#you're an angry blade and you're brave (john/hawke)

[aglaecan]

"Right. Can you forgive someone for being a complete and total dickhead?" It's going to take a bit more than a self-deprecating remark, a dash of boyish charm, and a bottle of wine to make this right. He knows that, and she knows he knows that. He holds up the wine even so, quirks an eyebrow at her. "From the place we met. Which probably means it's shit. Much like me. I'm sorry, Mar."

“‘Dickhead’ doesn’t begin to cover it,” Hawke snapped, anger to hide the pain, but doing a damned incomplete job of it. John would see right through it, he always had been able to read her right to the core, right from the first. It had been exciting, and then it had been terrifying, and then it had been gone. Gone, poof! Like a magic trick. Like exactly the cruel trick she always expected life to pull on her.

He’d left town without a word, vanished on her for months. He’d left her alone, like she’d always known he would. Like everyone else did. And then, insult to injury, when he did come back she’d had to hear about it secondhand, her network of informants dropping the information in among the rest of the gossip and rumor they collected, as though it was no more important than anything else. He hadn’t even come to find her. She’d had to go find him. Except she’d chickened out, hadn’t she? Hadn’t gone at all. She’d sent him a bloody postcard, hadn’t even signed it. He’d know who it was from, and he had.

And here he stood, all sheepishness and charm, brandishing a cheap bottle of wine and the promise of an explanation. When Sherlock had pulled a trick like this on John, John had punched him right in his damned aquiline face. Her fingers clenched around themselves and she wondered if John would react if she swung at him, or if he’d just let her do it. Like it was her due.

She looked at the bottle. 

“From the bloody Tesco?” she asked, finally. “Or from that cafe?”

[crimeblogger]

"John?" she asks idly, tapping her spoon against the side of her mug of tea as if in deep thought. "If the tea leaves -- will it give the coffee grounds for divorce?"

He reallyought to know better by now, but for some reason he just keeps forgetting. So it’swith genuine interest that he looks up from the morning paper, patientlywaiting for her to continue. John’s response to her sense of humour, such as itis, tends to range from severely unimpressed to fondly amused. Today it’s the latter, apparently ( lazy morningsex does do wonders for his mood ). And so he snorts out a little laugh beforehe shakes his head and looks down at his paper again.

“ You’re ridiculous, you are. ”

I love you anyway, goes the unspoken bit.

[aglaecan]

ship tag drop!

[crimeblogger]

"You know, I challenged a pumpkin to a game of racquetball once. It said, 'I prefer squash.'"

“ ... You’re lucky I love you you’re brilliant in bed, love, because that? Yeah, bloody awful. ”

[crimeblogger]

Hawke bolted upright, shoulders heaving and stomach muscles aching with tension. Her throat was raw; had she screamed, or was that only in the dream? The thin sheet was sweat-soaked and had slipped down to tangle around her legs; she kicked free impatiently and drew her knees to her chest with the heedless flexibility of youth, curling around them as she tried to convince herself she was safe. John's bedroom. Only John's bedroom. John! Had she woken him? "Sorry," she whispered, just in case.

If anyoneknew a thing or two about nightmares, it was John Watson. He’d woken insweat-drenched sheets the first few weeks after moving into his bedsit. Thingswere bad enough at night, but moving into a new place always served to makeeverything that much worse, at least in the beginning of things, when he wasn’tfamiliar with the place yet and everything felt foreign, dangerous. Even thosefirst few nights in Baker Street had been a struggle.

Thenightmares never went away entirely, lovely at that might have been. Every fewmonths, he’d wake with his heart in his throat, his left shoulder burning with pain, and he’d fall backonto his bed and force himself to remember how to breathe without shattering topieces.

They eachhad their demons, Hawke and he. He slept with a loaded gun in the drawer of hisbedside table, she always had her knives nearby. They were so far removed from beinga conventional, wholesome couple it was absurd. But they’d found a home witheach other, and with it, a place to be broken without falling apart completely.They had placed their respective mess at the other’s feet and said look, this is me, this is who I am, if youwant me, this is what you’re signing up for, as well. You sure you’re ready forthat?

Neither ofthem had looked back, not even once.

He wokewith a start, and it took a good amount of self-control and awareness for himto not just reach for his gun straightaway. Adrenaline was spiking hard in his blood, rushing in his ears.He was ready. Battle stations. Thencame sharp movements from the other side of the bed, Hawke kicking away thesheets and sitting up, and John’s brain caught up. The scream he’d heard hadbeen female. Hers. Christ.

“Sorry,”she whispered, and his heart constricted hard in his chest. She sounded sosmall, so alone. She wasn’t, though, was she? Neither of them had been alonefor some time now, but it bore reminding on occasion. He had the same issue,after all, forgetting he didn’t have to fight his battles alone anymore.

“ ‘s alright, ” he murmured,and it was. Now that the immediate danger had passed, his pulse was slowing,the nighttime hour announcing itself in his tired bones and muscles. It didn’tmatter. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, as well, and drew herinto his arms with silent authority and infinite care, pressing a soft kiss toher temple.

“ You’re alright. You’rehere, you’re awake, and you’re with me. Yeah? You’re safe here. Nothing canhurt you while you’re with me. I won’t ever let that happen, Mar. Not ever. ”