their home.

Stanford was excitedly talking about the notes he’d just made as they walked. Even with his ever-present anxiety, Fiddleford still found himself listening to what little they knew of their most recent discovery.

“I’ve decided to call the mysterious liquid in the lake Fluvius Cantatis,” said Stanford, ducking under a branch. “Judging by the fact that I saw a few deer drink from the lake and suffer no outward symptoms, I’m guessing the water only affects humans.”

Stanley walked right through the branch, snapping it by just walking into it. The man didn’t flinch. Heck, Fiddleford would be surprised if he’d noticed it.

“That’s mighty interestin’,” said Fiddleford. “Perhaps the water’s been enchanted? Or…cursed?” He shuddered at the thought. If exploring Gravity Falls had taught him anything, it was that curses were stubborn, tricky things that weren’t dealt with so easily.

“Both are a possibility,” said Stanford, nonplussed. “If it was, indeed, enchanted, then there’s a good chance that we may be able to figure it out with some study. I’ve learned a few spells from the walls of that cavern we explored while finding Mothman, so it may help us get back to normal.”

“I sure hope so,” said Fiddleford. “There ain’t no tellin’ what might happen if ya stay like this too long.”

“Yeah, like how I’m going to use the toilet when I’m a giant rock,” said Stanley with a smirk.

Stanford rolled his eyes and continued forward.

“Don’t be crude, Stanley,” said Fiddleford.

The gargoyle shrugged. “Just tryin’ to lighten the mood.” He noticed Fiddleford adjust his backpack for the third time in the last minute. “You, uh, need help there, Fidds?”

“If yer careful,” he said, placing the heavy bag on the ground. Now that he was free of the weight, his shoulders began to ache something awful. Fiddleford cracked his back as he straightened up, groaning. For the fourth time that week, he thought about finally getting around to making that appointment with the town chiropractor.

“Jeez, what’re you carrying in this thing?” Stanley picked up the pack and flipped the top open.

Inside were two pairs of thick rubber gloves, a few beakers wrapped in bubble wrap, metal tongues, a thermometer, glass jars with lids and an entire hazmat suit that Stanley had “borrowed” from some godforsaken government facility one night he and Stanford had gotten while drunk out of their minds. (Those were the only details he'd been given in regards to what went down that night, and after careful consideration, Fiddleford decided that it was probably for the best that it stayed that way).

Stanley raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “A bit much, dontcha think?”

Fiddleford huffed. “One of us has to be careful. That lake don’t sit right with me, an’ it’s better if one of us isn’t affected by whatever yer afflictions are.”

Stanley swung the backpack over one shoulder. “Relax, I’m pretty sure ya gotta bathe in this stuff for it to do anything. Me an’ Ford jumped right into it.”

“We don’t know that,” said Fiddleford. “An’ I don’t want to take any chances.”

Stanley cast a glance at his brother, who was walking ahead of them, focusing on re-discovering the path they’d went on yesterday. He put a hand on Fiddleford’s shoulder. Even with Stanley being as gentle as could be, the weight of his hand felt crushing. He sucked in a breath.

“Sorry! Shit, I didn’t mean—”

“I-it’s okay. Yer just stronger than usual, s’all.”

Stanley’s joints made a grinding sound as he retracted his hand and let it fall by his side. He cleared his throat. “Look, I’m right here whatever happens, alright? And uh,” He cleared his throat. “If Ford gets carried away, just let me know and I’ll wrestle him back to the shack with us if I haveta.”

“I-I may frighten easy, but there’s no need to be tip-toeing around me as if I’m some sorta newborn kitten.” He forced himself to fake what he’d hoped looked like a reassuring smile.

Stanley frowned, and Fiddleford didn’t need a magic spell to know that the man disagreed. “Look, Fidds. I guess we haven’t really talked about this, an’ this might not be the best place to have this conversation, but…I can’t help but notice you’ve been more on edge lately.”

The way he said those things made the Southern man bristle. He crossed his arms. “I don’t follow.” Fiddleford’s tone was about as inviting as a grizzly bear in a picnic. “Whatever happened to me bein’ more assertive?”

“Hey, I meant that. But…” Stan rubbed the back of his neck. The friction made a grinding sound that only served to worsen Fiddleford’s nerves. “Fidds. Come on. You jump outta your seat if you so much as see a gnome—”

“Those little devils kidnapped me, if ya haven’t forgotten!”

Stanley winced, probably remembering the “Gnome Incident”, as they all called it. It was a sore subject for Fiddleford. Not only did he get mistaken for a woman, but he also ended up getting dragged halfway through the forest by an army of small but astonishingly strong men while tied up like a hog. When Stanley and Stanford came to help after at least a half-hour of humiliation, they’d gotten so many bite marks and bruises from the whole rescue mission that they’d almost considered going to the hospital. The remaining shred of their dignities had been the only reason they hadn’t.

As if that all hadn’t been bad enough, the ropes had left some nasty cuts on Fiddleford’s wrists and ankles. It took weeks for them to heal, and to this day Stanley would still punt away any gnomes that were unfortunate enough to be in Fiddleford’s vicinity.

“Yeah, that’s my point. You’ve just been more jumpy, and…” Stanley seemed to be struggling to get the words out of his mouth. He was squirming where he stood.

In other circumstances, Fiddleford wouldn’t have given him such a hard time. Stan was being more open with his emotions, and that wasn’t easy for him. The young scientist just wished it hadn’t been this particular subject he’d decided to be open about. “An’ what?”

“Look, I’m getting’ kinda worried. You looked like you were about to have a heart attack this mornin’ when we came to the shack.”

Fiddleford set his jaw. “Is that what this mornin’ was? Ya thought that I’d still have my tail stuck between mah legs even after I knew it was you?” He hadn’t expected his anxiety to be so obvious, and now that he knew it was, it was like having someone tear his clothes off in the middle of the town. “Well, excuse me for exercisin’ some caution!”

Stan raised his hands at him, defensively. “Hey, that ain’t what I meant.”

Fiddleford squared his shoulders. “You think that just ‘cause I’m not as well-adjusted to this town’s strangeness as the two of ya, I should just stay inside and have my nose in a book or tinkerin’ away while ya and yer brother do all the dangerous work!”

In actuality, the thought of him doing just that appealed to him greatly, but he wasn’t about to admit that. “I’ll have ya know, I’m an inventor! I’ve made things that could fry a man in two flicks of a lamb’s tail!”

Stanley’s brows furrowed. “I have…no idea what that means.”

“It means, Stanley, that I ain’t some dainty thing that ya need to protect. I’m a grown man with a son of mine own, and I’m more than capable of lookin’ after myself!”

“Fidds, come on! Don’t be like that!”

But Fiddleford had stomped past Stanley, keeping his gaze straight ahead. He caught up with Stanford, who had just came across a couple of bushes that Fiddleford assumed concealed the entrance to the lake.

“Ah, perfect,” said Stanford, blissfully unaware of the tension between Fiddleford and Stanley (business as usual, then). “It’s right past here. Allow Stanley and I to go first. After all, we have already been exposed, and there’s—”

That was it. Fiddleford walked ahead, ignoring whatever was about to come out of Stanford’s mouth. Which was not, he quickly realized, an intelligent thing to do, as his next step sent him sliding down a steep dirt slope that had no business being there.

The twins called his name somewhere behind him, but it was too late. He was tumbling down, the world a blur of browns and greens. He inhaled some dirt and coughed in a vain attempt to clear his burning lungs. Just as he thought he’d be doing this forever, he splashed into a body of knee-deep water and stopped moving.

And now there he was, on his hands and knees, looking like a right fool, in front of his boss and boyfriend, no less. He sighed, bringing a shaky hand to his face, staring down at his reflection. The water had a strange purple hue. Wasn’t that just his luck that he wiped his face with water that had probably been contaminated or—

“Oh,” he said, staring at his palms. The skin began to tingle, glowing with a soft purple light. “Shit.”

A headache that felt as if the Devil Himself had just driven spikes into Fiddleford’s head had him doubling over. The pain was strongest on the left and right sides of his skull. His legs ached, and his feet felt numb. He watched with detached, morbid fascination as they broke through his shoes and got longer, until he was staring, slack-jawed at a set of rabbit feet. He wiggled the toes, his brain still struggling to process his new, horrifying reality.

The entire bottom half of him was part hare, tufts of chestnut brown fur poking out of the waistline of his now torn-up pants. He tried standing up, gasping as his head swung back, heavier than he’d ever remembered it being. He quickly held it in place with his (thank goodness!) human hands. Licking his lips, he brought his hands up to the top of his head. His fingers caressed what felt an awful lot like two large antlers, and a pair of rabbit ears.

A jackalope. He was a jackalope.

Of all the things, of all the mythological creatures in all of existence, he was a goddamn hare with antlers, because life had decided that Fiddleford McGucket hadn’t suffered enough today. The only solace he found was the fact that his face was still human, if the reflection of the lake was anything to go by, which was at least something. He’d probably drown himself right then and there if he had a rabbit nose or some other nonsense like that.

Fiddleford dragged himself out of the lake. The water didn’t drip or fall off his skin. Instead, his body seemed to absorb it. That wasn’t worrying at all.

“Fidds, are you okay? Shit, hold on, I’m almost there!”

Stanley skid down the slope and ran towards him. His wings were raised off the ground so he could run without tripping over them, and his eyes glowed more intensely than he’d seen them yet. Stanford wasn’t far behind, his wings occasionally flapping to help him keep his balance.

The usual sense of relief he’d get whenever Stanley came to his aid was, to his increasing concern, being overrun by something else. It was like somebody had flipped a switch inside of him, activating a strong, fight-or-flight instinct that Fiddleford couldn’t ignore even if he wanted to.

Suddenly, his mind didn’t see Stanley Pines, his beloved partner, and Stanford Pines, his good friend and employer. All he could take in were teeth and jaws and claws that could gut a creature like himself in seconds. This new instinct was worse than any panic attack he’d ever had, his throat tightening, his breathing labored, his head throbbing, seemingly taking over his own body, which began to move as if on its own accord.

He ran back in the woods, getting as far away from Stanley as his legs would carry him, which turned out to be incredibly far, incredibly fast. His heart thumped against his chest as he kept moving forward, crashing through bushes, any coherent thought was far gone, replaced with the need to get away now.

Had he been in his right mind, he’d have noticed Stanley’s big, heartbroken eyes on his back until he was out of sight, swallowed up by Gravity Falls’ forest.

Stanford caught up to Stanley just as the latter watched his boyfriend run into the forest at a pace that would almost put Stan’s car to shame. He’d barely seen what Fiddleford had turned into after falling into the lake, but whatever it was looked like some weird bunny-thing that probably had little to no way to defend itself. Well, he guessed running like hell was a damn good way to defend oneself. Couldn’t argue with the results.

“Great.” Stanley held his head. “Just fuckin’ peachy.”

“That could have gone better,” said Stanford.

“You decide to become Captain Obvious today or somethin’?” snapped Stanley. He gestured towards the direction Fiddleford went. “How the fuck are we gonna find him?”

“Calm down, Stan. I have a plan.” Ford pushed his glasses up his nose. “Do you remember those microchips that Fiddleford made?”

Stanley stared at his brother as if he’d just started speaking another language. “Sixer, this ain’t time for your nerd talk, Fidds could get eaten by a mountain lion or bear if we don’t do somethin’!”

Ford glared at him. “This is why I’m bringing it up. Fiddleford it to help us track each other in the case that one of us gets abducted again.” Ford rummaged through the knapsack he always brought with him and pulled out a clunky metal remote with a glass screen. He turned it on. “Aha!”

“What?”

“It’s working magnificently! Fiddleford will be pleased to know that the remote has no problems picking up his signal.”

Stan loved his brother, he really did, but it was shit like his brother managing to be excited about some science gizmo while his friend was hopping around the woods in a panic that really tested his patience. “Yeah, I’m sure he’d also love to be alive to talk about it, so why don’t ya shut yer yap for five seconds so we can get him?”

Ford huffed. He stared back down at the screen. “He’s going towards the middle of the forest, so at least he isn’t near any caves.” He stopped talking, eyes widening. “We need to move. He’s coming across Manotaur territory.”

Stanley swore. “Then let’s go already!”

“Stan, you’re slower like this. You should let me—”

“Oh, hell no, Pointdexter. I’m not waitin’ here while you go off after him. He’s gonna freak out if he sees you alone.”

Ford opened his mouth, saw the expression that Stan had on his face, and let whatever stupid thing he was going to tell Stan, die. “Fine but try not to lose me. I’m going to have to…” He sighed. “Run on four legs.”

Even in his state of mind, Stanley couldn’t resist grinning. “Maybe this situation isn’t all bad.”

Ford took off his boot and threw it at his brother. It bounced off him. Stan didn’t even feel it.

“Fiddleford better be grateful for this,” muttered Ford as he freed himself of his other shoe and began to—there was no other word for it—gallop in the direction Fiddleford went.

Filing the mental image of his brother running around like a giant housecat for later, Stan lumbered behind him. He was determined to keep up, not wanting to waste more time.

#of monsters and mcguckets #fiddlestan #mystery trio #mystery trio au #monster falls #fiddleford hadron mcgucket #fiddleford mcgucket #young fiddleford #young stanley pines #young stanford pines #young stan bros #gargoyle!stan #sphinx!ford #jackalope!fiddleford #archive of our own #my writing

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danyka-fendyr · 5 years ago

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Don’t Call Me Pumpkin

Hey everyone! So, I’m determined to put out my promised 3 Spencer Reid Halloween fics, but also I’m a lazy hoe. Which brings us to where we are now. Me, watching The Haunting of Hill House, writing a Spencer Reid Halloween fic that takes place on a pumpkin farm. Because I desperately want to go to a pumpkin farm even though there is not one even anywhere remotely near me because I live in one of the sunniest places in the world now and pumpkins would DIE here. This has not been edited. Fight me.

Wordcount: 1681

Permanent Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

Warnings: None. All fluff. A little bit of innuendo.

“Spence, seriously, where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere fun,” he promised.

“C’mon. At least give me a vague statistic for a hint baby.”

You fussed with the blindfold Spencer had reluctantly put on you. He hadn’t wanted to, but you had been more than up for it since you loved a good surprise. Spencer rarely surprised you, so you knew the surprise factor had to be important to him. Hence one of his purple ties currently being on your face.

“Okay.” You could hear him blushing from being called baby. “Over 800 million of what we’re going to see are currently available in the U.S.”

“Oh my gosh you’re taking me to a strip club?”

“No!” Spencer frantically objected.

You laughed. “I was kidding, Spence. I know that’s not your thing. You prefer blindfolds, right?”

You wiggled your partially obscured eyebrows.

“Sweetheart,” he whined.

“Hey, you know there’s no judgment from me. I hate handcuffs, so we’re even. But seriously, are we almost there?”

“Yeah, we are. Just a couple more minutes.”

You could hear gravel crunching under the wheels of the car, and you were forced to wonder once again where you were. Knowing your boyfriend, he could have taken you anywhere. He was almost never spontaneous, which only served to make his spontaneity more so. After a few moments, you felt the car come to a stop, and you couldn’t contain your grin.

“Are we here?”

“Your use of the present tense on the word here would indicate that you already know we are, in fact, here.”

“You’re right, I do. Now get me out of this car so we can do a dramatic blindfold removal!”

Spencer laughed before coming over to your side of the car and opening the door for you, taking your hand and helping you out. He placed his hands on your shoulders, steering you forward towards wherever he planned on taking off this blindfold, while you didn’t even bother trying to contain your smile. It smelled like dirt, and you had a few theories as to where you might be.

“Okay, are you ready?” He asked.

“No. There’s one more thing I want to do before you take off the blindfold. Can you turn me around?”

Confused, Spencer did as you asked, and you carefully placed your hands on his face so you had an idea of where you were going before you leaned forward and kissed him. Tasted like coffee and cinnamon, just like he always did. You could do this all day, but you had a surprise to get to, so you pulled back.

“What was that for?”

“So I could see if I liked it.” You shrugged.

“...Well? Did you?” He asked.

“Baby, I always like kissing you. Now let’s do this thing.”

“Okay pumpkin,” he said.

Every fiber in your body stiffened as it hit you. Spencer never called you pumpkin. You had to drive a while, certainly long enough to get out of the city. It smelled like fresh dirt.

At the same moment he removed the blindfold, you yelled, “Babe! Don’t call me pumpkin!”

You pouted, glaring over your shoulder at his handsome, handsome face.

“I waited until we were here!” He justified.

“Still ruined the whole surprise.” You sighed, staring out at the vast fields of pumpkins before you.

“Is it ruined if I say we can pick out any pumpkin you want?”

You gasped, suddenly giddy. “Can we get multiple pumpkins?”

“Whatever you want, love.”

“I love you!” You threw your arms around him, letting him catch you.

He laughed, setting you down again after a moment. “C’mon, let’s go.”

You two made your way through the pumpkin patches, and you both inspected every pumpkin that came your way. You had gone pumpkin hunting with Spencer before, so you knew how this worked. He was looking for a pumpkin that matched certain characteristics he had in mind, the most halloweeny pumpkin, the pumpkin to rule over all other pumpkins if you will. You, on the other hand, were looking for something a little bit less exact. You were on the hunt for your pumpkin.

You never knew what it was going to look like, but every year, you went in search of the pumpkin that was right for you. It called to you, in all of its sweet orange glory, a bright beacon in the midst of all of these other pedestrian pumpkins. It was somewhere in this field, waiting for you to find it. Your pumpkin soulmate, if you will, ready to be taken home with your more human soulmate.

“Do you see anything?” Spencer asked you.

Some years, you found your pumpkin in the first sweep of the fields. You would see it and you would just immediately know. Last year had been one of those years, and Spencer had come to dread them since they meant him wandering a pumpkin patch with a very heavy pumpkin in his arms that you insisted was your baby and that no one else could have. This year was not to be one of those years though.

“No. Not yet. Which is kind of a bummer since I was hoping to check you out. I didn’t get to stare at you in the car like I usually do. My day feels incomplete without a chance to drool over you. I’ve been deprived.”

Spencer blushed. He was so easily flustered. It was one of the things you had loved about him, even before you started dating. The cute little way his ears would turn red and he would stare down at his feet, fix his tie. Today he wasn’t wearing a tie though, instead, just a sweater that you knew was very, very soft from all the times you had stolen it from him.

“C’mon silly. Let’s go look for your elusive pumpkin.”

“You’re deflecting Dr. Reid,” you sing-songed.

“I am not deflecting, I am prioritizing. Can you think of anything more important than pumpkins right now?”

“You.”

An easy answer, and it made him blush again. It was going to be a great day.

It was set to be a great day regardless though. The sky was the perfect shade of cloudless, washed-out blue, almost gray, and the air was perfectly crisp. The dirt in the pumpkin patch was exactly the right consistency between dry and muddy, and overall, conditions seemed to be perfect. Plus Spencer knew how cold you got and made sure you had dressed appropriately.

You two wandered through the pumpkin fields for hours. It took Spencer a long time to find his pumpkin. He was pretty hardcore about exactly how long the vine had to be. You put him to shame though.

“Seriously love? Nothing yet?” Spencer said around a rather rotund pumpkin.

“No. But we’re close. I can feel it.”

You had been saying this for the past three hours since you had arrived.

“All I’m saying is, maybe we could take a break. I could take this guy back to the car, we could buy some apple cider...I hear it’s really good here.”

Your boyfriend’s persuasion meant nothing to you though, as you stopped dead in your tracks.

“That’s it.”

“What, the apple cider?”

“No, Spence, that’s it!” You said excitedly, pointing at one of the many orange gourds in the patch. “That’s the one!”

“Oh thank goodness,” Spencer huffed, adjusting the pumpkin already in his arms.

You beamed proudly at a rather large pumpkin. You might not be able to carry it, actually. You should have gotten a wheelbarrow, but you hadn’t exactly thought this through. It was incredibly round, but not too round, not quite preternaturally so. It’s vine was cut quite close, which you weren’t generally fond of, but you liked on this particular pumpkin. It looked a little dinged up, but you didn’t mind. It was the one.

“What are you going to name it?” Then, before you could answer. “Might I suggest Curbit?”

“Spence, my darling, I love you more than life itself, but that name sounds like Kermit the frog if he was a traffic cop.”

“It’s a shortening of Cucurbita Pepo, the technical name for pumpkin,” Spencer said, sounding slightly offended by your description of his name.

“Tell you what, next year I’ll name my pumpkin Curbit and you can name yours Pep, but this guy? This guy is a Gourdy.”

“Gourdy? You sure?”

“Yep. Positive.”

“Okay.” Spencer grinned at you over the top of his pumpkin.

“Now I just have to survive carrying him out of here.”

It wasn’t easy carrying Gourdy out of the pumpkin patch. It involved a lot of huffing and puffing from both of you since Spencer was still carrying his own pumpkin which he had named Peter. Eventually, though, you made it out and got yourself a wheelbarrow so that you could continue browsing your selection of gourds.

You and Spencer bought several different various other gourds, less picky in your pursuit of these. They would probably just end up eaten at the end of the day, so looks mattered less than potential taste. When you were finished though, you were more than satisfied with your selection.

“So, did you have fun today?” Spencer asked, wheeling your purchases back to the car.

“Um, heck yeah!”

“Good. I was hoping that would be a good surprise.” He smiled at you.

“It definitely was.” You picked up your pumpkin, setting it securely in the back of Spencer’s car before sticking your hand securely in Spencer’s back pocket. You absolutely adored the surprised look that crossed his face before fading into a very smug smirk. He leaned forward to kiss you, pulling you closer with one hand while the other tangled into your hair.

“Hey,” he said. “You know what I think we should do when we get home?”

You grinned, pulling your lower lip between your teeth. “Pumpkin carving?”

Spencer shook his head, laughing at you before detaching himself and putting his own pumpkin in the back of the car. “Yeah, pumpkin. That’s exactly what I think we should do.”

#spencer reid #dr. spencer reid #doctor spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid oneshot #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #criminal minds #cm #criminal minds:ff #cm:ff #matthew gray gubler #mgg

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littlekatleaf · 5 years ago

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Buried in a burning flame is love and its decisive pain (part 3)

Part One

Part Two

“Did ya see that shit,” Junkrat said as he squeezed close to the door to let Roadhog have room next to him. “Bloody fuckin’ bonzer, mate. Blasted those dipsticks back to the scrap heap. An’ the fire, what a beaut.” Only had to blink to feel it again. The weightlessness of flying. The OR14 exploding into scrap. The whooshing rush as air filled the explosion’s vacuum. The flames. The burn. The acrid stench of sulfur and potassium. “Fuckin’ did it. Fuckin’ won!”

“For the love of God, shut up.” Roadhog interrupted and only then did the silence of the others register.

Tracer’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel, her jaw clenched. Mei stared out the window, pointedly ignoring him. Even Lucio and D.Va were quiet.

He frowned. Missed something, somewhere. Cast his thoughts back. “No one hurt?” Assumed someone woulda said immediately, or just gone without waiting for him and Roadhog.

“None of us,” Mei said shortly, emphasizing the ‘us’.

“Someone else?” Flash of Emily and Tracer forehead to forehead.

“Don’t know. Tracer can’t reach them on her com.”

Junkrat sat back. “Shit. Didn’t think...”

“Of course not! You never do. An idea crosses what passes for your mind and you’re off doing something on your own - something incredibly insane and dangerous - and paying no attention to what you’re supposed to be doing. What you were ordered to do.”

“Coulda left me.” Came out a little more defensive than he meant it, but hell, was true.

“And the team’d be two men short because Roadhog was trying to keep your stupid, scrawny ass alive.”

“What if you’d gotten hurt? Or Roadhog? We wouldn’t have known or been able to help you,” Lucio added, quietly.

“Been fine on our own plenty of times.” Swallowed hard as he said it - hadn’t really thought about Roadie gettin’ hurt. Mei’s right - you never think. Rubbed his forehead, as if he’d get rid of the voice that way.

“It’s not how we do it, Junkrat. You know that,” Hana said. The disappointment in her expression was a kick in the teeth. Rather have Mei yellin’ at him.

He did know that. He’d just forgotten. Or maybe not really understood. Made no sense. Sure Roadhog saved his ass any number of times even when it put him in the line of fire - but that was a job. Doing shit for dosh, made sense. This? This made none. Mei didn’t like him, Tracer didn’t seem to have an opinion either way - he sure as shit wasn’t as important as her Emily. An’ while he reckoned Hana and Lucio liked him fine enough, they’d known Emily and Satya far longer. Just stood to reason they’d add it up and let him ‘n Roadie fend for themselves. Simple matter of maths. Apparently he’d missed something in the calculation. Mei tallied it for you - six necessary to succeed. Subtract two and you fail. Really, Jamison - must you be so stupid?

Tracer parked the ute where it would be hidden by the Orca. The brilliant blue sky glared down at them; sun reflected off the metal of the ship and the snow covered trees and into Junkrat’s eyes. His head throbbed and he squinted against it. Adrenaline still fizzed through him, making his teeth want to chatter and his hands shake. Or maybe it was the cold again? The sweat of the fight had cooled in the winter wind. Shoved fists into his pockets, followed Roadhog and the others, head down.

Silence. No sign of bots; no sign of Emily or Satya neither. Least the traps hadn’t been tripped. Tracer reached out and rapped a pattern on the door. No more than a second passed before it was yanked wide and Emily fell into Tracer’s arms.

“You’re all right!” Emily said, breathlessly.

Was like Tracer faded into Lena as he watched. The tension bled from her body as she held Emily close. “So are you,” she murmured into Emily’s hair.

“What happened,” Satya asked, putting an arm around Mei and drawing her inside. They all followed.

“There was an attack, like Morrison warned. But the settlement was deserted. No one’d been there in weeks. Lena thought it meant they’d be coming for you and Emily. You are okay?” Mei studied her carefully, like she might be hiding something.

Satya nodded. “We are. It has been quiet.”

“So much for a relaxing vacation.” Mei gusted out a breath, laughed, and just like that the tension dissipated. Lena and Emily disappeared to their room, likely to have a naughty. Satya and Mei lingered for only a second before disappearing as well. Hana and Lucio took over the vid screen for a game. Roadhog picked up his book, but Junkrat could tell he was watching Hana play more than actually reading.

Suddenly feeling like a puppet with its strings cut, Junkrat slumped. Adrenaline’d been the only thing keeping him going and now that it was gone he needed to crash. Made his slightly unsteady way to the bedroom, stripped off his shirt and pants - reeked of sweat and explosives - and flopped onto the cot without taking off his prosthetics. Waking up so early after late night whiskey was kicking his ass. He’d just rest a minute, til the headache fucked off.

“Junkrat? … Hey, Junkrat?”

“Mmf…?” He surfaced from sleep like he’d been underwater, disoriented. Where…? He squinted at the sunlight streaming in the window, then discovered Emily hovering in the doorway, looking uncomfortable. Right - Taos. Vacation. And, if the way he felt at the moment was any indication, a burgeoning case of the wog. Just fucking aces. He resisted the urge to sniffle and raised a brow at Emily. “Needed somethin’, mate?”

“Um. Roadhog asked me to wake you - food’s ready, if you’re hungry.” Her gaze skittered over him, and he realized somewhat belatedly that the sheet’d slipped low over his hips. Least his bits were still covered.

“Be there in a tick,” Junkrat said. He sat up, snagged a t-shirt and yanked it over his head. “Tell him not to be such a bloody bludger next time.”

“Might, if I had the first clue what that means.”

Junkrat laughed. “Just sayin’ he’s a lazy bastard, making ya do his dirty work.”

“Not a big deal,” Emily shrugged. “He’s in the middle of a game with Hana.”

Soon as she was gone, he let himself slump back on the pillow again. His head felt heavy, thoughts slow and muddy. Truth was, he wasn’t hungry. Would really rather go back to sleep, but then they’d figure out something was wrong. He was always hungry. So he pushed himself to stand, tugged on a relatively clean pair of pants, raked a hand through his hair and headed for the stairs.

Unfortunately, standing up seemed to redistribute the congestion in his head and his nose prickled. Tried a small sniff, but it didn’t help, the sensation only increased. He hunched his shoulders, pinched his nose and squelched the sneeze into silence. Fuck it hurt, always felt like he was exploding his brain when he did that. But was better than anyone suspecting. He knuckled his nose roughly, and the itch faded.

Someone’d made brekkie for… well, whatever meal it was. Maybe scrambled eggs and toast wouldn’t kill him. And coffee. Needed fuckin’ loads of coffee. Snagged a chair between Roadie and Lucio.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Hana said, toasting him with her coffee cup, then narrowed her eyes. “Mostly, that is.”

“Yeah, you look rough, man. You okay?” Lucio asked.

“’M fine. Little too much ta drink last night, reckon.” Felt Roadie giving him a look behind the mask. Ignored him.

Lena laughed. “I’ve seen you drink way more than that. Sure you didn’t get hurt blowing yourself up?”

“Fuck no. Done that millions a times. Worked up mines special. Wanna try it?”

“Fuck no,” she echoed and he laughed.

“It’s a rush. All that power… Closest thing ta flyin’.”

“I’ll stick to the Orca, thanks.”

Waved away her concern. “Ah, it’s safe as houses.”

Lena looked meaningfully at his mech arm and he faked an expression of affront.

“That ain’t got nothin’ to do with me own work. How could you even think it?”

“How did it happen, then,” Mei asked, like she didn’t believe him.

Yes, Jamison. Tell them how it happened. Mouth went dry and it took him a second to swallow the bite of eggs he’d taken without choking. Cleared his throat. “Not really a story for dinner table convo,” he managed and took a long drink of coffee.

“A better story is how he got the gold tooth,” Roadhog said and launched into a woefully unembellished tale of the bar fight and subsequent need for a replacement tooth. Somehow this led to other stories about heists gone wrong in various ways … your fault… and the others were laughing and sure he’d laughed at his own cock ups plenty of times but there was an odd echoing edge of this laughter and it scraped against his skin like sandpaper. Rubbed a hand through his hair. Leg started jittering. Got up, took his unfinished plate and Roadhog’s empty one and left them in the sink, trying not to notice that his hand was shaking.

Listen to them laughing. You think you can trust them? In the joke, you’re the punchline. Ain’t the way it is. No? Wait until they see how weak you really are. See if they keep you around then - or if it’s just Roadhog they want. But we’re a…

A what, Jamison? What are you and Roadhog?

... A duo. Where I go, he goes. He’s my… my bodyguard. And when he gets a better offer? One where he won’t have to put up with you? Suddenly a hand touched his arm and he jumped.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Lucio said apologetically. “You sure you’re okay?” He frowned, reached toward Junkrat’s forehead. “You feel a little warm.”

Junkrat stepped back, out of reach. “I’m f…” but even as he was saying it, he realized he was about to sneeze. Shit. He just managed to twist to the side, ducking away from Lucio. “Ah’Riiish!”

“Santinho,” Lucio said.

Only a second for a breath before another hit. “Ah’Riiish-iish!”

“Deus te ajude.”

Another breath, another sneeze. “Ah’Riiish-uh!”

“Deus, te faça feliz.” Lucio handed him a tissue.

Junkrat blew his nose. “What ya sayin’, mate?”

Lucio shrugged. “Just what my grandma used to say when I was a kid. Don’t usually get to say all three, though.”

“Aww, you got Roadhog’s cold,” Hana said. “How’d that happen?” Her tone was teasing, insinuating. “No, ‘m fine,” Junkrat said, but spoiled it by sneezing again. Least this time he had tissues.

“Gross, you’re like a plague rat,” Mei said and Hana actually laughed. See?

“Rack off,” Junkrat said. Hadn’t thought Hana would laugh at him. Not really.

“She didn’t mean anything by it.” Satya looked at him flatly.

“Fuck you.”

“Rat.” Roadhog’s voice was low, warning.

“Nah, fuck this.” Out out out. Had to get out. Get away. He turned and, yanking his jacket from the peg by the door, slammed out.

#snezfic #oversnez #constitutionally incapable of writing shortfic #finally got there #rat what is you doin #haha messed up my own title

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name-me-regret · 4 years ago

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Us, The Martians 1/?

Us, The Martians Prologue

Read on AO3

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Will you hold the line? When every one of them is giving up or giving in, tell me In this house of mine? Nothing ever comes without a consequence or cost, tell me Will the stars align? Will heaven step in? Will it save us from our sin?

~Natural - Imagine Dragons

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

The young man, just barely sixteen, pulled his bag close to his body, his hood covering most of his face as he walked along. His clothes were tattered from many days living in the street, a pair of jeans and a long sleeved shirt underneath that hadn’t been washed in at least a three days. The night was cold, with a mist hanging in the air that made it even cooler for this time of night as spring was ending. It was quiet, almost too quiet being New York, but then again, it was the part where not many of the ‘good people’ of New York ever went. It was where someone could disappear, and no one saw anything, even when they had.

St John Allerdyce knew the risk, but he couldn’t go back home, and all the homeless shelters he’d tried had been full to capacity. He’d even tried F. E. A. S. T. but it seemed this was one of the first places to fill up . The teenager just wanted to get through this night, and then tomorrow he’d try to find the place he’d heard about. It was a school, a special school that was rumored to be for people like him; abnormal, freaks.

That’s what his parents had called him, before his dad had run him out. John had barely had enough time to grab a backpack filled with clothes and the money he’d saved up from several allowances, and from when he’d started working at the local bodega. He’d ran away from... well, he didn’t want to call it a home, since the ones that were supposed to be his family had turned on him as soon as they knew he was different. However, those people weren’t his family, since the way they treated him wasn’t how one behaved with someone they loved.

They were the freaks, not him.

His abilities had developed early, almost three years ago when he’d gone through puberty. He’d been terrified, so he had hid it. It was no comfort to John that he’d been right to hide it.

Now, none of that mattered, it was in the past. It was about survival now, and getting to that special school.

However, it seemed he would never make it.

They came seemingly out of nowhere, at least ten heavily armed men and women. He reacted instinctively, flicking open his zippo lighter as he lit it, and then used his powers to take the fire and formed a fireball. John launched it at the closest threat, and the woman fell as she was engulfed, rolling around on the ground to put out the flames.

John ignored this and instead brought his attention to the nine other threats. As he formed another fireball, one of the men were quicker as he pulled out a gun and fired. However, there was no sharp sound of a normal gun, and instead he felt a sharp pinprick of pain. He pulled the object out, eyesight starting to get fuzzy around the edges, and saw that it was a small dart.

The sixteen year old staggered back as the fireball in his hand flickered and went out with a hiss, and slid down the filthy alleyway wall. John saw that the woman was up, her tactical gear singed and smoking, and besides a burn over her left cheek, she seemed relatively unharmed. She growled and took a single step forward to kick him in the stomach as John cried out in pain, curling down around himself to guard from another attack.

“Now, don’t harm our guest too badly,” an amused voice chided the woman, who immediately backed off. An older man stepped forwards as the soldiers (mercenaries?) moved aside to let him through. He was wearing a three-piece suit, and he could have easily been someone’s grandfather, if not for the cruel glint in his eyes. When it was combined with the false smile he wore, the teen felt properly fearful. “How very nice to meet you, Mr. Allerdyce.”

John was surprised that the man knew his name.

“Oh, you’re wondering how I know your name? From your family, of course,” he chuckled. “After D.C., we’ve been monitoring things closely.” He had his arms behind his back as he paced in front of him slowly. “We pinged the call as soon as your father called the police. When he mentioned how you made the flames of a kitchen fire extinguish, I knew I had to meet you.”

The man snapped his fingers and John was hit with another dart. This one dragged him under, like dark water closing all around him. “You and I are going to get very well acquainted, St. John Allerdyce,” the old man chuckled.

John wondered moments before he passed out if he would survive this acquaintance.

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

It was raining, buckets that came down so it was hard to see anything. Harley cursed as he ran down the road toward his house, his sneakers getting soaked through as his foot landed in a muddy puddle, and wished the city would pave the road. However, he doubted that they would, since there weren’t any paved streets except for the main roads of Rosehill, and this wasn't a main road. It was a side road that went along their house and several others, and that then merged with the main road that led to the interstate.

The teen cursed as he ran through another ditch, the water making the ground soft enough so he didn't fracture his ankle, but he did fall flat on his face. He coughed as he scrambled onto his hands and knees, water being splashed everywhere, and his face was covered in mud and filthy water.

Damnit, he was going to have to toss his shoes into the washer, and hopefully they dried by the morning. If not, he was going to have to deal with wet shoes for the last day of school. He hated to do it, but he might need to use some of his saved funds to buy some boots. They were expensive, but he needed to get some Wellington pull-on work boots, since he knew it was likely to rain the rest of the week.

"Mama, I'm home," he called at the door, yanking off his jacket as he shook out his wet hair. He sighed when he saw that his mom had left a towel hanging from the hook where they usually hung their coats. The back of his shirt wasn't as muddy and he used that to wipe his dirty face, glad that it was raining hard enough that most of the mud that had gotten into his blonde hair had been washed out.

The adolescent, who was going to turn fourteen in a few days, towel dried his hair before draping the towel over his shoulders. His sneakers had been kicked off at the door, and his jeans and boxers soon joined them, using the towel to wrap around his waist. He wasn't too terribly skinny, but even then the large towel was able to wrap around him almost twice.

"Harley, is that you?" he heard his mother calling. She must not have heard him call out, but had likely heard the thump of his wet sneakers hitting the wall when he tossed them, along with his wet muddy clothes into the corner next to the door.

"Yeah," he called back a bit louder. "I'm gonna go shower and change! I got soaked right through!"

"Uh, yeah, hurry back down afterwards, ya hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed, going up the backstairs. Their house might have been cramped and falling in disrepair, but it was so familiar to him, having grown up here all his life. This was the only good thing their father had ever left them, an old two story white house that was nestled at the edge of the woods right outside of town. Harley and Abbie had played in those woods most of the days of summer vacations while growing up, since there was a fishing hole somewhere in the middle that was attached to a small stream.

He took a quick shower, scrubbing his hair nice and hard to get any dirt and small rocks out of the strands. He’d have to make sure to get them out of the drain cover after he was done.

Harley felt ten times better when he finally left his room, having hurried there from the bathroom since he had forgotten to bring a change of clothes, like always. “Mama, I’m as hungry an an ox,” he said, hurrying down the front steps this time, since it came down to the living room. He’d heard her from this area, so he figured she was there enjoying a hot cup of tea. While it wasn’t too cold since it was the start of summer, but there was still a bit of a chill in the air.

It was a usual thing to come in and find her enjoying some tea after a shift (or coffee if she had a second shift later), and she’d kicked off her white sneakers to be cleaned before her next shift the next morning. Only, this day was not the same as most afternoons he’d experienced, and it was because of the man sitting on the couch as Harley came in.

“Tony?” Harley asked, hand pushing back his hair away from his face. It had gotten rather long and out of control, and now tried to fix it a bit self-consciously. “What are you doing here?”

“Hey, kid,” the superhero greeted with a grin. “I’m here to take you and your family to New York.”-

- ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

#Peter Parker #Tony Stark #Harley Keener #Marvel Cinematic Universe #Spider-Man #Spiderson #Irondad #regret writes #Us The Martians #We’re All Martians series #Martian Child sequel #fanfiction #myfanfiction #Nothing Is Canon Compliant #regret fanfiction #Martian Child

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rinthehufflepuff · 5 years ago

Text

Agent M pt. 4

Parings: Clintasha x Reader

Summary: You’ve been on the run for four years, never staying in one place too long, until you stumble across an abandoned house that seems the perfect place to bunker down in for the winter. Just as you’re getting comfortable, however, and the seasons start to change, the homeowners appear and they are far different from anything you could have expected.

Warnings: Language, guns, blood, panic

Series Masterlist

You were on edge all day. After another night of no sleep - you had instead spent the night doing odd jobs around the house that you deemed quiet enough to not wake Clint and Natasha - you were exhausted, but the buzz of machinery kept you awake as it always did. There wasn’t anything wrong at work, you had gotten a small pay increase from Mr. Wormwood, who owned the garage, and the rest of the workers had fully accepted that you were shy but good at your job - better than the rest of them and able to fix anything they threw at you. No, what had you jumpy was the white Ford Crown Victoria with a black stripe and large red letters clearly spelling out who owned the car.

Thus far, you had managed to avoid the police. Living in the woods meant you saw them every once in a while when you came across a road, but you hadn’t come in contact with an officer in four years. You do your best to not fidget too much, but once the garage closes, you know you can’t ride home on the road. The police car is still parked just down the road. You get the distinct impression it’s waiting for you.

You’re relieved that the garage sits on the edge of the woods and that you park your bike in the back. With one last look at the cruiser, you begin the long walk through the woods with your bike at your side. You had scouted the area several months ago when you first came upon the town, but with the trees and other vegetation thriving and green in the summer heat, you were having trouble picking your way towards the house. You spent hours just wandering, careful to not stray towards where you thought the road was in case there were cars patrolling for you.

You had to leave. You had to pack your bag and run as far away as you could. You shouldn’t have stayed once winter broke. You had been stupid, so very stupid. Of course, he would find you.

It’s nearly dark by the time you know where you are, the house just visible through the trees and you sigh in relief. Then the shot of a gun. A dog barking. Angry yelling. For a split second, you freeze. Then, you’re running, crashing through the trees and bushes and overgrown grass. The river. You had to make it to the river! Panic and adrenaline surge through you as they hadn’t in years, not since you were spotted in Alabama. You can’t be bothered to try and be silent as you move because the dogs could catch you anyway. They could scent you now that they had been to the house. The river would help, the moving water would help mask your smell and they might lose you.

When you finally reach the river, you throw yourself into the mud and roll, doing your best to completely cover yourself in the muck. Only when you are satisfied that every inch of you is coated in mud do you wade into the river and let yourself drift downstream, careful to keep your head above the water to watch the banks and listen for movement. You can’t gauge how long you’ve been floating, but the sun has been gone for a long time and the cool night air has fully settled. Knowing you couldn’t use the river all night, you make your way to the bank and search for a place to hunker down for the night. What you end up finding is a fallen tree. Though it’s long since dead, you know you can use the branches and the surrounding vegetation to help camouflage yourself.

You don’t sleep the whole night, terror fuelling you rather than mechanics. Every small noise makes you shrink into the grass and hold your breath. The cool night air is made worse by your wet clothes and hair and the mud caked to your skin. You can’t stand the cold, but you know you have no other choice. You couldn’t be caught.

><><><><><

Y/N wasn’t home. Clint had taken Natasha to the store to get whatever it was she needed for okroshka soup - another Russian dish she insisted on making for Y/N since you enjoyed it when she made food from her homeland. Except, Natasha hadn’t been able to find everything so they ended up getting sausages and peppers to grill since it was getting late and they were sure you were wondering where they were. When he pulled up to the house, however, you were nowhere to be seen. He searched the barn first, then your room and the roof since you liked laying on the shingles and read whatever Natasha had “accidentally” left lying around the house. The bike you took to work, his old bike he would take into town when he was going alone and didn’t want to drive, wasn’t near the porch either.

It is seven forty-five when a police cruiser pulls into the driveway and Clint can’t help but think about that first day. How you pleaded with him to not call the authorities. The panic so plane in your eyes that he would have done anything you asked at that moment. He doesn’t want to go out to investigate, but Natasha is scouring the woods nearby on the off chance you had decided to explore the property like he had suggested you do not too long ago.

“Can I help you,” Clint asks, Lucky at his side. The dog was just as antsy as he was, pawing at the ground and looking around.

“I sure hope so,” the officer smiles, but it’s tight and his eyes aren’t focussed on Clint. His hand is already resting on his gun. “I’m looking for a woman. About Y/H tall, H/C hair, E/C eyes, pretty scared up with a small tattoo on her left hand that looks like a C with two lines on the bottom curve. She’s currently wanted in connection with a gang shooting in Florida a few weeks ago.”

Lies. Even without the timing being wrong, Clint can feel the lies wash over him and it pisses him off.

“Doesn’t ring a bell,” Clint shrugged. Lucky growled at his side and the officer narrows his eyes. “Haven’t seen you around here, you new?” When the officer doesn’t answer Clint glances around the area thinking you had popped out of nowhere, but he’s still alone with the officer and Lucky. “Look, I’m going to need to see your badge, man. I don’t know you and you’re awful edgy for someone just looking for some woman.”

“No.” The brisk response sets him off and he gives Lucky the command to get Natasha. In the split-second Lucky begins to move, the officer draws his gun and fires, just barely missing the retriever as he dashed to the side and begins to bark for the Russian.

“The fuck, man? Who the hell shoots a half-blind dog?” Clint can’t help but yell. You aren’t here to get scared over the noise so it doesn’t matter. If anything, yelling would just make Natasha get to him sooner.

“You’re the one harboring-”

“I suggest you leave before I have to do something you won’t have enough time to regret.” Natasha is at his side, gun drawn and her eyes trained on the officer. “Now!” It’s nothing less than an order and though the officer looks like he wants to shoot them both, he slowly backs up to his car and leaves.

“Did you find her,” Clint asked, his hand buried in Lucky’s fur for comfort. Clint knew the local police, knew they wouldn’t ever come to his property without calling ahead because they were under the impression Clint was with the Feds. Whoever that was wasn’t any of the local guys - and he was looking for you.

“Thought I saw some movement on my way over here, but you were my priority,” Natasha sighs. “We should check it out now though, especially since she isn’t answering her phone…”

Clint doesn’t like the edge in Natasha’s voice, not at all. You were quiet, eerily so at times as you crept about as if you, yourself, were also a spy, but you had grown on the agents within days. After Clint’s two weeks away, Natasha had seemed so much closer with you, more attentive and relaxed. Clint knew whatever had happened while he was gone had created a severe attachment for his girlfriend. But then there was the issue of how once he had come back you didn’t seem to sleep. Dark circles had started appearing beneath your large, E/C eyes that made Natasha shift and steal glances at you and make more coffee than she normally would - even with Clint’s caffeine habit. He could hear you in the dead of night as you shuffled and grumbled as you made your way past their room to go work on some meaningless project to keep yourself awake. Something was upsetting you and now you were missing.

“You should go check it out, just take Lucky with you. I’m going to call the station and see what was up with rent-a-cop,” Clint huffed, scanning the tree line. If Natasha had seen you, if you had tried to come back to them, you were either long gone or curled up nearby. He could only hope it was the latter option.

><><><><><

Natasha felt numb. The bike - your bike - was abandoned in a bush just a few yards into the treeline. You had been here. Leading away from the bike was a trail of broken foliage that Lucky followed, his nose pressed to the ground, leading to the river where you liked to fish. Even in the dim light, she could make out a large disruption in the bank, the muddy indent just the right size to have been created by a person. By you. Swearing, Natasha pulled out her phone and called Clint. If you had bailed into the river...well the evenings were getting cooler and Natasha’s mind still rung with your words from all those nights ago. You wouldn’t be in your right mind to begin with and the cool evening air was going to make everything worse.

If you didn’t get tired out from trying to keep afloat in the current and drown. Natasha did her best to push that line of thought out of her mind.

“Nat? You there?”

“Yeah...I’m here,” Natasha replied, making her way down the river a bit. You wouldn’t have tried to swim upstream. “I’m ninety percent sure she was nearby when the gunshot went off. It looks like she panicked and jumped into the river - she went full stealth too, I found a pretty good hole in the mud that looked like someone had rolled in it.”

“D’you think she went far?”

“Can’t have, at least not too far. Clint, she’s gotta be terrified out here, and it’s almost dark. We can’t...I can’t…”

“Stay where you are and I will meet you with flashlights and a medkit. I’ll call the garage and leave a message so they know Y/N won’t be in for the next few days. We’ll find her Nat. We’ll get Y/N home and we can talk this all out and help her.”

Natasha wanted to believe him when Clint said that they would find you - that you would come home and she could help you and that you would be alright. But she knew there was every chance that that wouldn’t happen. Over the years, Natasha had seen too much. Too much violence, too much fear and panic and hate, too much bad - and those experiences made it just that much harder to believe the man who had saved her all those years ago. Still, she would look for you - wouldn’t let her darker thoughts stop her from searching all through the night and into the next day to find you.

The pair searched for hours, Clint having swum his way across the river so that they could search both banks and the surrounding areas. Everywhere they looked, they saw you - washed up on the bank, crouched behind bushes and in the tall grass, even hidden in the branches of trees. They had been trained to track people, S.H.I.E.L.D and the Red Room had both required extensive training for just this purpose, but Natasha wasn’t an expert tracker and neither was Clint. This, unfortunately, meant that they were much slower than they wanted to be.

Clint was sure you would have gotten out of the water at some point. You would have gotten tired and needed to hunker down for the night, but Natasha was constantly watching the surface and the fallen trees with branches that were bound to cling to debris. Her stomach twisted every time she thought she saw you tangled in those branches, limp and beyond her reach.

Without warning, just as the sky began to lighten, Lucky took off into the brush, tail high and ears perked. Natasha wasn’t far behind, careful to be quiet even though the light would alert you if you were awake.

><><><><><

You couldn’t be sure when you passed out. Somewhere during the night, you had heard several male voices, and in a panic, you had tried to change hiding spots. Except they saw you. Muted gunshots echoed in your ears as you had broken into a sprint to the river, sure that if you could throw yourself into the current you would have a chance of getting away. Just at the edge, though, another shot rang out and you felt a familiar explosion of pain in your side. You didn't have time to stop and try to staunch the bleeding, to feel for an exit wound, as you flung yourself into the river and let yourself sink. Only when your lungs were about to give out did you surface and let yourself drift for a while before dragging yourself out on what you hoped was the opposite bank. As you lay in the mud, you felt your abdomen for the exit wound, sighing in relief when you found one. You didn't want to risk running around with a bullet buried in you. Forcing yourself into an upright position, you stripped off your shirt from beneath the grey jumpsuit you were still wearing from work and ripping it down the middle before tying it securely around where you hoped the wounds were. It would have to be good enough because you couldn’t see and neither could you afford to stay on the bank any longer than you already had.

Struggling to your feet, you pushed into the woods and away from the river, trying to strain your eyes in the darkness for a suitable place to hide. Except it was pitch black and you couldn’t see anything. You weren’t surprised when your ankle twisted under you and you tumbled into a small ditch. Annoyed, yes, but at least you had a chance of being a little harder to spot. Your ankle throbbed and your abdomen continued to radiate pain as you lay in near silence, straining to hear even the slightest noise, the tiniest indication of not being alone. Except when you heard nothing except the wind and crickets, the burning behind your eyes finally got to be too much and you closed them. Only for a minute, you had told yourself, just to ease the burning. Except it wasn’t just a moment because you ended up passing out.

You drifted in and out after that, not completely sure if you were awake or dreaming. In the darkness, Lucky appeared, then Natasha, her face twisted into a grimace. Then Clint was there and there were muffled sounds, maybe talking, but you couldn’t grasp anything more before you were swallowed by blackness again. Pressure on your abdomen. Stabs of pain at the slightest movement. Swaying. Nausea. Soft warmth and running water. Gentle whispers and soft fur. Something vaguely sweet and floral. Coffee.

The next time you were aware of anything beyond pain and darkness, you were warm and comfortable, though thoroughly disoriented. For a moment, you panic. They must have found you and hauled you away while you were weak from blood loss and exhaustion. But that couldn't be what had happened, you were too comfortable. The warm pressure on either side of you was relaxing, enough so that within seconds your eyes drifted closed again, any worry of having been found by the wrong people dissipating.

When you were finally lucid and fully awake, you realized where you were. The familiar light blue walls of Clint and Natasha’s room were made softer by the early morning light coming through the sheer, white curtains that you and Natasha had found at a garage sale one day when you were running errands. Shifting slightly, careful to not upset the dull throb in your abdomen and ankle, you could see Lucky sleeping at the foot of the bed with his stuffed lion between his paws and Clint curled up in a chair in the far corner, fast asleep.

Since he had gotten back, you had made a conscious effort to talk to him more outside of meals and house repairs. Clint was nice, as you had always known, but you learned it was a niceness born out of genuine kindness rather than wanting something out of you. He kept his distance most of the time, careful to not be too close or too loud even though you knew he would normally do both because you saw him do it with nearly everyone else he met. As a result, you had gotten more comfortable around Clint, not freezing up whenever he walked into a room or tried to strike up a conversation. You had made the effort partially because Natasha trusted him and you trusted Natasha, but also because you felt guilty for taking advantage of his offer to stay in his home and then avoiding him. Now the guilt was even worse.

Rule five - you were supposed to call Clint or Natasha if you ever felt unsafe.

You hadn’t ever stopped to consider calling Clint or Natasha when you were at the garage. Instead, you had taken forever to get home through the woods and then bolted at the first sign of danger instead of trusting that they would help. That was another thing...you had very likely broken rule three and unintentionally brought unwanted company to the house - and then left Natasha and Clint to deal with the situation on their own. You were supposed to trust them, but you had reverted to your old mindset at the first sign of danger. Needless to say, the realization felt about as unpleasant as the gunshot wound.

And yet here you were, in their bed, as safe as you could possibly be with Him looking for you.

“You look like you’re thinking too hard, Myshka.” You turn to see Natasha slipping into the room with a steaming mug and a paper medicine cup, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“I - I’m sorry I ran,” you sniffled. “I should have called you when I was at work and then someone was here and it was probably the police and I know you don't want people here at the house but I-”

“Myshka, Y/N, it’s alright,” she soothed, sitting on her half of the bed and sipping at whatever she had brought up. “We aren’t mad at you. Worried, yeah - we were very worried when you weren’t home, and you just about gave Clint a heart attack when we realized you had been shot - but you’re here and you’re safe. That’s all that matters to us, Myshka.”

“How did you even find me? I know I wasn’t all that careful, but…”

“It’s part of our jobs,” Natasha shrugged, reaching over and gently running her fingers through your hair. You, for the first time, realize that you aren’t covered in dried mud and that you are actually very clean, not to mention not in your own clothes. You have no clue what you’re wearing in the way of pants, but you’re in a tank top - the first in many years - and your scars are exposed. You feel completely naked, but it somehow doesn’t bother you as much as it should. You could see Clint and Natasha’s scars all the time as they both had several, so you knew they wouldn’t think any different of you for having some too, but you had been so used to wearing long sleeves that it almost felt wrong to not be wearing them now. Noticing you staring down at your arms, Natasha sighs. “We had you get you clean, Y/N. We didn’t want to risk any kind of infection.”

“It’s just...I don’t think I’ve looked at them in a while. I try not to when I shower, and I’ve always got them covered with long sleeves...do - do you think they look bad?”

“Yeah,” Clint huffs, adjusting himself in the chair, “bad-ass.”

“You dork, that’s not what she meant,” Natasha scoffs, but you can see she’s a little amused. “They look fine, Y/N. Honestly, they’re better than some of Clints. There's one on his ass-”

“We are not talking about Budapest,” Clint yelped, waving his hands in front of him as if it would stop Natasha from talking about whatever happened. For what felt like the first time in a long while, you huffed out a laugh. Though, you immediately regretted it when your side aches in pain.

“Here, these’ll help,” Natasha said, handing you the medicine cup with four different pills in the bottom. “We don’t normally have to break them out at home, but we use them all the time at work.”

You felt horrible when you looked down at the small plastic cup and your stomach twisted at the sight of the pills. You knew that Natasha wouldn’t give you anything that would hurt you, having passed that stage a while ago, but you were still nervous. Natasha wasn’t Him. Clint wasn’t Him. Even still, your first instinct was to tongue the pills and spit them out the first chance you got.

Forcing down the nagging voices in the back of your head, you tip the cup back and swallow the pills dry. Natasha gave you a small smile, and even Clint looked proud that you had taken the pills after only a small moment of hesitation. You knew as well as they did that even just a few weeks ago you would have tried to avoid accepting the medication altogether.

“You’ll have to keep taking them for a while,” Clint sighs, the smile slipping away. You realized almost immediately that you missed it. “That wound in your side isn’t pretty, and it’s more than likely is gonna scar pretty bad, but we’ll try to do what we can to prevent the worst of it. You did well though, Y/N, that shirt you had all tied up probably stopped you from bleeding out before we found you.”

“Well at least I managed to do something right,” you huffed. “Shouldn’t’ve been shot in the first place.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Natasha growls, and you can’t help but shrink into the bed and try to make yourself smaller. The action does not go unnoticed by either Clint or Natasha, and the redhead is quick to begin carding her fingers through your hair again. “I didn't mean it like that,” she sighed. “I’m not mad at you, Y/N, I just…”

“We worry,” Clint said, getting up and sitting cross-legged at the end of the bed near your feet. It was probably the closest you had ever been to him without flinching away. “Natasha and I can’t help you if we don’t know what you need, Y/N. Someone’s looking for you, and they were desperate enough to steal a police car and uniform to find you. Y/N,” Clint gently lay a hand on your uninjured ankle, the blankets keeping him from making actual skin contact, “please, let us help you.”

Glancing up at Natasha, the redhead gives you an encouraging smile and lightly squeezes your shoulder. You had been safe here for months and, at some point, the farm had turned into your home. You had lost home a long time ago, but you remembered that home was the people around you, not necessarily a place.

Natasha was home. Her small, reserved smiles and twinkling eyes that seemed to know so much more than she let on made you feel warm and safe. She was quiet and attentive, unobtrusive in her small gestures - food you enjoyed, an umbrella by the door when it might rain, small, barely-there touches in passing.

Clint was home, too. This was harder to admit to yourself because he looked like Him in so many ways that for a while you had jumped every time you saw him. But, somehow, Clint’s loud laugh and quirky sense of humor soothed your frayed nerves after long days of working. His stubborn attempts at getting closer to you now endearing rather than frightening. His clunky steps echoing in the house because he never remembered to take off his shoes were a distant reminder that you weren’t on your own anymore. Where Natasha sent silent encouragement, Clint always seemed to be brimming with praise over the smallest acts.

You trusted them. Everything could go so unbelievably wrong in a split second - it was a constant threat that seemed even more real now - but you weren’t as scared as before. They had followed after you - brought you home and kept you safe and warm and alive - when you had run at the sight of danger.

You didn’t want to lose this home.

You drew in a rattling breath glared at your arms.

“His name was James…”

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noblehigh · 4 years ago

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**slams fists down ** five times kissed !!! ( basically make me feel things )

send five times kissed for a drabble about five times our muses have kissed.

i. ) there was always a sort of unity when they were in the fireflies. they were a family, to a certain extent, but nothing like how it is here in jackson. it’s truly a community, full of people who know everyone else, people who keep up with other’s troubles, and do their best to help ease those troubles. no one is given too much of a workload, and it’s fairly easy to get time off if you need it. it’s a sense of normalcy, something that’s one in a million. brian’s convinced that there’s no other place like it in the world. though, their world is very small compared to the endless opportunities that could be waiting somewhere else. they don’t know what could be waiting on another continent, if those places were even effected. he believes they were ; he believes everywhere is gone, everywhere is bits and pieces, and wherever there are people they’re trying to make due with what they’ve got.

tonight, the community has gathered out in the streets ; fires blazing, music playing. they’ve somehow convinced joel to play a little guitar, but most are amused by the way his brother strums on his own, taunting and joking with him. it’s not that tommy is bad, he’s just definitely got his own taste. laughs are shared, children run freely ( brian’s being one of them ), and he finds himself snuggled back in a corner next to the stairs of the saloon with the one person who’s made this place truly feel like home: paul.

there’s a hot cup of cocoa in his mitten-clad hands, and a gaze that was previously set on all the fuss around him slowly begins to focus on the man next to him. he just watches. watches as paul smiles, watching the music play and the children dance ; dina has managed to pull ellie up, and she’s up to her usual antics of putting on a show, this time with her lover. the flicker of the flames near them puts a special kind of sparkle in paul’s eyes, and brian can’t help but smile. he leans over, presses a lingering kiss to the man’s temple. it’s sweet, soft ; it’s meant to show appreciation, more than anything. appreciation that paul is here, that he’s alive, and that he’s with him. it’s an impulsive move, but at the same time it feels so natural, like it’s the right thing to do.

ii. ) it didn’t take much convincing to get himself and paul put on a patrol together. maria and tommy are forgiving. they seem to sometimes exude love ; this deep care for everyone in the community, no matter the diversity or the situation. they want everyone to be happy, that much seems obvious to brian, and as long as it doesn’t harm anything and they can still get their work done, why not have two people who enjoy each other’s company on the same route?

brian has always had a love for horses, and has since gotten his own after being in the community for awhile. whiskey. his pride and joy. a large, brown horse who stands as tall as the highest building, with the elegance of a fine ensemble. he’s beauty, he’s grace -- he might just be mister united states. it’s why he rides him with such pride. today, he managed to talk paul into just taking one horse ; yes, it’s due in part to him wanting to show off the stud, but also because he wanted to be closer to his favorite jackson patrol member. he follows along the muddy trail, sat high, hands loosely gripping the reigns as whiskey trots along through the tall grass. brian’s head turns to the side to glance over his shoulder, halfway keeping his gaze on the trail before them as he speaks to the other man, ❛ -- i’ve always had a soft spot for animals, y’know? ❜ oh, really? ❛ yeah.. -- before all of this, we had a rottweiler named jackie -- she was badass. i had a horse for awhile, too-- and a snake. i think, out of all of ‘em that the snake probably made it out.. maybe he got to live a long life. i don’t know how well they don’t out of captivity once they’ve been in it, though.. ❜ probably not well. he turns his head back to the front, chuckles before adding, ❛ -- his name was steve-o... y’know.. like that guy from jackass? he was still little when everythin’ went to shit, only about two years old. he was a ball python, they’re great for p-- ❜ it’s when he glances back that he cuts himself off because, well.. quite frankly, he can see the way paul is looking at him. he’s looking at him like he’s the biggest dork on the planet. but that’s the thing with brian: you get him started on a subject he likes, something he’s passionate about, and he could talk for hours.

❛ -- what? ❜ oh, nothing.. ❛ i’m ramblin’, aren’t i? ❜ he gets a chuckle in response, no words, but a kiss to the corner of his mouth pairs with it. he’ll take it. smiling wide, he takes one of his hands off the reigns to reach back, giving paul a pat on his thigh. ❛ you’re by far my favorite person to run patrol with, you know that? ❜

iii. ) ❛ ohhhh, c’mere, munchkin-- ❜ he drawls out, bending down to pick up his son from where he sits in the living room in front of paul. he’s got all of his legos out, and it’s no doubt going to be a task to clean them all up. i don’t wanna! ❛ well, i know you don’t wanna, but you gotta go to bed. you know why? ❜ the child shakes his head, looking rather bashful, and still rather skeptical ; bedtime just doesn’t seem like it should be such a necessity... especially when you’re having so much fun! ❛ ‘cause you gotta get big ‘n strong. and if you get a good sleep, maybe we can get up early and go play in the snow with dina tomorrow, huh? ❜ that seems enough to persuade him. the boy smiles, nods his head quickly. ❛ all right, then, ❜ brian agrees, and he turns to look at paul before heading for the stairs, ❛ i’ll be right back. ❜

when he comes back down from putting oliver to bed, he notices the smile on paul’s lips. he’s intrigued, shown by the smirk that’s tugging at the corner of his mouth. ❛ -- and what are you smilin’ about? ❜ he inquires as he heads over to the fridge to pull out two beers ; he then moseys on back over to where the other man sits, taking a seat next to him. you’re a good dad, you know. not even a question, a statement. the once uplifted mood the man had has now turned a bit sour, proven in the way he loses eye contact with paul and looks down. he breaks open one of the beers, sliding it over on the coffee table to the other, then opening one for himself. well, he’s got some kind of vice now, so he’s willing to talk about the dirty past ( as long as he can drown himself in something ). ❛ wasn’t always like that.. -- don’t really know if it even is like that, ❜ he comments, knocking bag a large swig of the amber liquid. ❛ i wasn’t there like i should’ve been when he was a baby.. when he was younger. had a lot of.. bad shit goin’ on in my head. ❜ a multitude of things, but, mainly, a nasty drug habit. ❛ i’d probably still be just as shitty if the infected hadn’t started eatin’ everyone. ❜ hey-- paul seems quick to cut off the harsh criticism of himself, and it’s probably best that way. if he lets it go, brian could easily spiral into spilling all the things he finds wrong with himself, and that would just ruin the mood of the night. he’s never been his biggest fan, and that’s one thing the end of the world couldn’t change.

a kiss to his shoulder is what finally makes him look back over, and he winds up resting his forehead against the other man’s, eyes slowly falling shut. you can’t change the past. he’s right, of course. ❛ -- is there ever a time that you ain’t up to par on everythin’? ❜ he swears, there’s never a time that paul isn’t right. still, it’s said with good intention, and it’s clear paul has lightened his mood a bit just by the faint smile on brian’s lips. he tips his chin up, lets their lips meet for a short, sweet kiss. ❛ stay here tonight.. i don’t want you to go. ❜

iv. ) ❛ hey! ❜ it’s the first time he’s felt frustration towards the man, and he definitely isn’t scared to show it. paul begins to head towards the exit of their stationed patrol at the sound of a shrilling scream ( one asking for help, no less ), stating he’s going to go check it out. ❛ -- we can’t just go out there like it’s nothin’, you don’t know what’s out there! ❜ someone could be hurt, brian, you heard that. it was a call for help. ❛ it’s outside of our zone-- ❜ brian. he’s right-- fuck, he knows he’s right, and it’s not like brian to be wary of going outside of zones or to even be wary of going and helping someone. he’s usually the first to jump to it, but there’s been more raiders around than usual lately, and he fears this one might be a trap.

why are you fighting me on this? because he’s scared. he could give a shit about himself, but if something happened to paul? that’s something he’d never be able to forgive himself for. leaving the fireflies, all the damage and death that followed, including the death of joel -- those are things he can find the time to push away, or find the time to get over ( even if it comes back to haunt him every so often ). the more time he and paul spend together, the more he finds himself becoming attached ; he’d be terrified to even think of it, the word ( love ), but he fears he’s edging closer and closer to it becoming his truth. ❛ i’m sorry-- ❜ it’s a rarity for him to apologize, to admit he’s wrong, but he is. it’s out of character for him, and paul has to have noticed that, as well. he lets out a sigh, steps over to reach for his backpack that’s rested on an office chair, and he makes his way to where the other man stands.

he fights with himself on what to say. he fights admitting that he doesn’t want anything to happen to him, that he doesn’t know what he’d do with himself if something did, that he’s increasingly becoming scared whenever they go out because of the countless possibility of bad shit that could happen to him. instead, he takes his hand, presses a lingering kiss to his forehead, and gives his hand a tight squeeze. he hopes he knows what it means without having to say it. ( i want you safe, i want you with me when we get back to jackson. ) ❛ let’s go check it out, but let’s be smart about it. ❜ always.

v. ) he would fight an army of infected, he would leap bounds, if it all meant that he could savor in even one of these moments. he hangs onto these tightly, close to his heart. they’re both sat on paul’s bed having come back from a long patrol, the weight of his backpack finally falling as dead-weight to the floor. he brings his hand up, rubs at his sore shoulder. he watches paul as he sets his own backpack on the bed, beginning to unpack a few things he needs, and while he does that, brian pulls off his own jacket and his dirty shirt.

when paul rids himself of his shirt, that’s when brian makes his way over to him. the bruises and scars that pepper the skin of the man he’s grown fond of are reminders of the fight they battle each day, and brian runs his calloused fingers along a few of them. his head dips down, soft kisses being sprinkled along the length of his shoulder to the curvature of his neck. one hand raises, loops a finger in the hair tie that holds the other’s hair, and he tugs until it’s loose and falls, cascading over his shoulders. palms run up and down his arms, squeezing soft at his biceps, and he nuzzles his nose against his jaw. ❛ you’re so beautiful.. ❜ it’s spoken soft ; no one is around, but he wants to make sure only he can hear it. he wants him to know how special he is, because he feels like he doesn’t show it enough, and he definitely doesn’t say it enough. index and middle find paul’s jaw, and he turns his head until his entire body follows, and he’s facing brian. a kiss, slow, passionate, and wanton graces his lips, fingers beginning to thread through the hair at the back of the man’s head. ❛ you have to know how much you mean to me. i want you to know.. ❜ brian.. ❛ -- just let me love you.. even if it’s just tonight. ❜

#serenitysought #THIS WAS LONG AS FUCK I PUT IT UNDER READ MORE #i feel like they got weak at the end but i just #i love them #* v. endure and survive.#*

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lovethisletters · 5 years ago

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Hi! Again I must say: I’m sorry for taking so long, things got complicated but now I have little bit of time…besides I’m wery picky with translations (as you would see in a moment). Anyway, I was very much excited for and while writing this, since I found myself to be very fond of Faith and her relationship with Tim (they’re the cutest) so I tried my best!

Ps: The title of “Refuge” doesn’t have that much relevance in this scenario, is just the title of the song I was listening to while writing this (I think it describes perfectly how Tim’s and Faith relationship might evolve); in case you listen to it but aren’t really familiar with spanish language, here it is subtitled! But there’s minor errors on the translation:

1. "Eres como el sol caliente y yo soy marte" wich means "You're like the warm sun and I'm like mars".

2. "Soy desordenado cuando quiero" the word quiero/querer in spanish can mean several things, normally indicating the yearning of something in a possesive (I want this to myself) or romantic (like: I love you)/aspirational (like: I want to become a writer) way (depends on context) so the most adecute in this case will be "I'm sloppy when I am in love" not "when I want" here is a little deffinition.

3. The most correct wording in "let me be, I'll help you" would be in fact: "Let me, I will help you".

Pairing: Faith O’Neal (@insideoflit OC) x Tim Drake

Summary: Faith is tormented by her past to the point of being unable to sleep and have an anxiety attack, so Tim helps her get through it.

♡♤♡♤♡♤♡♤

12:22 am

...

1:18 am

...

2:48 am

...

3:04 am

Her head registered every digit drawn on the clock next to his bed, counting every time she woke up; but something within herself knew that I'd had been more than just 4. Her eyes weighed, but her mind did not stop, she kept thinking ... remembering and everything at the worst moment.

Maybe it had been 5 or at most 8 nights in a row without being able to sleep completely, but in fact, she really didn't remember the last time she had slept peacefully. Months or even years ago?

She only knew that the situation had gone from bad to worse ...

What she thought was a simple period of insomnia which would most likely disappear a week later, became part of his routine, which had stopped bothering her a long time ago: intrusive thoughts, impossible variations in hidden memories and unanswered questions that would often come and go and multiplied in the dead of night.

And yet this time it was different ... it was a living nightmare.

The intrusive thoughts had quickly escalated and evolved to such extent that they now resonated aggressively, scratching the walls of his head, digging through everything she wanted to forget and shouting at her so that she could feel it in the depths of his being.

An imaginary pain that threatened to break his little head.

In. That. Exact. Instant.

She felt his breath cut short at the thought of having to get used to all this, his chest full of emotions and an uncontrollable feeling of despair.

That's why she didn't think of anything other than running, rising abruptly from the bed, barely giving his brain time to process the situation; she ran, as fast as his legs allowed her, she didn't care at all if they were going to break… she just wanted to escape from all that and ignore that past she had unintentionally remembered.

The smell of petricor invading her senses causing a feeling of anguish, seeing those memories instantly regain strength and torturing her in such a ruthless way...

—Hey! Be careful!— her thoughts abruptly interrupted to the feeling of his body collide and almost fall to the ground, if not thanks to the arm clinging to her waist preventing her fall.

—Are you ok?—Tim's eyes invaded by an expression of genuine concern, trying to search the answer to her irrational behaviour.

She was so immersed in her thoughts that she didn't even realize the moment she reached the garden and much less had noticed Tim standing in the middle of it…like some creepy scarecrow or something…

—I ...— His mind still not quite at the moment allowed for her words to float in the air in a sloppy way.

Tim looked at the girl carefully, trying to decipher what had put her in that state: her hair slightly disheveled by the gentle flushing of the wind, a cold sweat running down her forehead, eyes flushed, her pajamas had gotten a little dirty due to his small race in the humidity of the night and his bare feet hugging the muddy floor.

—Come, you're going to get sick like this!— He reproached her gently trying not to overwhelm her as much as possible and guiding her back inside.

The living-room of the mansion was empty, wrapped in the cozy sound of silence; indicating the absence of most of its inhabitants.

Tim told Faith to sit by pointing at the couch with a slight nod, which she obeyed.

—Wait here—he ordered again, before disappearing down the hall that led to one of the many bathrooms and returning moments later with a pair of clean towels, leaving one of them over her head, with a small mischievous smile.

—Don't run like that, Faith, you could have slipped and gotten hurt…—He said kneeling in front of her, his hands on the towel shaking it slightly in an attempt to help her dry.

His calm voice hiding the reality of his restlessness. She knew…knew she had worried him ... And that look only confirmed it, she had already seen it many times, maybe more than she should; but it was something she could not avoid and that frustrated her greatly.

But Tim was always characterized by being perceptive and soon noticed the expression of guilt on Faith's face.

—Hey ... It’s ok—The Boy reassured by staring at her, still smiling, because he wanted her to really feel safe.

Tim knew that Faith had trouble sleeping, he knew perfectly the symptoms of insomnia: he had noticed the lights of her room stay on until dawn, dark circles highlighting her beautiful big eyes, her clumsy movements during the day, lack of concentration and had even once heard Bruce scolding her because of her teacher's multiple complaints accusing her of sleeping in class.

But she would never admit it… she "didn't want to be a bother"

Tim allowed himself to caress Faith's cheek, gently and delicately as if she were some kind of porcelain doll about to break.

—Do you want to talk about it?

Faith thought briefly before her eyes began to fill with tears that threatened to slip away.

—No, not really ...— A glimmer of guilt was noticeable in her response.

—It’s Okay. Don't feel like you have to—followed by those words, Tim felt the need to hug her; his arms carefully surrounded Faith's small figure.

—Just know I'm always going to be here for you — his chin resting slightly on her head partially covered by the towel.

The tears that she had forced herself to hide, began to escape silently with an air of cynicism.

—Dammit— she cursed under her breath.

Noticing this, he quickly bent down again to wipe away her tears with his hands.

Faith was a strong, but stubborn person, many times denying herself the idea of asking for help and this was no exception; she didn't want Tim to see her that way, in her most vulnerable state; but she also didn't want to leave, despite all the crying, she found Tim's company very much comforting.

So… she stood there, allowing herself to be vulnerable in front of other people for once in a really long time.

After a few minutes (maybe even more) when she had no more tears left, Tim spoke again.

—It's getting late, you should be asleep and unless Riddler is entertaining the bat, Bruce will be here at any minute and I don't want him to scold you for staying up so late, you have class tomorrow, right?

Faith nodded, releasing a small chuckle upon hearing Drake's motherly but bossy tone.

—Whatever you say, mom — emphasizing the word "mom" on a goofy manner.

He rolled the eyes pretending to be offended but without making the least of attempts to hide his own amusement.

—Go to your room, dummy!—

She raised her hands as if she were being arrested before turning around and running upstairs followed by Tim, who was also heading to his room. However, something stopped her once she was standing in front of the door of her own room.

She didn't want to be alone ... at least not for tonight ...

A small knock on Tim's door caught his attention off of his monitors, at first he thought it was Alfred about to scold him like every other night for not sleeping or Damian who had arrived from patrol early and couldn't find Titus favorite chewing toy.

But no… there in the door frame stood Faith with a pillow under her arm and a slightly shy smile.

—You're supposed to be asleep.

—Right back at ya — she replayed quickly.

—I’m not the one who has to save his grades on algebra tomorrow, Faith—he said, reminding her of his test in the morning.

—Yeah, well… truth is… I can't sleep…

Her voice barely even believing herself.

—Can I… can I stay here? —Tim flushed wildly almost at the exact moment he heard those words come out of her mouth.

—I… Um. Yeah Yeah, sure — tripping on his own words he stepped clumsily into the side in order to let her in.

Tim's room was both a mess and incredibly clean… his desk was the messy part, probably because he spend a lot of his time glued to his computer to the point Alfred sometimes had to brake in and almost drag him outside to eat like a normal human being instead of just feeding off of energy bars and coffee.

In comparison was the side of the bead, it was so clean. Everything looked almost brand new, since he barely slept and when he did it was just very quick naps before patrol.

—Make yourself comfortable— he signaled the bed before putting back on his headphones and to whatever he was doing.

—Aren't you going to sleep?— Faith asked as she settled between the sheets.

Tim was silent for a moment, trying to find an answer.

—Well ... maybe just for a little while…—

He finally spoke before joining Faith, keeping a adequate distance, which Faith quickly ignored by hugging him unexpectedly, burying his face in the boy's chest.

—Good night, Tim.—

Tim thanked the lights were off, otherwise Faith would have seen his face as red as a tomato. The girl's touch was comforting and warm so he didn't think twice before reciprocating the hug and planting a small kiss on her head.

—Good night, Faith.

#Tim Drake x OC #Tim Drake #red robin #Faith O'Neal #guardian angel #dc #dc comics #tim drake imagine #OC #timothee chalamet #monica ollander

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glimmerkeith · 5 years ago

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here is a small snippet of potential romcom au sequel. that is all.

“Well, I can’t thank you both enough for coming...getting another year older is better with good friends, yes?”

“Good drinks usually help too,” John quipped, but he meant it well enough--and certainly, plenty of that had flowed tonight. He hadn’t honestly expected otherwise, and was now feeling a pleasant buzz to accompany that.

Klaus cast him a sideways look at that. “Do you...need to spend the night?”

“John’s a shit driver even when he’s sober,” Ringo chuckled from his other side. “Nah, it’s Paul that drove you both here, right?”

Ringo’s assessment of John’s driving capabilities was painfully accurate, and it was definitely the more responsible driver of the two who’d brought them here tonight. Paul was now talking with Maureen, Ringo’s wife, as she buckled her son into his carseat. In the gathering twilight, the violet light shone on the matching highlights Mo had recently applied to her hair as she chattered away to her companion.

Zak wasn’t even two years old, but the good-tempered little chap had slumbered most of the birthday gathering away….either that or being passed from one cooing, adoring party guest to the next, and Paul was certainly one of them.

But now, the small party of guests who had gotten together for Klaus’ birthday had gone, leaving just the group of them. George had excused himself a bit earlier to go check on how his plants were coming along in the greenhouse, the hulking shape of which could be seen on the other side of the vast (though mostly barren) garden that stood just outside his and Klaus’ house.

He’d owned the property and his own nursery for a year now, but had been so busy grubbing around outside that the interior of the actual house was by and large left to his artistically-minded boyfriend, who had taken up the challenge of turning what had been a frankly dumpy little cottage into something much brighter and sleeker.

“The place looks like it should be in a magazine,” Ringo had proclaimed upon first seeing the updated interior, and George had given a little shrug.

“It’s on account that he’s a Taurus,” He’d said, as if that explained everything--but there was a degree of pride in his voice too. John had been so impressed that he’d eventually commissioned Klaus to help him with a project of his own, the grand opening of which was mere days away now.

In any case, the nursery itself wasn’t too far of a drive from London, but just enough that the lush green hills and trees of the nearby forest made it seem like almost a different world completely. George looked the happiest John had probably ever seen him these days.

And it had been a happy two years of his own as well, he thought now, gaze lingering on Paul a moment when Ringo made the crack about his driving. Sometimes, it was still a little hard to believe. “Yeah, uh...only one of us has a spotless driving record here. It’s not me.”

George came shuffling up from the greenhouse then, having earlier changed into his gardening Crocs, a holey T-shirt, and muddy jeans to do his mucking around--honestly, he looked a fright, but Klaus’ whole face lit up when he came near. “How are things, love?”

“They’re looking good.” George’s gaze swiveled back over to John then. “Hey, so remind me again when the bookstore’s re-opening is?”

“This Thursday, ten sharp. And you all are on the very exclusive VIP list, so I’d better see you there. Or you’re getting your eyes poked out.”

George gave him his familiar craggy grin. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

They all bade their goodbyes then, and John climbed into the passenger seat of Paul’s car. They weren’t long on the road before he reached his hand out, and Paul took it in his.

“George is coming on Thursday, then?”

“Yeah, he is. Him and...well, just about everyone else I know, I guess.”

“It’s a big deal, John. Your new premises and all...you’ve even got a bloody cafe in the new place. You know it’s the real deal then.”

He was teasing, but in truth, installing a coffee bar in his new bookshop had been a moment of immense pride for John. Just how he had managed to get from the tiny, one-floor studio he’d once had for his bookshop to real, proper lodgings was still a subject of great pride and gratitude.

Raising the funds for it had been by and large his old assistant Cynthia Powell’s doing. When she got her art degree, she’d soon moved onto doing design for a local magazine, and she’d arranged for John to give an interview about owning one’s own business in Soho. It had done surprisingly good numbers, and business had picked up to the point where John actually had to hire some real staff members--and then, eventually, completely relocate to bigger and better premises.

And Paul had been there for him every step of the way. Every time he had another fight with the building contractors, or couldn’t figure out just how he was going to pay the light bill, and not to mention relocating into a new flat of his own to be closer to the new shop...just all of it. He had his friends, of course, but John couldn’t remember a time when another person had been so supportive of him. Not overly critical, as Aunt Mimi (and, bless his soul, George too) could be, or wishy-washy like Ringo. Just himself.

“I can’t wait for you to see the final thing,” He told him now with a grin. Though Paul had helped with arranging a lot of the bookshelves and painting the walls, John had deliberately kept him out of the place during the past few weeks as the final touches all came together. When he stepped into the bookshop on Thursday for the opening, it would be a surprise for him too.

“I still don’t know why you had to keep me in the dark for it,” Paul chided him. “I saw the couches you were ordering online, y’know. I would have helped move them in.”

“It’s so it’s a surprise!” John insisted. “You know, like how it’s bad luck or something for the groom to see the bride in her wedding dress before the big day--”

“Oh?” Paul arched a thin eyebrow, and John couldn’t help but flush a bit.

“OK, that’s just one--and kind of dumb--example. You know, I...I just want…” He trailed off for a moment, looking at the countryside speeding out the window nearby, as he forced his tongue to untangle and tell the truth. “I want you to be proud. Is all.”

Paul’s hand intertwined with his tightened a little, and he briefly stole a glance over at him. “Oh, John...I am. Believe me, I am. I know how much this means to you.”

John lifted their hands up and pressed a brief kiss to Paul’s. He knew that too, could tell that Paul was still happy to be with him...but every so often, that niggling doubt would worm into his head that it was only a matter of time before things went the same way as Stu. And this was more than that, deeper than that, if this wasn’t built to last than John wouldn’t be able to stand it.

The past (and not just with his relationship with Stu) had made him warier than he’d ever wanted to be. But without that same past, he might not be sitting here now, hand in hand with the best thing that had ever walked into his life.

As he had taken his bookshop and made it grow, nurtured it until it flourished like a flower in one of George’s gardens, he had to keep doing the same with other parts of his life too. Which was why he had deliberately set aside a portion of the money he’d made selling the old shop.

Just in case, he thought, he had to buy something that cost a little more. He was not done building his life yet.

#mclennon #i wrote this in one hour so idk man #BUT i have more ideas of what the overall plot would be #it just makes my heart sing to revisit this universe like i'm dying scoob

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curiousdamage · 5 years ago

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Drabble Prompt #13

49: “Who Hurt You?”

For @thatsweetbobbyfacetho

Fandom: Karate Kid Becca Verse

Pairing: Terry Silver/ Mikey Sullivan

Warnings: Use of period relevant homophobic slurs and attitude. These do not reflect my personal feelings. ****Violence to a person for being homosexual depicted*****

Summary: Mikey’s brothers aren’t happy to discover his relationship with Terry.

It was pouring down buckets of ice-cold rain. Suitable for a funeral, especially this one. He was still in a bit of shock. He still couldn't believe she was gone.

For such a tiny woman, his mother had always seemed so strong and indestructible. He looked down the line of his siblings. Nick was there in his uniform, as was Luke. They looked so closed off and cold. Did he use to look like that in his uniform?

Cara was next to their Dad in a plain black dress. She'd been so strong through all of this, taking care of the arrangements, tending to their Dad, keeping things running while waiting for her siblings to fly in from all over the country. She was so much like their mom.

Addy always thought she was, but she wasn’t nearly as strong as Cara or their mom. She was strong, sure, but she was too loud about it. Too look at me, while Cara never called attention to it. She just did what needed to be done, like Mom always had.

Addy and her husband Jack were next to him, both in their uniforms. And there he stood, in a rumpled suit and muddy shoes. He had left in such a hurry; he hadn't really packed well. DD was pressed against his side, looking fabulous as always. She squeezed his hand.

He lifted his head and looked at the gathered crowd. Aunts and Uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, service members. John was standing nearby with both twins wrapped around his waist, hiding their faces in his coat as he held an umbrella over them and one arm around them. Good on him for showing up. Cara needed some help, even if it was just with their girls.

Next to them was the face he was looking for. Terry was standing with Becca, holding a dark umbrella over them. At some point, he'd wrapped his overcoat around her thin shoulders. It was dragging in the mud, but he knew Terry didn't care. If Princess was happy, he was happy.

He caught his eye and Terry nodded ever so slightly, so slight that no one else would even notice. It was then that the ridiculousness of the situation struck him. There he was, wrapped in the arms of a very married woman and his family could accept, even encourage that, but he couldn't even acknowledge the man in front of him.

Don't look too long. Shake hands but don't linger. Laugh but don't smile. Never let anyone know. His last conversation with his mother had been her lamenting that it was time for him to settle down and find someone to grow old with. Stop running around chasing models with that silly friend of his.

Terry.

He couldn't tell her that he and Terry had never really been chasing models, they'd just been too stupid to admit they were chasing each other. She would have never understood. He didn't want to think about what the rest of his family would think. They were strictly, traditionally Catholic, sometimes he was pretty sure they would see his very existence a sin.

He knew his brothers. If they knew he was, well, what he was, they'd kill him. It was bad enough to them that Cara had been an unwed mother and was now divorced. Nothing like having a queer for a little brother to complete the set.

Nick was sleeping with his unit's secretary. They had been cuddling in a back room at the wake for God and all to see, especially Nick’s wife. Luke was an alcoholic that put the rest of them to shame. Addy and Jack's oldest was one of those nine-pound preemies, but he and Cara were the bad kids. This was so ridiculous.

He flinched at the sound of Taps. Thank goodness this debacle was almost over.

Deidre snaked her arm around his shoulders. "I’ve got you," she whispered. He squeezed her hand. He hated this song. He hated it so much. It was so finalizing. And he couldn’t cry because the Sullivans are good little soldiers and good little soldiers don’t cry.

"Come with Terry and me when we leave. It'll give you a few minutes to relax," she whispered, again. He leaned in and kissed her cheek. Chuckling to himself at the sheer hypocrisy that his brothers and Dad would rather see him kiss a married woman than the man who loved him.

"Thanks, DD. You're an angel, like always," he whispered. And she had been. It had been her idea to have Terry fly up to Stanford to get Becca and fly her out to Virginia. He couldn't be there for Mikey, but no one batted an eye that Becca's godfather had flown her out and back. It was stupid, really. And he was the worst because he was letting them get away with it.

------

Deidre was a genius. It was just thirty minutes from Arlington cemetery to his parent’s home, but it was enough. Sitting between the two people he loved most had recharged him. A cup of coffee and a few cigarettes later, and he could deal with his family for the rest of the evening.

Shake hands. Smile kindly at the words of sympathy. Listen to another old story. Rinse. Repeat. If one more person asked him what he’s been doing since he'd left the Army he’d scream. It had been four years.

All too soon, he saw Terry tap Becca on the shoulder and whisper something in her ear. He guessed it was time for them to go. Becca was in the middle of finals and had to be back the next morning to finish them. If it hadn’t been for Terry flying her down in his plane, she wouldn’t have gotten to come. Commercial flights put her either missing the funeral or her last two finals.

“Want to grab a smoke before you go?” he asked, walking over to him.

“Sure thing,” he said, flashing that smile that still had the power to make Mikey senseless.

“Come on.” He led him outside to a small garden. Once they were far enough from the house, both to smoke and to not be overheard, he stopped.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, taking out a cigarette, just to have something to do with hands that wanted to reach out for the other man.

“What else was I going to do?”

Mikey shrugged, letting his head fall back against the garden fence.

“You look tired. Why don’t you come home with DD and I now?” he asked.

“I’m okay. I got a flight out tomorrow. I figure I’ll stay tonight. Help Cara clean up after everyone leaves. John’s taking the twins with him, so I don’t want her to be alone,” he said. “She might need some help with Dad. It’s been stressful on him.”

“How’s he doing?”

The General had a heart attack a few years before that had left him with declining health. He still got around on his own, but Cara came over at least once a week to make sure he was taking his medications and everything was well.

“He’s just tired. He never expected to outlive Mom. I don’t think he’d even considered the possibility. Hell, knowing him, he’d ordered her to outlive him,” he laughed, lightly.

“Let me pick you up tomorrow.”

“Nah,” he shook his head. “It’ll be late. I’ll probably just go home and crash.”

“Well, if you’re sure?”

The two men turned to face each other.

“Yeah, it’s just a few more hours of family togetherness, then we can go back to ignoring each other,” he smiled.

“Power through,” Terry laughed.

“Yeah.” With his cigarette gone, he reached out to touch Terry, straightening his tie, his hands lingering as they slid down his chest. “There. Now Margaret won’t harass you about looking disheveled.”

“Me? You look like you slept in that suit.”

“You’re not supposed to do that?” he teased.

“There are better ways to sleep,” Terry shot back, smiling that smile again.

He laughed, his eyes sweeping over his boyfriend’s frame. “You’d know all about that. I’ll see you on Wednesday?”

“For sure.” With one last look at Mikey, Terry walked back towards the house. Mikey waited a moment or two before following him.

A figure stepped out of the shadows, having gone out to smoke a few minutes before Terry and Mikey.

“Fucking disgusting,” Jack muttered to himself, shaking his head. “I always knew Mikey was a fucking fag.”

————

Nick was in the front yard, speaking to everyone as they left. He was the oldest. It made sense for him to speak for the family.

He saw Becca and her godfather, Terry, he thought his name was. He’d seen him a few times through the years at Becca’s events, and Mikey’s girlfriend leaving. He didn’t care what those two said, they were definitely a couple.

He walked over to greet them.

"Are you sure you can't stay and visit with Grandpa longer?" he asked her. "I know he'd love to spend some more time with you. He tells everyone about his granddaughter at Stanford. I don't think he'd be prouder if you had gotten into West Point."

"Well, I don't know about that," she smiled. "He's still pulling for one of us to play in the Army-Navy game."

Nick laughed at that. "Honey, those Navy boys wouldn't stand a chance against you." He hugged her before turning to Terry, "Thank you for getting her out here. It was bothering the old man that she wasn't going to be here."

“No problem. I'm happy I could help her,” he replied, shaking Nick's outstretched hand before leading Becca to a waiting car.

“Why are you thanking that queer for shit?" Jack asked as he and Luke joined Nick.

"What are you talking about?" Nick asked. "Silver ain't a queer. He was a Cobra Kai Green Beret."

“I don't give a rat's ass what he was. I'm telling you what he is. He's a fucking homo and he's fucking your brother," Jack snapped.

"You better watch your filthy mouth," Nick warned. "This is my mother's funeral. I don't want to have to kick your ass now."

"I saw them together," he insisted, "They were out back, and they weren't acting like no Army buddies I have."

Nick looked around and grabbed both men by the upper arms and dragged them into the garage. Making sure all the doors were shut, he turned back to his brother-in-law.

“Now, you want to make this claim, you'd better tell us exactly what you saw.”

"They were in the backyard, smoking and talking about seeing each other later," he said. "Then Mikey fixed Silver's tie and was running his hands all over him." Seeing his brothers-in-law weren't convinced he continued, "Look it's not just what they were doing, it was how they were doing it, how they were looking at each other. I mean, trust me. Something's going on with them."

They were quiet for a while before Luke spoke.

"Nick, you know we've always kind of known he was a little light in the loafers with girls. I mean look how long he’s known Deidre and they’ve never…," he shrugged helplessly.

"Yeah. I guess you're right," he conceded. "But not being serious with girls doesn't mean he's screwing some guy. You're going to have to show me more proof before we do anything else."

“I'll get your proof" Jack promised.

"What about John?" Luke asked, "Should we let him in on this? He knows the guy better than anyone."

"No. This is a family matter and he ain’t family anymore," Nick said. “No one tells him anything. Whatever this guy may or may not be now, he was a Cobra Kai and John takes that shit seriously."

Three weeks later, Nick had his proof.

------

Mikey was getting ready to leave his condo. He had two lessons this morning, then he had volunteered for the air ambulance that afternoon. and he was meeting DD, Peter, and Michaela for lunch in between and

Terry for dinner. He had just thrown the last of his things in his flight bag and was looking for his shades when he heard someone knocking on his door.

He was cautious when he saw his brothers and Jack on the other side, but he managed to hide it.

“Hey, guys. What are you doing here?” He stepped back to let them in.

“We need to talk,” Nick said.

“Why? What’s wrong? Is it Dad?” he asked, concerned.

“No, it’s not Dad. Dad is fine,” Luke said. He rubbed his neck. This wasn’t really his scene. Nick was supposed to do most of the talking.

“We know about what you’re doing,” Nick said. “We know all about you and Silver.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Come on, Mickey,” Nick pleaded. “We have proof. Don’t make us do this to you.”

“Proof of what?” Mikey’s blood ran cold. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Proof that you’re a fucking faggot,” Jack snapped, slapping an envelope against his chest. “That’s what the fuck we’re talking about, Asshole.”

He opened it and glanced at the photographs inside, feeling sick.

“You had me followed? Why would you do that?” He was confused and hurt.

“Because, after the funeral, we had to know,” Luke answered. “We had to know if our baby brother is a goddamned cocksucker! I can’t…, I can’t even look at you now.”

Mikey looked from one man to the other to the other. His brothers. His blood. He took an almost involuntary step back.

“Get the fuck out of my house!”

“Be reasonable, Mike,” Nick said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “You know you have to stop this. It’ll kill Dad if he finds out. You don’t want to hurt Dad, do you?”

“I said for you to get the fuck out of my house,” he snarled, slapping Nick’s hand away. “My personal business is mine. Leave!”

“I told you all the faggot wasn’t going to be reasonable,” Jack scoffed.

He took a step forward. Mikey swung at him instinctively. His fist connected with Jack’s chin, knocking him back a few steps, but Luke caught him pinning his arms behind him as Nick punched him in the stomach. Mikey fought them off as long as he could, but he fought fair and three on one was never meant to be a fair fight. Too soon he was on the floor while they took turns hitting, kicking, and punching him.

“Okay! Okay!" Nick shouted, stopping the other two. "He's had enough, we don't want to kill him. He’s still our brother and he’s had enough."

Before leaving Nick knelt down beside him. "Mikey, Buddy?" His voice was soft, the way it had been when they were kids. "You know we did this

for your own good, right?" He brushed the hair back from Mikey’s face tenderly. "Break things off with Silver and come home to Virginia, okay? We're you're family. We love you, Silver doesn't. He's just using you until the next woman comes along. Think about it, okay?" He leaned down and kissed his temple. Mikey thought he was going to be sick.

After they left, he tried to get up. On the third attempt, he decided the floor was just fine. He laid on his back and stared up at the ceiling. All those years, all the forfeited happiness, so careful, so cautious, and it was his own brothers. His own damn brothers.

-----

Five hours later, Mikey was late for lunch. Once DD had called the airfield and found out that Mikey had never come in, she rushed to his condo.

After getting no response to repeatedly banging on the door, she used her key to let herself in.

"Mikey, rise and shine, Babe," she called, heading towards the bedroom.

Peter caught her arm and stopped her. He motioned to Mikey's feet visible on the other side of the sofa.

"Michaela, get out of here," he demanded. "Wait for us in the hall,"

"But Daddy…,”

“Now, Honey," he answered. "Mom and I will take care of Uncle Mikey, but you need to wait outside."

“Yes, sir."

"Mikey?!" DD knelt beside him. "Mikey, honey? Oh, God. What happened?"

Peter knelt beside him and felt for a pulse.

"Is he?" she asked.

"He has a pulse. It's weak, but it’s there," he replied. “I'm going to call for an ambulance. You keep trying to wake him."

"Mikey! Mikey, sweetheart, you're going to be fine," she cried. "Wake up, Darling. Please wake up."

It seemed to take too long for the paramedics to get them to DD. She'd sat on the floor, holding his hand, alternately telling him it was going to be okay and begging him to wake up. It wasn't until he had been loaded into an ambulance that she remembered.

"Terry! I have to call Terry. He,…, Oh God."

Peter put a hand over hers on the phone on the counter. "DD, I hate to even ask this, but is it possible that Terry did this? I mean, it’s obvious that he let his attacker in. Maybe Terry is the last person

who needs to be with him now."

Deidre considered this. "Could he? From what I've been told, absolutely. Would he? Never. But God help the fool who did."

-----

Mikey was awake by the time Terry made it to the hospital. His fist clenched in rage at the sight of his lover's beaten and bruised body and face. He swallowed his anger and forced himself to walk over to the bed softly.

"Mickey? What happened? Who hurt you?" He reached out and touched his cheek.

Mikey flinched and pulled away from his touch.

"Don't you touch me," he snapped. When he looked up, Terry could see it. The man he'd known even just this morning was gone, locked again behind that wall of pain and shame and fear that he’d spent the last sixteen years taking down one brick at a time.

Buttoned and buckled up. Untouchable. Unreachable.

The man who had loved him through the lowest point in his life, who had

helped him let go of the guilt of simply surviving, who had never given up on him no matter how much of a bastard he'd become, was gone, leaving Daddy's perfect little soldier in his place again.

"Don't do this, Mikey," he pleaded. "Don't go back there."

"Do you think I ever really left?" He questioned, before his anger at the situation boiled over. "God! You are such an overgrown child! Did you really think we could ever be anything? I had it right and I should have never let you in, to begin with. It's over, Terry. I don't want you anymore. Please leave."

"Mickey, please! Mickey, don't, please don't do this,” Terry whispered, not trusting himself not to shout.

"Go! Get out!"

"I'll go," Terry said, quietly. "I'll leave. Just tell me who did this? Who hurt you?"

Mikey shook his head and looked away. "Goodbye, Terry."

"Yeah, yeah, okay," he muttered. "Goodbye, Mikey."

He turned and left the room.

DD looked up when he came back to the waiting room.

"Terry? What is it? Why are you out here?"

"Everything is fine, or as fine as it can be. He just doesn’t want me here," he answered.

“Oh, Terry," She put her hand on his arm. “You know it’s just because he's hurting and scared. Give him time to process it all.”

"Yeah, I know."

"What are you going to do now?" she asked.

"I'm going to find who did this and make them pay."

The look in his eyes worried her. She wasn't sure if she should hand over the envelope, finally deciding that withholding it would only delay him getting the information he wanted. Not stop him.

"Here. I found this at his place. I took it because I knew he wouldn't want anyone else seeing it, but I think you need to."

He thumbed through the photos, coming to a slip of paper at the end.

"Here's the information you wanted, Sarge. I'm sorry it wasn't better news."

His jaw clenched. He should have known Mikey's family was behind this. He nodded and stuck the envelope in his pocket, "Take care of him, DD. You're probably the only person that he'll ever let near him again."

------

Seven hours later, Terry was in Virginia.

It took three days for him to track them down when they were alone. He caught them outside of a bar.

“What do you want, Faggot?” Jack swore when Terry stepped out of his car.

“Shut the fuck up!” Terry grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling him to him, then throwing him against a nearby car with a sickening thud. “You all don’t talk. You listen and maybe you’ll live. Mikey could have killed you. He didn’t have to take that beating you gave him, but he loves you too much to hurt you. To hurt your wives and your children. You should thank whatever gods you pray to that I wasn’t there. I don’t give two fucks for any one of you. You all think you’re big men? You’re nothing. You’re pussies. Fucking little maggots. If you ever so much as look sideways at Mikey again, I’ll ruin your shitty little lives. I’ll bring ever skeleton you’ve ever buried out to play and dance with them in front of your father, wives, children, God, and the whole damned world. Mikey will look like a damn Saint when I’m finished with you all. And if you ever even think of putting your goddamn hands on him again, I’ll kill you all with my bare hands. Do not fuck with me. You won’t win.”

----

John had just dropped off the twins and was having a smoke on the Sullivans’ porch with Cara when they got back to their father’s home.

Seeing them coming up the walk, Cara patted his leg and kissed him on the cheek before going to check on her father.

“So you all are the ones who put Mike in the hospital,” John said, taking a drag from his cigar and exhaling slowly. “That tracks.”

“Mind your own damn business, John,” Nick warned. “This is family business and you aren’t family even if you do manage to talk your way back into Cara’s bed.”

“Maybe not,” John conceded. He held up his cigar, studying it for a minute. “You know, in all the years I was in the Army and teaching karate, there were only three men that I was ever scared about what they could do with the skills I was teaching them if pushed far enough. One is in Leavenworth for murdering a fellow soldier. The second one is in Lompoc for beating a guy into a coma for screwing his girlfriend.” He stopped and took another drag from his cigar, blowing the smoke towards them. “And you all just made an enemy of the third. Whatever it was that he told you, it wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.” He stood up and pushed past them, turning back at the steps and smiling in that way he had that looked like an animal baring its teeth before an attack. “Have fun with that. Goodnight, Gentlemen.” He made a mock salute before leaving.

#fluff/angst prompt #angst #Merry #careless man's careful daughter #Chocolate caramels and Bourbon

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uas-fics · 6 years ago

Text

Title: The Witches’ Comet

Summary:Wilde’s Comet only comes around once every forty-five years, and Craig doesn’t want to watch this wonder of nature alone. If his friends don’t want to join in, then he’ll ask the cute cafe owner instead.

Rating: G

Ships: Creek

Other: Inspire by a request prompt from @sillypandalover91 on instagram.

read it on ao3

~~~~~

“Ah, come on!” Craig held his hands out pleadingly. “You can only see the comet once every forty-five years. We'll be old and grey by the next time it comes around!”

Jimmy set his iced coffee down. “I don't know about you, but I plan to keep l-l-looking this good when I'm in my sixties.” He flashed a cocky smile at his friends.

Clyde snorted, punching his shoulder. “I bet you'll be a wrinkled prune by the time you're forty. You already got wrinkles around your eyes.”

“Those are what people call ‘'laugh lines’.” Jimmy countered. “They're the sign of a happy life.”

Before the two could derail the conversation to another topic, Token cut in.

“We're all sorry, Craig, but Jimmy's the girls’ team manager, and Clyde and I can't miss out on this volleyball game, or Nichole and Bebe will never let us out of the dog house.” Token explained with a shake of his head.

“You wouldn't be able to understand,” Clyde reached over and patted Craig's arm. “You don't have a girlfriend.”

Craig rolled his hand off his shoulder. “Why would I want one? After all--”

“Girls have cooties.” A new voice joined the conversation. Craig felt his heart momentary stumble in its beat as the reason he continually pushed to come to this cafe over the Harbucks stepped closer to their table.

“That's why I keep to boys,” Tweek said as he set a paper bag in front of Clyde. Craig felt a smile spread across his face.

It had been two months since Tweek came to town, and Craig had been steadily working to win his heart. In that time, he's found out the Tweek's family owned the Tweak Bros company and this was their second cafe; if Tweek hadn't dropped out and gotten his GED, he would be a senior like Craig; he had a pet bird and rabbit; he lived alone; and when Tweek laughed his button nose scrunched up and it was among the cutest things Craig had ever seen.

“See? He understands.” Craig bobbed his head. “Thank you, Tweek.”

Tweek smiled at him. His fingers ghosted across his shoulders as he walked around him to place a to-go cup by Tolken. Craig thought he would melt into a puddle of gay goo right then and there.

This scene did not go unnoticed by his friends, who smiled knowingly at each other.

“Say, Tweek,” Token leaned his elbows on the table, “what do you think about space?”

Craig stiffen up before throwing a warning glare. He had better not be doing what Craig thought he was doing.

“Space, well, I think it's terrifying.” Tweek slipped his hands into his apron pockets. “It's huge and vast and cold, and we don't know much about it or what could be out there!”

Craig felt himself deflate. Space had been his favorite subject since he was a child. Hearing his crush describe it like some sort of terrible monster hurt more than he would admit.

“But,” Tweek continued, “that is kind of, ya know, comforting. No matter how big my problems are, space is bigger and going to swallow us all up into stardust one day anyway!”

And just like that, Craig's smile took over his face again.

“That's so poetic,” he told him. “You're so deep, Tweek.”

Tweek smiled right back. “Oh, uh, thanks, Craig!”

“Yeah...” Craig trialed off, staring at the cafe owner.

After moment, just when Tweek looked like he was about to take his leave, Clyde elbowed Craig in the ribs.

“Go on, dude. Ask him to check out the comet with you,” He whispered.

Craig swallowed, nodding slightly to him. “Um, hey, Tweek. Did you know there is a comet coming by soon? Its called--”

“The Witches’ Comet,” Tweek said.

Craig blinked in surprise. He wasn't sure why he had thought that Tweek wouldn't know about the comet. They were friends on Facebook, and Craig had been posting about the comet nearly nonstop.

Clyde raised as eyebrow. “I thought it was called 'Wilde's Comet’?”

“It's called both,” Craig explained. “Wilde's Comet is what most people call it, but it's sometimes called The Witches’ Comet because apparently it brings a magical boost to spell casters when it's around.”

“Wow, t-that's pretty cool,” Jimmy said as he pried the lid off his ice coffee. “Too bad this town is a magic deadzone.”

“The city the volleyball tournament is in isn't. Maybe we could see if we can get a good luck charm or something before the game.” Clyde shoved one of the scones from his to-go bag into his mouth.

“That's called ‘cheating,’ Clyde.” Token pointed out.

“Fine. A charm to help me study for my math test then!” Clyde proclaimed around the raspberry scone.

As his friends began to talk about possible charms and spells they could pick up during the volleyball tournament, Craig turned to Tweek.

“Yeah, so, the comet only comes around once every forty-five years, and I've got a really nice telescope. If you want, we could, you know, go and view it together.” Craig hoped he didn't sound like . space-obsessed loser.

Pink danced across Tweeks cheeks. He fiddled with something in his pockets, looking away.

“Oh, that sounds, fun, really fun, but I'm booked this weekend.” He smiled sympathetically. “I have a bunch of finance and stock papers to go over with my parents, and that will be an all day ordeal. I'm sorry. I really wish I could.”

Craig had to fight to keep his shoulders from slumping forward or his face from falling.

“No, it's cool. I understand. Maybe next time.” Craig shrugged.

“Yeah. Definitely next time. “ Tweek nodded. He looked towards the growing line at the counter before sighing. “Have a good weekend, you four.” With one last apologetic glance at Craig, he headed back towards the front.

Clyde patted his arm. “Heard that? He said 'next time.’ You can plan a date this time.”

Craig pushed back from the table, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Yeah, whatever.”

With the pittifulled looks of his friends pressing against his back, Craig sulked out of the cafe.

~~~~~

The sky was clear and the air cold. The stars hung against the black void like thousands of little fairy lights, winking and twinkling down at the earth. A perfect backdrop for the comet to dance by in a few hours.

Craig turned his telescope to the moon for a moment, looking at the rocky surface, then began scanning the rest of the sky. A few smaller meteors streaked across the sky in announcement of the coming of Wilde’s Comet.

Craig straighten back up with a grin. So what if he’d gotten rejected--sort of--by his crush and he had to watch the comet by himself? He was going to see something he might not ever see again!

He walked back towards his bag to fish out a snack bar. The comet wouldn’t arrive for another hour or so, but he was just so excited he set up early. Craig scouted out this forest clearing near the top of a hill nearly three weeks ago. He would come by all the time just to make sure no limbs were growing in a way that might obscure his view or to pick up the beer bottles and chew cans some assholes would occasionally leave.

Chewing the snack bar, Craig put his hands on his hips. This would be an amazing night. His friends were missing out, stuck in the city with all that light pollution. They would barely be able to see the comet’s tail, if they could see it at all.

Nothing could ruin this night!

A heartbeat after Craig thought that, a large, cold, wet drop of rain hit him right on his nose. Craig looked up in time to see a churning black cloud roll over the sky. Rain pelted his back as Craig swore. He ran over to his telescope, covering it with his jacket, before pulling it under the safety of the trees.

“What the fuck?” Craig screamed at the sky. The weather reports, all five that he’d checked, had promised clear skies. How could five different meteorologists not see the patterns for a storm coming?

Taking out his phone, Craig tried to pull up his weather app. No bars, of course. He groaned, thrusting his phone in his pocket. Maybe it would clear up if he waited for a little bit. They probably needed the rain anyway. Things had been dry. This was fine. All was good. The storm would move on, and Craig could set back up and--

A loud roll of thunder boomed over head.

“Are you kidding me?!” Craig gritted his teeth. Great. Never mind that plan. Now he had to head home, or at least down to the rest area near Stark’s Pond. If this was a thunderstorm, then staying under the trees was too dangerous.

Swearing up a storm of his own, Craig collapsed his telescope and placed it back in his travel bag, then stood and began to march angrily through the woods. The dirt already turned into wet mud that clung to the bottoms of his sneakers. His socks and bottoms of his pants were soaked from the puddles. Because of the rain, the rest of his clothing wasn’t too far behind.

Lightning tore across the sky, filling the forest with white light.

He picked up his pace. At this rate, if he didn’t get struck by lightning first, he’d be lucky to make it back to the rest area. Perhaps next time he would try to take into account weather anomalies when picking his comet viewing spot.

Craig stepped on a large log, about to push himself up and over it, when he slipped back. With a gasp, he stumbled and fell to his back. His telescope flew from his hand and rolled down a nearby hill.

“Fuck me!” Craig grumbled as he scrambled to his feet. He couldn’t leave his telescope out here. It cost nearly half the money he made working at the planetarium last summer. He was not about to let some drifter find it and hock it for booze money.

Craig ran down the hill, sliding on the muddy terrain several times, until he made it to the bottom. He scooped up the telescope and held it close to his chest like a father with his child. As Craig turned, preparing to make his trek back up the hill, a warm glow caught his eye. He froze and stared at it.

A house. It was a house, in the middle of the woods. Welcoming light shone from the windows. Craig frowned. Who would live way out here?

Before Craig could ponder farther, a bolt of lightning struck a tree near the top of the hill. As the tree broke in half and began to fall, Craig made a beeline for the house.

He walked under the awning, thankful to finally be out of the rain. Carefully setting his telescope down by a rocking chair, he then walked up to the front door. He wrapped his knuckles against the door a few times and waited, but no one answered.

Clearly, someone was home. Voices and the clattering of pots and pans came from inside. Craig pressed his lips into a line. Walking in would be rude, but, if he stayed outside any longer, he might get sick.

Praying that this wasn’t the house of an axe murderer, Craig slowly opened the door. He kicked off some of the mud from his shoes a moment before he stepped through the threshold.

“Hello?” He called as he shut the door behind him. “It’s storming outside and I--wow.”

The entire hallway was filled with crystals and plants. Vines crawled along tressels affixed to the walls and planters filled with fragrant herbs hung from the ceiling. Shiny crystals swayed from string or were placed in the pots.

There was only one kind of person who would have a house like this: A witch.

Craig felt his stomach twist. He really shouldn’t be here. While all the witches he’d ever actually met had been fairly kind to him, he still couldn’t help but remember all the stories of witches eating up children.

But, he wasn’t a child. He was a six-foot three-inch grown adult who knocked one of Eric Cartman’s molars out last school year. He could handle some witch, if it came down to it.

Stealing a breath, Craig walked forward through the crystals and plant life. Whoever lived there must be short, since he had to duck down in several places to avoid colliding with either a hanging basket or crystal.

“They did this on purpose, I’m telling you!” A voice carried from an open door. “They wanted to see if you’d cast that thunderstorm spell or not.

Craig froze a moment before hot anger filled him. So the storm outside wasn’t natural. This witch made it. Probably to ruin everyone’s chances of seeing Wilde’s Comet.

Filled with a new confidence, Craig marched up towards the door.

Someone in a wide brimmed hat had their back to him. The room, a kitchen best as Craig could tell, was just as crystal- and herb-filled as the hallway. A cast iron pot hung over a roaring fireplace. Jars filled with liquids, leaves, spices, and small rocks covered the table. A bird cage hung in the corner with a green parrot fluttering nervously around inside.

“No! No, this was an accident! They sent it by mistake.” A frantic, but somewhat familiar, sounding voice came from the person in the hat.

On the table, an orange rabbit sat, pawing at the some loose peices of paper. The rabbit shook its head.

“I doubt it. Your parents do this shit all the time!” It said. “Also, it says a few marigold flowers.”

“Marigold! Marigold, got it!” The witch squawked, spinning on their heels to the left.

Tweek held his hat to his head as he dashed to the cupboard. He threw it open and searched frantically before pulling out a ziplock bag of dried flowers. With his attention fully on his task, he didn’t notice Craig standing in the doorway with his mouth a gape.

As Tweek dumped the flowers in to the bubbling liquid, the bird in the corner began to scream, flying around its cage and knocking against the toys hanging inside.

“Ack! Kiwi, calm down!” Tweek cried. “The storm isn’t going to get you! Please, be quiet for now!”

“Oh, he’s not freaking out about the storm,” the rabbit raise its paw and pointed towards Craig. “He’s freaking out about the person standing in the doorway.”

“WHAT?!” Tweek gasped. He turned and the moment his eyes fell on Craig, the bag fell from his hands. The color drained from his face and his eyes went wide.

“What are you doing here?!” he asked at the same time Craig blurted out, “You’re a witch?!”

Both men clamped their mouths shut and just stared at each other.

Backlit by the warm fire light with cable knit sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows, Tweek looked soft and so, so warm. Craig fought back the want to run up and nuzzle against him. No matter how amazing and warm his crush looked, Craig was still mad.

“You? You made that storm?” Craig demanded to know, stomping into the kitchen.

“No! I mean, yes! I mean--It was a mistake! I didn’t mean for it to happen!” He stammered. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you home? You told me you were watching the comet!”

“I was!” Craig glared. “In a clearing, in the woods. Until this fucking storm ruined all that!”

Tweek stiffen. He swallowed hard. “Shit, fuck, I-I-Craig, I’m so--”

“Tweek! Tweek! It’s boiling over!” The rabbit cried, stamping its back paw to get Tweek’s attention.

Tweek spun back towards his pot. With a strangled cry, he shoved oven mitts over his hands before hauling the pot off the fire. Ignoring Craig’s accusations, Tweek grabbed a small, empty mason jar and began to ladle the liquid inside. He repeated this until four mason jars were filled with a thin, yellow liquid.

“Excuse me!” Tweek held the last jar to his chest as he ran past Craig.

“Hey!” Craig snapped. “Get back here!” He chased him down the hall. Tweek threw open the door and dashed right into the storm. Yelling something in a language Craig didn’t know, Tweek tossed up the contents of the jar to the air.

To Craig’s amazement, the liquid didn’t fall down like the raindrops. Instead, it began to glow a soft yellow and float upwards into the clouds. Tweek’s shoulders slumped forward in relief. He walked back towards the porch, setting the mason jar on the rocking chair.

“What was that?” Craig pointed dumbly to the rain.

Tweek wrung his hands together. “Liquid sunshine. It’s a spell that can clear away clouds. If I did it right, the storm should stop in an hour.” He took a breath then began, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I thought it was a good luck charm but I was wrong and...I’m sorry.” He tugged at his sleeve. Taking a lint ball off it, he dropped it to the ground.

Craig ran a hand through his hair. He winced at how wet it was.

“Um, can I have a towel?” He asked. “And can we talk inside?”

“O-Of course!” Tweek nodded.

A few minutes later, Craig sat at Tweek’s kitchen table, a towel around his shoulders and a cup of coffee between his palms as Tweek cleaned up the remains of the liquid sunshine. The rabbit shifted through some papers, mumbling to itself. While Tweek let the pot sit full of soapy water, the bird chirped, jumping around.

“So, is the bird and rabbit your familiars?” Craig ventured. He never realized just how little about witches he knew until just then.

Tweek slipped into the seat across from him, a very large mug in his hands. “Kenny is.” He gestured to the rabbit. “Kiwi isn’t. He’s just a normal pet.”

“Oh, so, um, can any animal be a familiar? Like, if I was a witch, could I have my guinea pig be mine?”

“Ha, who ever heard of a guinea pig as a familiar.” The rabbit, Kenny, laughed.

Tweek ignored Kenny to answer, “Yes, in theory. Familiar studies are complicated, though.”

Craig took a sip of his drink, humming in acknowledgement of the fact. Before he could ask another question, Kenny hopped to the middle of the table.

“Ok, I’ve finished inventory,” The rabbit announced. “We finished all the charm spells your parents asked you to: four charms to bring health to the workers, one to bring you good financial luck, and two to keep the cafe safe from those with evil intent.”

“Phew,” Tweek breathed a sigh in relief.

“I thought this town was a magic dead zone.” Craig recalled. “How can you do magic if magic doesn’t work here, anyway?”

“It’s not really a magic deadzone. It’s just magic is harder to do around here. I can only do small spells normally. If not for the comet coming around, I wouldn’t have been able to do most of these.” Tweek turned his mug around in his hands.

“Yeah, too bad we didn’t get to do the one he really wanted to do.” Kenny picked up one of the papers between its teeth, turning towards Craig with it.

Craig raised an eyebrow, about to reach for the paper, when Tweek took his hat from his head and slammed it down over the rabbit. Kenny gasped. The paper fell from its mouth and slipped down in front of Craig.

“Ig-ignore him! He’s just a rabbit! When it comes to farmilars, rabbits are a step above demons and...” Tweek trailed off when he noticed Craig holding the paper in his hand.

“‘Luck in Love’ A spell to charm an object so that the wearer might have a boost in courage and confidence when speaking with those whom they are smitten.’” Craig read. He felt his cheek start to burn. Could he really hope that Tweek might have been making this spell because he was smitten with him?

Tweek groaned, pulling his hat up to hide his face. Kenny popped out with an impish expression on his face--or as impish as a rabbit could make it. Tweek peeked over the brim of his hat. His ears were bright pink.

“Where you going to use this charm to, um, ask me out or something?” Craig wet his lips. His heart pounded. Please say yes. Please say yes. A yes would make this whole thing worth it.

“I, um, yeah.” He mumbled.

Craig let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Oh thank God. You don’t know how happy that makes me.”

Tweek lowered his hat. “Really? You don’t mind I’m a...” He raised his hat up.

Craig shook his head. “What’s it matter? Witch or not, you’re cute. I like you either way.” He leaned across the table, setting his hand over his. “And if you like me back, I get a discount to the planetarium. Do you want to come with me sometime?”

“That would be wonderful.” Tweek replied, setting his other hand over the top of Craig’s. A warm smile spread across Tweek’s face, and once again, Craig was sure he would melt.

If at that moment Craig had walked outside and looked up into the clear sky, he might have be able to see a comet race across the sky behind a few thin, scattered clouds, but in exchange for a couple hours in this cute witch’s warm little house, he wouldn’t waiting another forty-five years.

~~~~~

AN: A very big thank you in advance to all the people who like, reblog, reply, and follow after reading this work. You’re all awesome <3 <3 <3

#south park #creek #Tweek tweak #craig tucker #witch tweek #one-shot #fanfiction #clyde donovan #token black #jimmy valmer #sp creek #request prompt

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