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weaper-reaper · 1 year

Text

Eventuality Pt.2

1, 3+4, 5, 6

NEW CHAPTER JUST DROPPED!! FT. Jealous Konig (if you squint) so you’re welcome. As always cross-posted on Ao3 @WeaperReaper, check that out for quicker updates.

CW: Same as before in Part 1. Just more plot here really. No NSFW

Hot water never felt so good. My muscles eased as it glided over my shoulders and down my back, the steam from the shower drifted up and over the flimsy curtain that separated the tiny tiled space from the rest of the bathroom. It had been my plan to clean off the sweat and grime from yesterday the moment I got into my room last night, however the moment my head hit the pillow on the cot I was out.

It was a much needed rest, and though I really only got a handful of hours sleep, I wasn’t going to start complaining. The room I had been set up in was nice. Assumedly slightly larger than the others, with being at the very end of the hallway. There was a steel desk welded to the wall where another bunk would have sat normally, and I’m sure it made for a good place to study. Although with how lacking this particular home base was with any medical professionals- I doubt I’d be doing more studying then I would actual practice.

I unloaded only the basics this morning, never really making a habit of unpacking or filling out a space for too long. I quickly towel dried and dressed myself in the uniform I laid on the neatly made bed. Classical tactical pants and thick mock neck combo. My medic badge from my jacket flashed brightly against the rest of the dark colors, and I ran a hand through my hair to push it from my face as it dried.

The tablet I also took out earlier dinged from it’s place on the desk, I threw my boots on before I made my way over, sitting on the creaky metal chair. It scraped against the stone floor as I scooted it closer.

A new message popped up in my dashboard. It was an email confirmation for the transferring of my records from my old Sergeant to Captain Price, and a note that I’d be working solely under his jurisdiction. When I tapped on his icon however, nothing but an error message showed up. It was almost as if he wasn’t in the system. I went to the search bar and typed in Johnny, but no one stationed this far east came up.

I tried ‘Soap’. Nothing.

My fingers itched over the keys.

‘Konig’ I typed, unsure at first how to even spell it. Yet again, nothing. A KORTAC tag popped up for a moment, but being another national division I didn’t have clearance for any of that information.

I sighed, how was I meant to treat them if I didn’t know anything about them? If there were no files on anyone I’d met so far. I racked my brain to try to think of any other names I might have heard yesterday but nothing else came to mind. I glanced at the clock- 04:03.

“Well, since I’m up already..” I mumbled out loud to myself and turned to strap my pack on, shoving the tablet inside the bigger pocket. Maybe Soap would have more information, I could ask him to schedule a briefing with Captain Price and I. Something I was surprised I’d heard nothing about since landing, surely if they requested someone they’d at least fill them in.

Pulling my door shut and entering the hall, I was even more surprised to see it packed and bustling with early morning energy. Men had their doors open and some were half dressed- yelling across the hall at someone else. I did my best to keep my eyes mostly to the ground, and thankfully, was able to leave the testosterone fueled building without bumping in to anyone.

That wasn’t however- the case as I swung the double doors open to the outside. I immediately ran into the side of another soldier, dressed in all black and a hoodie that’s seen better days. He had a balaclava on also, the warmth from his breath fogged up into the air as he huffed from my intrusion. His snapped to mine and my breath hitched in my throat- if looks could kill.

His mask had been altered, a white skull painted onto the front made him even more intimidating.

Suddenly I forgot how words worked.

“Mack!” Someone shouted and I was almost too afraid to drag my eyes away from the behemoth in front of me.

“Mack!” The voice said again and a large hand cupped my shoulder, “Oi lass- I thought you wouldn’t join us.”

“Us?” I was able to meakly force out, my gaze finally settling over Soap, dressed in track pants and an almost matching hoodie. Must have been military issued.

His big dorky smile found it’s way up onto his cut face again. “Aye, I see you’ve met ghost.” He turned the both of us back to the brick wall of a man from before and punched at his shoulder lightly.

“C’mon now, don’t scare away the newbies.” Soap teased and I felt incredibly small between them, eyes wide in the relative darkness.

This ‘Ghost’ just gawffed in response to him, turning away slightly to avoid either of our faces.

Soap turned back to me, “You’re not runnin in that are ye?” He asked, motioning to my boots and tactical pants- filled to the brim with gaze, electrical tape, and whatever other medical supplies I could fit. I shook my head at him.

“Uh no,” I spoke, finding my voice once again. It was slightly scratchier from the morning cold. “I was hoping to do some inventory in the infirmary, y’know get stock of everything or whatever.”

He nodded but still let out a laugh. “Not here a full 24 hours yet and ye ‘already thinking too much. I know what you need.” He handed me a bottle that he pulled out of nowhere, emptied of its original water, and re-filled with some chunky looking slush.

I scoffed, the man to my right suddenly forgotten in the background. “There’s no way I’m drinking that.” I was 100% sure whatever was in that was in no shape healthy.

“Suit yer’self.” He said and took a swig of the concoction, letting out a forced sounding ‘Ahhh’ after his swallow. I let a laugh escape me and he eyed me from the side, turning to face ghost.

“Well if you don’t want to join us then maybe you’ll play score keeper. Here.” He handed me a small black notebook, opened to a page scribbled with tally marks. One side labeled ‘SOAP’ and the other ‘GHOST’ with a poorly drawn skull next to it.

“First to make a lap around the entire base, and touch that center pole there,” He pointed to a floodlight that sat in the middle of the courtyard between both buildings. “Wins.” He turned to Ghost who was already stretching one leg out behind him- getting into a sprint position.

“GO!” He shouted.

They both took off in a full sprint and veered right some, ghost reached out to give soap a push that made him stumbled slightly, giving ghost the lead as they wrapped around a building out of sight. Yells and other Scottish noises could be heard echoing through space and bouncing off walls. I let a smile fall on my face as I looked back down at the notebook.

Not wanting to peer too much into his privacy I thumbed over the random doodles and put a pen in the crack of the page, saving my place as I closed the book in my hand.

Some other men took after them as well, and that’s when I noticed the small crowd from inside slowly made their way out onto the yard. Doing random warmups and exercises, but mainly trying to keep up with the race I’m sure.

It was cute.

And it probably boosted morale too, which was always a good thing. My hopes for this place slowly began to rise as I looked around some more. I shifted from my spot slightly before I caught something in the back corner of my eye. A familiar figure stood hunched slightly, resting against the corner of the main building, he had his eyes at his hands, a small book similar to Soaps, and was scribbling something down.

He glanced up as I approached him, myself not even half-aware that I was until we made eye contact. He snapped his book closed and stood up straighter- easing his hand that held the book behind him. My eyes followed the movement.

“Were you drawing?” I asked, where I found the courage to randomly strike up conversation I’ve no idea.

His fingers thumbed the crease of his book and as he hesitated answering. Crap, was I pushing too much?

“Yes.” He spoke out after another moment.

“Cool.” I muttered, feeling like a child at the playground, feeblishly attempting to make friends. I didn’t meet his eyes again, but instead settled at looking at the mask he wore. I hadn’t noticed it yesterday, but there were bleach stains just under the holes that kind of represented tears.

What was everyone’s deal with wearing scary masks?

“How’s your cut doing?” I glanced up at him and his eyes were already on mine, they widened slightly when I spoke- like I had caught him off guard. I tried to contort my face into a pleasant look.

He stood unblinkingly at me for a moment. Then his eyes shifted up behind me and hardened ever so slightly. Stomps grew loud and rapidly approached us. I turned to see as Soap and Ghost made their way across the courtyard in full sprint. Soap moved with an ease and swiftness that I was instantly jealous of. Ghost was just a hair behind him, arm and fingers outstretched. He grabbed onto Soap by the back of his hoodie and pulled just hard enough to give him forward momentum to touch the base of the lamp just before Soap could.

The Scott swung around as they came to a stop and immediately turned to me.

“Did you see that!” His eyes were wide and he looked astonished.

Ghost joined him at his side and they slowly made their way towards where I stood with Konig.

“Bile yer hide!” He shouted followed by some more Scottish noises and pushed at Ghost in a friendly but competitive way. “You cheated.”

“You never set any rules, Jonny.” Ghost’s voice was gravely and he was slightly out of breath. Steam rose off the both of them in a comical way as they both huffed. I handed soap back his notebook when they got within arms distance.

“And you, lass? You saw what he did right?” Soap pleaded in a thick accent and looked almost childlike with big puppy eyes. I raised my hands up in defeat.

“Unfortunately I was talking to Konig here, so I didn’t see much.” I held in a laugh as he responded with another Scottish phrase that probably didn't translate over too pretty.

His eyes rose to the man behind me, and I could feel his larger frame against my back. His body heat wrapped itself around me and I had to stop the shiver that ran up my spine. Something in Soaps demeanor seemed to change slightly as the two of them made eye contact with the other, and he turned to tap Ghost out, their feud dead now. He signaled that they should go inside with a tip of his head. I watch slightly confused as the two of them turned and made their way back to the barracks- soap mingling a little with the others on his way past.

“Oh wait-“ I almost shouted, but the two of them were already halfway across the area, their larger bodies taking two of my strides in one. My hand hung in the air awkwardly. Damnit, I meant to ask him about Price.

I sighed and Konig cleared his throat behind me, reminding me of his presence. I turned to face him and I hadn’t realized how close we were standing together until I had to crane my head back in order to find his eyes. Which were already on mine, naturally.

I let in a sharp inhale, the cold and crisp air bit at the inside of my throat. God it gets cold here at night. The sky was brighter now then when I first came out though, and eventually the sun would rise and heat up the dunes again. Something I wasn’t particularly looking forward to, so I tried to enjoy the cool air while I could.

Konig cleared his throat again awkwardly and I realized I was staring at him, heat quickly warmed up my face and I moved my line of sight back down to the center of his chest.

“You are close with him?” He asked, a little too seriously to just be a curious question. I took a step back so I didn’t have to bend my neck so much when I looked up at him.

“Who, Soap?”

He nodded, the fabric of the mask shook under his movement.

“Oh no,” I corrected. “I arrived yesterday, that’s the first time I met him. Or well, any of you really.” I looked around, most of the men had started to fill into the main building now. Some came out to sit on the benches to eat their breakfast. Others started training in groups or faux fighting in pairs out in the courtyard.

“It is easy for you to talk, to him.” He said matter-of-factly.

I shook my head and corrected him again, “Not really, I’m not the best for conversation really.” I chuckled. I let out a little ‘hmm’ of conviction when he didn’t respond and gestured over to the entrance doors.

“So shall we take a look at you then?” I asked, he nodded and followed behind me to the room we were in before. The doors squeaked shut after us and I could feel everyone’s eyes on the pair of us, Konig followed so close at my back that I could feel the shift of his gear as he walked. Though I suppose being as tall as he was he drew eyes from everywhere anyway, I did my best to brush it off.

We made out way into the infirmary relatively smoothly after clearing through the cafeteria and other crowded rooms, and settled more comfortably in this room. Just the two of us.

My face heated up again at that thought.

Konig hovered by the door as I went to the desk in the back to unload. Tossing my bag up onto the counter I unzipped it and pulled out various items, trying to distract myself by taking account of what I had brought with me.

I glanced back at him, then in the far corner of the room where there hung a single curtain from the slide on the ceiling, a lonely cot sat behind it. I pointed over to it with my finger, “You don’t have to lock the door again, just have a seat over there I’ll be over in a second.”

I didn’t watch him, but I could hear as he crossed the room in less than three long strides. There was something slightly comforting about how quickly he could move. If I ever needed it, I knew who I’d use as a bodyguard. The bed creaked under his weight as he sat, and I took the chance to glance at him from the corner of my eye. He pulled the curtain closed just enough to block him from view of the door, and tucked the bottom of his mask up into his helmet so that only his lower jaw and neck were exposed. I found myself missing the sight of his lips.

I shook my head to get rid of those thoughts and his eyes drew back to mine to follow every movement I made.

The room was silent as I pulled my tablet out, opening an empty file and labeling it ‘Konig’.

“Since you’re here do you mind if we do a physical? I mean I don’t really know what equipment is here, so you’ll have to bear with me for a bit.” I hovered a pen over the screen and turned to face him slightly, his eyes traced down my body and settled on where my hip rested against the edge of the desk.

He nodded slowly and clasped his hands together in front of him, falling into a gentle slouch. His figure was so tall and built that he was probably used to constantly trying to make himself appear smaller and less intimidating. I appreciated the gesture.

“Good.” I mumbled and his eyes snapped back up to my face. I pulled out another alcohol wipe and approached his side. “Tip your chin up to me please, I’ll change these bandages.”

He did what I asked without resistance, and as my hands cupped his face he was less stiff then he was yesterday. I let a gentle smile find my face, glad I’m capable of creating a soothing environment. I slowly peeled off the old tape and gauze against his body and snapped on some gloves before reapplying new ones. The cut looked significantly better today.

“Y’know I don’t think it’ll even scar, Konig.”

“König.” He corrected softly, his German made it easier for him to pronounce then I could.

“Koo-nick.” I tried again, snipping off small squares of excess tape from his face.

The mask shifted above him as he huffed out through his nose in a little laugh. I thought I could see the faintest tip at the corner of his lips, I wished I could pull up the dark fabric to watch him smile- but I wouldn’t push his boundaries like that. Especially not when it seemed he just started to ease up with me.

“Close,” his voice was soft as he spoke to me, and the little praise sent butterflies straight to my stomach. I removed my hands from his skin and cast my eyes anywhere but his, settling on the tablet I brought over. “König.” He said again. “Do you know any German?” He asked.

I hummed a ‘no’ and sat myself on the little black stool, rolling back over to him, tablet open on my lap in front of me. Now that we were both sitting, he was still taller than me and I went up to just about his shoulders.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. If I shifted over just slightly, I could brush our legs together.

“It means King.”

“I don’t doubt that.” I said as I made a show to size him up again with my eyes. He shrunk a bit under my gaze, but still relatively hovered over me in a relaxed way.

“So King,” I mused and his eyes lit up at mine, “How tall are you?”

“82 inches.”

A low whistle escaped me and I noticed the more I probed for questions the faster he bounced his boot or wrung his fingers together. After a solid ten minutes or so of recounting his medical history and any procedures he had done, he settled on pulling his tags from under the collar of his shirt. I quickly jotted down his blood type and leaned back with a heavy sigh.

“I think that’s all then.” I mused and his eyes never left my face. I tipped my head up at him and intentionally gave him a bright smile, those bright blue eyes grew wide and snapped across the room, suddenly looking everywhere but mine. I stifled a laugh and rolled back over to the desk about a foot away from where he sat. Glad for some distance as the room seemed to grow warm.

“I hope to take some blood samples later, maybe today or sometime later this week so, don’t go to far okay?” I turned back over to him and crossed my legs up top the other.

He stood and re-settled the mask back over his face like it had been before and nodded. He turned to me just before he reached the door, one hand on the handle.

“I hope you like it here, Maus.” He said in a gentle and promising way, my face flushed and he quickly turned to leave, the door falling shut in his wake.

‘I hope you like it here,’

‘Maus.’ Rang between my ears.

Was I just given a nickname?

____

Kicking my feet and giggling the entire time I was writing this. The soap ghost race? C’mon guys GUYS guys pls. Also 82 inches is 6’10, I don’t actually know if that’s cannon but someone on TikTok said it so it must be real right?

Feedback apreciated

#könig #call of duty #konig x reader #konig call of duty #Konig x ofc

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spaceyaceface · 9 months

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I should have specified that it wasn't just your writing that put me off on you, but if I ever said anything to your face in the server, everyone would be clamoring to defend the "Patron Saint."

Which by the way, whoever said that? Was it in the DMs for you to repeat with pride like a badge of honor to feel special? I'm all for people spending time talking, drawing, or writing about the things they love, but every other message that comes from your finger tips makes me feel exhausted. Like I don't even want to be apart of this fandom and accidentally support someone like you.

You've misrepresented disabled peeps, gone off on rants for them when hello - let us speak for ourselves maybe? With attention seeking behavior of bragging about your organization skills, only speaking to those that are popular, and by creating an entire archive as if us writers will disappear. If we do disappear, that's none of your business and not your job to preserve what we put out. Ao3 and Wattpadd exist anyway for us to use if we choose to.

You can pretend all you like that you're living rent-free in my head, that you're speshul to get hate, but truth is - I've seen what kind of person you are and I'm fucking tired of you. I'm tired of people like you, who have the loudest voices and refuse to let others speak for themselves. Who can't allow the conversation to drift off away from them in group settings, and I'm tired of everyone who would have a heart attack if I said one bad thing about you as though you are a literal saint. You aren't a nice person, you're just as bad as me - but at least I have the balls to be fucking honest with people and know when to shut up.

???? I am genuinely confused by a majority of what was said here, and please know that this is the last time I'll respond to you, anon.

Let's get the first thing straight. You don't like what I do? Block me. I don't care. The fact that you said server inclines me to think that we may have crossed paths on discord, and if so, please feel free to block me there, too.

Second, the whole "patron saint" thing is a joke because a while back, there was very little Ominis fanfic being written, so I started writing a bunch. Someone left a comment jokingly calling me 'the patron saint of ominis fics', which I thought was funny, and a couple other people also commented. So, as I joke I added it to my bio. End of story. It's not because I'm better than anyone or perfect or anything like that. It's a joke that I went along with.

While Ominis is disabled, I truly do my best to represent him the best I can. If I've ever said anything hurtful or wrong, then I am sorry about that. I would have greatly appreciated a kind critique letting me know what I've done incorrectly, to better that in the future. Besides Ominis, I have written ONE (1) other fic with a disabled character, which was specifically requested by a disabled person in which I did my best to follow their prompt exactly. I don't know what rants you're talking about. I have actually tried by best to stay away from most things regarding disability, because I myself am not disabled, and therefore have no experience in those conversations. I've made a conscious effort not to get involved in that, besides being a listening ear when others speak on it. However, it's inevitable that I'd touch on it briefly in the fics I write, as Ominis is fucking blind.

Again, any sort of pointers or comments on how to improve these interactions I've written would have been appreciated. How was I ever supposed to learn when no one has told me I'm doing something wrong?

As far as the archive goes, I just randomly suggested putting together lists of all the fics I could find---IT'S NOT THAT DEEP. I have no clue why this would annoy you, but once again, BLOCK IT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO SEE IT. I've seen it done in other fandoms, thought it would be fun, others seemed to like the idea, and tada. Fun fact, if writers delete their writings, it the links won't work. They can still make it disappear if they want. I've said it on the sideblog, if people don't want their work on there, I will take it off, no questions asked. I just figured that since they're publicly posting to the internet, it's pretty much fair game.

I also do my best to interact with each and every person who does the same to me---I'm bad at initiating interactions because I have fucking awful anxiety and OCD, which also accounts for the "organizational skills" I brag about. I try to be as genuine and show my appreciation for all the people who are kind to me, because I am absolutely baffled anyone would take the time of day to say a nice thing to me. If you feel I talk about myself too much, then whatever. I use the internet to vent, whether on here or on discord.

And here I'm about to say the rudest thing I ever have on the internet, and it's this: I am not nearly as bad as you. Never in my life have I left anyone a nasty message full of personal attacks and accusations under the guise of "honesty." Nor will I ever do that, because there is enough hate and heartache in the world already. This behavior that you've displayed is the worst part of internet/fandom culture.

I'd like to bring this back full circle: Block me. If you check my blog again to see if I've responded, then obviously I'm at least somewhat living in your head. For the sake of both your mental health and my own, eliminate the tension by stopping here. You have no idea who I am so don't pretend for a second that you do.

For everyone else who had to read this, thanks for your support. I won't stop talking about myself or writing things I love, even if they're meaningless. I will never be replying to another hate comment on this blog.

#ace talks #hate comment #thanks for clearing that up

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luckymeryl · 1 year

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Chapter 9 is completed! I think this might be 11 or 12 chapters tops. It's definitely nearing an end. Feel free to read the full story on AO3

Support me on Kofi or Paypal.

“This is a good thing, right, Meryl?” Milly glanced over at her partner from the driver’s seat. “I mean, he can’t hurt anyone from a prison cell. It��s concrete and metal.”

Meryl nodded in response. “And he’s in the perfect place for us to get our interview.”

Vash peeped in from the back window. “No ropes required.” He added with a wide grin that made Meryl immediately slam the back window shut. “Aw…” his pout was muffled behind the glass.

“So we just make it to O’nare and do our interview, then we can move on. Maybe to someone less…fiery.” Meryl’s back burned at the thought. She didn’t even want to face him, but at least this way, they could all carry on.

O’nare was a small town, with houses and stores built of mainly adobe. The only wood that someone might find would be some tables and chairs in the local saloon or in someone’s kitchen. Perhaps the houses with shutters also had that bit of wood on the outside. Overall, however, it was a surprise to have found Lynch in a town as small and flame retardant as that one. Still, the lower the risk the better, all things considered, and the three of them would count themselves grateful.

The sheriff seemed surprised that press badges were shown to him, but he smiled as he recognized the two girls. “You’re Meryl and Milly. The Outlaw Insider girls, right?”

At his recognition, Vash found himself hiding behind Milly carefully. If he’s seen one episode of their show, who’s to say he hadn’t seen the first one. The interview with the one and only Humanoid Typhoon.

Milly responded first, a bright “Yep!” accompanying a thumbs up. “We’re here to interview Amorus Lynch please.”

“Oh, so that’s the story now. Well, I hate to get in the way of your show, girls. Make sure you don’t get too close to him. He’s a rough one.”

Meryl nodded, stepping past him into the jail, Vash following closely behind Milly, careful to avoid the sheriff’s attention. The brunette sat on the bench of the cell, propped with his elbows on his knees, and shackles around his wrists and ankles. “Is it time for my hangin’ already?”

Meryl took out her notebook, ignoring the chill down her spine and the burning sensation on her back. “We’re not your judge.” She said firmly. “We’re here for an interview.”

There was a hardy laugh from the man at that. “An interview. Well, ain’t I a popular one?” He stood from his seat, walking over to them with a clang of his chains accompanying his steps. “You’ve got some nerve, walking in to talk to one of the most wanted men on the planet just for the sake a few questions.” He smiled at Meryl, watching her closely.

“A few questions.” She repeated. “Then we’re leaving.” Her voice was firm. Her blood ran cold as his red eyes focused in on her, taking her in from head to toe.

Vash was suddenly firm at her side, Milly on the other. The two had flanked her carefully between them. Milly reached down and held her friend’s hand gently. “Whenever you’re ready, Meryl.”

Meryl looked up at her partner, giving her a firm nod. “Let’s get rolling.”

Milly aimed the camera, Vash took his place behind Milly, and Meryl started the questioning. “So Amorus Lynch. How many cities have you burned to the ground? Do you know?”

There was a bit of a laugh at that. “You can’t check the news yourself, little lady?” He shrugged. “I lost count after eight. Hard to remember which ones I burned and which I simply passed through on my way.”

Meryl seemed more focused on her writing than she was on him. She’d written down his answer, flipping through the pages for her next question. They were all quite tame questions. Do you work alone? How long have you been doing this? And finally…. “Why do you do it?”

The grin he gave her caused her blood to turn to ice. “I’m. Hot.” He said slowly. There was a dark assurance in his answer. “I burn. Because I’m hot.”

“You’re… because you’re hot?” There was a nervous chuckle, anything to lighten the mood. “Like… you think your looks—”

“No. No I don’t give a damn about looks.” His eyes narrowed. “I mean I’m hot.” He said again. “My blood is boiling. My skin burns. My mouth tastes of smoke.” He took hold of the bars, letting the chains hit the metal with a loud clang. “There’s a fire inside me. And I want everyone to feel it too.” His eyes bore into her. “And there’s a fire inside you, too. Isn’t there?”

Meryl didn’t respond. She couldn’t. She couldn’t think of an answer to him. No. Right? That was the answer. “How did it start? The…the burning?”

“Hell if I know.” He shrugged. “I was born this way. My mother could have no more children because of me. Not that she’d want to after meeting her one and only son. I don’t have some kind of sob story of being abandoned or abused, so don’t pity me.

“I killed my mother when I was thirteen. I killed her because she dared to bring me into this world, just to burn. So I made her feel my pain. My father ran from me. So I took him too. I melted their flesh beneath my hands and left our home filled with smoke and decay.

“I don’t know if it’s living so close to a dying plant, or just some out of this world genetic mutation, but I found myself able to burn someone with a single touch. Then I could set a fire if I tried hard enough. The flame got hotter inside me. I think it might have burned the soul from my bones. There’s no anger in what I do. There is only equality. I burn, and so does the world. I hurt, and so does everyone else. This is fair.”

As he said this, a scent of smoke filled the air. “You’re already burning, aren’t you?”

“I’m fine.” Meryl said firmly, shaking herself out of her thoughts. “How did you get caught?”

“Would you believe I let myself?”

She could feel the heat radiating from him, causing her to wish she hadn’t stood so close. Finding herself thankful of the chains around his wrists. “Why would you let yourself get caught?”

“Because maybe when they hang me, the burning will stop.” He said simply. There was an odd peace to this. “I want the burning to stop.”

Meryl wrote this last note down. The idea that he had abilities and allowed him to burn an object, or a person for that matter, with a single touch, would have been thrown out the window five years ago. But she’d met people who were insects. Living independent plants. People who could alter soundwaves. She’d seen too many mutations on No Man’s Land to ignore him. “I don’t believe that death is the answer.” She told him. “I don’t believe that dying will erase what you’ve felt.”

“Then maybe I’ll rise from the ashes. Like a phoenix, reborn to once again set fire to the world. If I do not stop burning, I will take humanity down in flames with me.”

“And you’re just… going to let them kill you? What has stopped you before?”

There was a bit of a shrug at that. “The guns and knives melt. The alcohol evaporates. My body doesn’t want to die.”

“Do you think that’s because you aren’t supposed to? There has to be a way you can control it.”

“Control is not the issue here.” His voice became low and a gruff laugh left his lips. “I can keep from hurting a single soul on this planet if I really wanted to. But it won’t stop the pain I feel. Nothing will stop it.” He glared at her then. “Like I said. Don’t fucking pity me, girl.”

“I’m not…” She was. “I don’t mean to. I just don’t think dying is what you have to do.”

“When you find an alternative, just let me know. I’ve been trying for thirty-three years.” He let go of the bars and held the chains tightly in his hands. “So what did I do to you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean where did I burn you? You think I don’t notice my own handwriting?” There was another low laugh at that.

Meryl could practically feel her friends glare past her at the man behind bars. “My back.” She told him. “But it’s better now. I can live with it. And so can you.”

The chain dropped between him, melted through the center, and in that moment, he grabbed her by the wrist, pulling her close. She could feel her hand burning against his, and she cried out. “What part of I want to die can’t you fucking understand?”

The camera fell to the ground behind her. Milly and Vash were at her side now. Vash’s gun aimed at Lynch’s head. Milly began prying his fingers from Meryl’s wrist. Her face twisted in pain, but she continued pulling until his hand let her loose, sending Meryl tumbling backwards onto the hard floor. Lynch backed up from the three of them, hands up in surrender. “Does this mean the interview is over?”

Vash did not lower his gun. Hie eyes were narrow, and fist clenched, just a twitch from pulling the trigger. “Vash.” Meryl held her hand carefully, examining the blisters already growing.

Vash’s voice was low. “We should leave.” His jaw was set, eyes narrow. This was a look she’d seen before, long before. When his temper actually got to him. He holstered his gun, keeping his fist clenched at his side. “Come on.” He tore his eyes away from the man, leading Meryl away with a hand on her back. Milly picked up the camera and followed behind. Vash practically growled at the Sheriff as he passed. “His chains came off. You might want to contain him a little better.”

Meryl let herself be lead to the clinic. She watched as the doctor applied salve and bandages to her hand, staying quiet. Milly tried to give her comforting words like, the camera is fine, just needs a new lens. The footage is still good before then. We’re done with him.

That was the best part. They were done with him.

Vash, however, stayed quiet, silently stewing in his own anger. He never left. He stood by the door as the doctor worked with a look that dared the man to call him out as the Humanoid Typhoon. There was a time when this visage of him might have scared her. But, as she’d known all along, he was still Vash. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

The doctor let her go with a jar of ointment and care instructions that she already knew. He treated the light burns on Milly’s fingers, but luckily they weren’t severe enough for bandaging. The walk to the inn was quiet. Milly seemed afraid to speak. Vash was still angry. And Meryl? Well she was awkwardly in the middle of them both, feeling guilty for even getting them involved.

Milly opened the door to their room and looked back at Meryl. “I’m going to shower first, okay?” She didn’t wait for a response before ducking into the room, leaving the two in the hall.

“I’m sorry.”

Vash’s eyes widened. “Sorry? Meryl what are you sorry for?” The anger in his eyes was replaced by confusion as he looked down at her.

“I shouldn’t have stood so close. I keep…” She huffed. “I keep causing such a ruckus. I keep getting hurt.”

Vash took her hand as tenderly as he could. “This is my fault. I’m here to protect you, and I didn’t do that.”

“It’s not your job to keep me out of trouble.” She gave him a bit of a teasing smile. “That’s my job, remember? To keep you from causing havoc?”

He didn’t express the same amusement. His eyes were so focused on her hand that he hadn’t even noticed her smile. “You deserve to be protected.” He said quietly.

“I…I mean.” Once again, words escaped her. Her heart felt weak. Did she deserve that? She was so weak. She should protect herself. She should take care of herself. She should be stronger. “I mean. I know. I just… I want to protect myself.” She said before giving him a halfhearted laugh. “Look unless you’re going to kiss it better, can I have my hand back?”

Instead, however, his gentle hand lifted hers to his lips, pressing them to her knuckles. “I figure a fist bump might be a little difficult right now.”

She wished she could blame the burn, or the heat, or even simply exhaustion for the flush in her cheeks. She gripped his hand a little too firmly, causing her to wince and bring herself back to reality. “Right. Thank you.”

“Let me help you.” It sounded like a plea as it left his lips. “Let me keep you safe.” He lowered her hand back to her side and looked into her eyes. “Let me protect you, Meryl.”

She found herself avoiding his stare. “Yeah well…” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “That goes for you, too.” The mumbled. “You deserve to be safe, too. You deserve to have someone on your side.”

He gave her a gentle smile. “Thank you.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “You are taking all of this a lot differently than I expected. No offense, but you aren’t scared?”

“Hm…” She shrugged a bit. “I don’t think I can be. If I’m scared then I won’t get my job done… I’ll freeze. Like I did before. And I hurt you.”

“Meryl…” He pulled her to his chest, leaning down into her shoulder. “It’s okay to be afraid. You don’t have to save someone’s feelings at the cost of your own.” She found herself reaching up to clench his coat at that, ignoring the burning in her hand. He wrapped his arms around her. “You deserve to feel.”

And she cried. She cried into his chest, clinging to him like a child. The job, the fire, the meeting, the burns. It all fell on her at once. Her sobs were soft, with quiet whimpers against him. The whole time, he rubbed her back gently, never saying a word. As the tears subsided she pulled away gently, wiping her tears with the uninjured hand. “I… I’m so—” She already knew he wouldn’t accept that. “Thank you.”

He leaned down further, pressing his forehead to hers. “Don’t hold back anymore, okay?”

“Mm…” The sound was all she could manage. Don’t hold back. Don’t hold back…Her fear? Her pain? Her weakness? All of her feelings? She closed her eyes, simply enjoying the closeness.

Maybe there had been more if they had the time. Maybe she’d have moved closer. Maybe she’d have told him everything.

But, as the sirens went off and an explosion erupted outside, they pulled apart. They knew before the announcement from the megaphone came through the windows. “Amorus Lynch has escaped! Everyone take cover!”

#mash #vash meryl #vash the stampede #meryl stryfe #trigun maximum #trigun manga #trigun fanfiction #trigun #trigun art

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wren-of-the-woods · 2 years

Note

Hi! I see you've reblogged a writing prompt list...now, how about #29 for Yennskier (because I adore them) or Geraskefer as that's probably more your thing? (Or if both leave you rather uninspired, I know you're a big Geraskier shipper)

But listen, the immortals putting flowers on Jaskier's grave is heartbreaking and a good idea

Thank you for the prompt, my friend!! This became 1k of oddly soft Yennskier -- I hope you like it!

CW: major character death. Prompt from this list!

Edit: Also on AO3!

~~~

Jaskier’s grave is beautiful in the spring.

“Put me somewhere nice, when the time comes,” he had said with a soft smile. “Cover me with growing things. That way I can live on, in a way. I can provide for new life.”

Yennefer has done her very best to heed his wishes.

She worked together with Geralt to choose the location. It was one of several places that Jaskier himself had suggested in his later years. It’s a little glade beside a small brook, far enough above the water not to be disturbed by a flood but close enough to always be green and shaded. It’s in the woods, about an hour’s journey from Oxenfurt. Jaskier had loved the place. He and Yennefer spent many afternoons there, talking or working or simply enjoying themselves.

The funeral was beautiful. Geralt and Ciri were there, of course. So were most of the remaining witchers and a large number of people from Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s friends and colleagues and students alike. There had even been a fair number of elves who remembered Jaskier from his work as the Sandpiper.

When Jaskier was alive, his favorite tree in the glade had been a majestic old oak that spread its arms over most of the glade. That day, the funeral-goers planted one of its acorns over Jaskier’s final resting place.

“What if it dies?” Geralt had asked. There were tears on his cheeks. It was the first and only time Yennefer has seen him cry. “What if it fails to sprout?”

“It won’t,” said Yennefer. She’s always been stubborn.

Jaskier has given her so much: laughter and love and music and grief. The least she can do is give him a garden in return.

She visited the spot every week, those first few months. She tended the oak as it sprouted and watered the buttercups and forget-me-nots that had been seeded throughout the glade. She talked to Jaskier as she worked. She thought he would enjoy the company.

She could have used magic for this. She did not. She found herself liking the feeling of the earth — Jaskier’s earth — in her hands.

After a while, when the plants were more established and her duties could no longer be ignored, she let herself slow to only visiting once a season. Every solstice and equinox without fail, whether alone or accompanied by Geralt or Ciri, she comes to tend Jaskier’s garden.

Time passes. Seasons turn. Jaskier’s sapling is a fine young tree now, many heads taller than Yennefer. Though Geralt and Ciri are not with her this time, she isn’t alone. “Jaskier’s Glade” has become a popular retreat among Oxenfurt’s bardic students. Yennefer likes to think that it’s because the place itself seems to be made of music; when the wind blows and the creek babbles and there are songbirds in the trees, she sometimes fancies she can hear Jaskier’s voice in the chorus.

Jaskier’s absence hurts, of course, but over the years it has dulled from a soul-crushing chasm in her heart to an old ache. It’s familiar now, more of a reminder of love than of loss. It’s something she never thought she’d get to have, this oddly comforting wound in her heart. A part of her will always remain with that ugly little girl who thought she would never love or be loved. Jaskier, more than anyone else, had shown her she was wrong about that. If this pain is the cost of all the joy and comfort and healing they had given each other, it is a badge she will wear with honor.

One thing that helps when the grief does become hard to bear: Yennefer knows she’ll see Jaskier again.

Yennefer doesn’t believe in the afterlife. Yennefer believes in magic. She also believes that she and Jaskier are possibly the two most stubborn people on the Continent.

Long ago, before Jaskier’s bones started to creak and his hair became more gray than brown, Yennefer conducted a ritual. It was something she discovered in a time-worn old tome, written in a near-forgotten language. It’s an ancient rite, created as a way of binding the souls of two sorcerers. It is, technically, a marriage ritual. Yennefer did not tell Jaskier this. He would have been insufferable.

He’ll find out when it works.

They did it here, in this very glade. With an incantation from Yennefer and a song from Jaskier, their spirits were entwined as they bound their hands together.

The spell was thorough. Their determination is strong. There is no possible way that their souls will be separated now; Yennefer knows this deep in her being.

All she has to do is wait.

~~~

All the bards of Oxenfurt know the sorceress who tends to Jaskier’s Glade. She weeds it and prunes it and waters it and cares for it in every way, as faithful as a lover. She has done so for untold decades — but, as it turns out, even mages don’t live forever. One day, peacefully and in her sleep, her life comes to an end.

She is buried in the glade: hers and Jaskier’s, now. A second oak is planted over her, a twin to the bard’s. The care of the glade, in which lilacs are now planted as well as buttercups, falls to Melitele and the students of Oxenfurt.

The place passes into legend, after a time. Most agree that there’s nothing to the tales but the overactive imaginations of bardlings, but the stories persist all the same. They tell of love beyond reason and hope beyond death, of tender touches held in the twining of leaves.

It’s not a legacy Yennefer ever expected, but those who loved her and Jaskier think it is a fitting one. She deserved to have such softness after everything she endured, and Jaskier deserved to be remembered for his love.

There are songs about the place, to no one’s surprise; no bard can resist a tale of romance. These songs, though, are rarely performed in taverns. They aren’t for laughing or clapping along, but they survive for far longer than the bawdier tales. These songs are for quiet evenings when the world is dark and the stars are bright. They are stories of quiet, unspoken hope and caresses held between the petals of a flower.

They are the best remembrance either Jaskier or Yennefer could have hoped for.

~~~

The secret glade of song, they say, Is full of life and love; The lilacs and the buttercups Seem blesséd from above.

The biggest branching oaks, they say, Can speak, though rarely heard; They laugh and banter, talk and joke With love in every word.

Sometimes at dusk, you see, they say, Two figures dance along; They fade and flicker, shine and whirl, To their sweet starlight song.

The place is full, they sing, they say, Of love on songbirds’ wings; The glade of bard and sorceress wife Is beautiful in the spring.

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imagine-a-fictional-boyfriend · 2 years

Text

I’ll Take Care of You, Chapter 1: Visits

so, I did a thing. Been reading some Billy fics on here and damn. Y’all got me inspired. Love me some thirst for Billy Russo.

This idea came to me out of the blue, idk. It will be a multi-chapter fic but I’m not sure how long. There shall be smut, babes. I’ll also be posting to my ao3 as well (pen name: i_hear_the_birds). I do not consent to my works being copied and/or posted elsewhere.

Fic Summary: Reader works in the hospital where Billy Russo keeps his mother. They’ve caught each other’s eye. But she thinks he is the devoted son... little does she know what hides behind a handsome face and expensive suits.

Pairing: Billy Russo x Fem!Nurse!Reader

Chapter Summary: You’ve noticed the tall, dark, handsome man visiting his mother at the hospital you work in. And you knew that he had noticed you, too. It was time for you to do something about it.

Warnings: mentions of drug use, swearing, reader is thirsty (but aren’t we all?)

Words: 1.3k

Masterlist ~~ Chapter 2

You bit your lip, debating what you were about to do. You’d been thinking about it for a while. Ever since he winked at you 3 weeks ago.

You’d heard the whispers from the other nurses and the PSWs. He was one of the hospital’s biggest donors, visiting his mother who had been there for years. Even though she abandoned him as a baby, he found her in the streets and made sure she was well looked after, thanks to his successful private security company.

She was actually one of your patients. Carla Russo. She wasn’t healthy, but she was doing okay. Drugs had ruined her immune and nervous systems; smoking had wrecked her throat and lungs. She was nonverbal. She always appeared super panicky after her son left, but you would assure her that her son would come back to see her soon. It never seemed to settle her.

Normally, he didn’t pay any attention to the staff. He’d talk to his mother’s doctors, but that was about it. But you knew that you caught his eye. There was the wink three weeks ago. There was more than that, though. He looked back at you once as he was leaving, too. You’d seen the fire in his dark eyes.

Normally, you didn’t give a second thought to anyone looking at you. But he never paid attention to anyone. Except you. With the wonderful things you’d heard about him and the fact that he was, to be frank, hot as fuck… you wanted him. Bad.

Sure, he was older than you. At least 10 years. That wasn’t crazy. You’d been a nurse for a few years now, but had only gotten the job at this private hospital a few months ago. It wasn’t the most exciting job. It had good pay though, and benefits. You had your life figured out. You didn’t care about the age difference. You knew what you wanted. You wanted him.

So, it was time to put your plan in motion. You turned the handle and opened the door.

You pretended to be looking at the order on your clipboard. “Okay, darlin’, you ready for that mouth swab-” You looked up. “Oh gosh! Umm, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize that Carla had a visitor.” You mumbled. Those dark eyes did take you by surprise; you didn’t have to act. It was like looking into a dark abyss.

He eyed you for a moment, his face unreadable. You felt a flush creeping up your neck. Then he smiled. “That’s all right, isn’t it, Mother?” he turned away from you to look at his mother.

Her sheets were tangled around her ankles. Her eyes were wide but they relaxed when you went over to her to fix up her bed.

“Oh, sorry about that.” He said, moving to the other side of the bed to help with the covers. “Mother looked a little flushed.”

You held the back of your hand against Carla's forehead. “Hmm, maybe a little warm. You took out your thermometer from one of the pockets in your pants and took her temperature. “No fever.” You said with a smile to her son.

He grinned. “Wonderful. What’s your name, darling?”

You tapped your name badge, and he leaned forward slightly to read it. “Pleasure to meet you, Y/N.” He held his hand out for you to shake.

You took it. “You too, Mr. Russo.”

“Please. Call me Billy.” He said, before he dropped your hand.

You blushed, and tucked your hair behind your ear. “Okay, Billy.” You cleared your throat. “Well, I am sorry to interrupt. I can come back later.”

Billy gave you a sly smile that caused your heart to race. “I sure hope that you do.”

You blushed even deeper before you left the room.

When you came back to give Carla what was on the order at the actual scheduled time, Billy was gone. You frowned at first but continued with your job. Next time.

***

The next time he visited, you abandoned the “oops, didn’t know you were here” tactic. You went up to him as he finished speaking with the doctor.

“Hi.” You said as he turned around.

“Well, hello, Y/N. It’s nice to see you, again.” He gave you a pleasant smile.

“You, as well,” you said. Your tongue wet your bottom lip as you stared into his eyes. You noticed he had a little freckle under his right eye. “Carla will be so happy to see you.”

Billy grinned. It should be illegal for a man to be that handsome.

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” You said, stepping away from the door.

“Thanks, darlin’.” He opened the door to his mother’s room. He closed it, but not before giving you a wink.

His winks made your knees wobble.

***

At his next visit, he had brought a bouquet of flowers. A small, pretty arrangement. He didn’t have the door closed, and when he saw you passing by, he called you in.

“What can I do for you?” You asked expectantly. “Everything okay?”

Billy grinned. He plucked a flower from the bouquet and present it to you. It was a red rose, out of place from the rest of the flowers.

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise. “I-oh. For me?”

“Pretty flower for a pretty little lady.” He stated. His eyes were fiery.

You blushed before you accepted the rose. “That’s too sweet. You’re a nice guy.” You said dumbly.

He chuckled. “I just wanted to thank you for taking such good care of my mother.”

“It’s my pleasure.” You said sincerely. “I can see how much you care about her.” You smiled over at Carla in her bed. She stared back at you.

He hid a smile by running his fingers over his beard.

You brought the flower to your nose and took a whiff. “Well, thank you, Billy.”

“It’s my pleasure, Y/N.” You bit your lip, trying to stifle your grin. “Now, I’ve got to go. I look forward to seeing you again.”

***

You didn’t want to wait anymore. You knew he was into you. You knew that you’d probably have to make the first move. It wasn’t unheard of for relatives of patients to become interested in their family member’s care takers. Billy seemed like a smart guy. He probably knew not to get involved... even though he had shown his interest.

Was it a bad idea? Probably. He did so much for the hospital, with his donations and public support. Could it jeopardize your job? Probably. Could it impact his mother’s care? Probably.

You needed to make your move before you lost your nerve. Thinking too much was ruining the mood.

He was here this evening. He usually stayed for about 20 minutes. You looked at your watch. He’d been here for just over 15.

It was almost 8pm. You were just starting your night shift. No doctors were here. Nursing staff was lighter. Today was the day to do it.

You were waiting, leaning against the counter at the nursing station for him to leave his mother’s room. When you saw him, you reached up and pulled your hair free from the elastic. You ran your fingers through your hair to smooth it out. You unbuttoned the top two buttons of your cardigan.

He watched you, and a wolfish smile took over his lips. He approached you steadily.

“Warm, are we?” he asked when he was in front of you. “You look it.”

“Pardon?” You asked, a little breathless. His cologne smelled good.

“Hot. You look hot.” He said bluntly. “You are hot.”

Normally, you wouldn’t take that as a compliment. It always sounded shallow. But coming from this tall, dark man, it set a fire to your bones.

“So are you.” You said confidently.

He grinned. “You think so?” He stepped closer to you.

You nodded.

It looked like he was about to step closer when another nurse came over to the desk to use the phone.

You cleared your throat, but Billy didn’t move away. “I know what you want, little lady.”

“What’s that?” You whispered back, tilting your face back to look at his.

“Why don’t you take me somewhere and show me?” He had a teasing look in his eyes.

You licked your lips absently. Now was your chance.

***

Author's note: Let me know what you think!! You're in for a wild ride for the next chapter ;)

#billy russo #the punisher #the punisher fanfic #billy russo x reader #billy russo x you #fanfic #billy russo fanfic #i'll take care of you #billy russo smut

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readerstories · 3 years

Text

I’m sorry- Aaron Hotchner x gn!reader

Idk if angry was the emotion you wanted, but for some reason that is what I was feeling like writing this time. Also, I cannot keep stuff with Hotch short apparently. (AO3)

Warnings/tags: established relationship, angst, fighting, hurt/comfort, Hotch being an ass, happy ending

Wordcount: 2696

Request: I was wondering if you could do a hotch x BAU!reader where Hotch says something in the heat of an argument and the reader gets super emotional and Hotch just tries to apologize and make it up to reader. Thank you💕💕

Sometimes, injuries happen at work.

You had done a quick assessment in the field, making a hard decision when you needed to. Going in without much backup had been a risk you chose to take.

Being hit in the head with an old briefcase that has metal edges had not been a possibility you had foreseen, but it happened anyways.

You had rounded a corner in the unsub’s home, gun raised and yelling his name, and he had gotten a good knock on your forehead. You had been dazed for a few seconds, but managed to tackle him and cuff him anyway, reading him his rights as you did so.

The hard edge of the briefcase had hit your forehead, making a small gash, which was not deep, but it was bleeding quite a bit like head wounds tend to do. It’s running down your face as you get the unsub up on his feet, so you have to close your left eye and wipe at it as you lead the cuffed man outside.

Once outside you hand him over to an officer, who gives your head a glance, but doesn’t ask as you turn away from him as he starts to lead the unsub towards a car.

Rossi spots where he’s talking to Hotch and the police chief and points towards the ambulance standing close. You nod, and wipe at your face with the edge of your jacket sleeve, catching Hotch turning around to look at you too, but you don’t catch the worried look in his eyes.

Walking over to the ambulance, you’re guided to sit on the back as one of the paramedics cleans you up.

Even though it looked bad with the blood, the clean up goes quick, and they say you won’t even need stitches.

And luckily no concussion either.

A few butterfly strips get applied to your forehead and you are allowed to go with a promise that you will take it easy for at least a day or two.

You’re asked if you have anyone to stay with just in case and you nod as an answer, the adrenaline of it all wearing off as you stand up and yawn. The paramedic smiles and wishes you good night, you do the same to them.

Joining Aaron at his car, he doesn’t say anything, his mouth in a thin line as he looks at the strips now adorning your forehead. Both of you had agreed from the start to keep PDA to a minimum at work, but you wish he would at least say or do something.

Ask you if you’re fine.

Hold your hand maybe.

Comment on how you should change out of your bloodied jacket.

Something.

Something other than the stony silence that follows you into the car.

It takes a few minutes of Aaron driving towards Quantico before anything is said.

“You were reckless.”

“I made a decision on the spot and it backfired a little, yes, but I was hardly reckless.”

“If he had a gun-”

“I would have disarmed him or shot him first.”

“You couldn’t stop a briefcase, you think you could do a gun?” Getting irritated, you glare at Aaron.

“Yes.” You grit out.

“You sure?”

“Aaron, what the fuck is this?” You see him clench at the wheel, his knuckles turning whiter as he concentrates on driving for a few seconds before answering you.

“You need a debrief.”

“Yes, from Rossi, at the office, not like this.” He scoffs, glancing at you briefly before locking his gaze back on the road. You see his jaw clench, but he doesn’t answer you, so you don’t say anything either.

Neither of you speak again until you’re back at headquarters. Aaron beelines for his office, and you’re hot on his heels, not paying any attention to the rest of the team already gathered at the bullpen.

“Aaron-” You try to speak as you close the door behind you, but he interrupts you.

“You should take a week off.” You stare at him as he rummages through some papers on his desk, not even looking at you as he speaks. “One paid week off should do you good. After all this.” He gestures at you and finally looks away from the papers again.

“Hotch, if this was anyone else, you would let them come back after a day to sleep in.” Aaron sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“I don’t have to explain my reasoning to you.” His voice is angry, but simmering with tiredness just beneath the surface.

The silence in the room as you don’t even give an answer to the statement is deafening. There’s a look in your eyes that he never wished to see directed at him.

Ice cold anger. Mixed with disappointment, and something else he can’t quite place. Sadness perhaps?

You unclip your gun from your holster, placing it on his desk with your badge.

“See you in a week, Hotchner.” The use of his full last name hurts, you might as well have used bullets.

You don’t let him give you any response to your statement, opening the door and striding out of his office, not slamming the door behind you as much as you want to. Your steps down to you desk are fast, as fast as they can be without fully running.

You gather your things quickly, ignoring the rest of your team.

Morgan tries to stop you with a hand on your shoulder, but you evade him with a glare, making him back off.

All the things you need on your person, you’re out of the glass door seconds later. You slam on the elevator button, debating on just taking the stairs to run off some steam while also getting out of here.

Rossi joins you as you wait, and you hear him open his mouth to speak, but you beat him to it.

“If you try to say something to get me to stay, I swear to god, I will put you on the ground.” Your words and glare makes Rossi’s eyebrows rise, but he keeps his mouth shut and takes a few steps away from you.

Finally the elevator doors open and you get in, pushing the button for the parking garage and the button to close the door faster in quick succession. With one last glare at the bullpen the elevator door closes in front of your face.

While you try your damnedest to set a new speed record for leaving the building, Rossi goes back to the bullpen, where the rest of the team sends him questioning glances.

“What even happened?” Morgan wonders out loud. “I’ve never seen them so angry before.”

“I don’t know.” Rossi is looking at Hotch, who is moving around in his office, partly shielded by the blinds. Everyone is looking between each other and Hotch’s office, the first one daring to go up there ends up being Rossi.

He knocks softly on the door with a knuckle, making Hotch look up from where he is standing next to his desk and reading some paperwork in his hand.

“You want to talk?” Hotch scoffs, putting the papers down on the desk.

“I’m fine.” Rossi closes the door behind him.

“But they clearly weren’t, so come on, spill. What did you do?” Hotch clenches his jaw, sparing a glance down at the bullpen, where the rest of the team tries to pretend they’re busy.

“I told them to take a paid week off, they protested, I insisted.” Hotch sighs as Rossi scoffs.

“For such a smart man you sure are dumb sometimes.” Hotch’s head snaps back by the comment, looking like he wants to answer and defend himself, but Rossi holds up a hand to stop him.

“You messed up. You must have known telling them to take a week off just for this was a bad call.”

“I didn’t.” Hotch's eyes are like steel, but there’s hurt hiding behind, if it’s at Rossi’s words or your actions he doesn’t know.

“But it was. Fuck Aaron, what are you even still doing here?” Hotch squints his eyes at Rossi, who throws his hands up into the air.

“You should be running after them and begging them to forgive you for doing the wrong thing. Preferably with their favorite flowers and candy in hand, or some sort of gesture, because this-” He gestures at Hotch and your gun and badge on his desk, “Is not good for anyone.” Hotch watches him for a few seconds.

“Rossi-”

“Just go Aaron.” Seemingly making up his mind, Hotch gathers his stuff, only stopping right next to Rossi and giving him a glance.

“I-” Rossi pats Hotch’s shoulder.

“Someone had to knock some sense into you. Go.” Hotch nods, out the door in seconds. The team watches him go, neither of them saying anything before Hotch is gone and Rossi joins them in the bullpen.

“They going to be okay?” Morgan asks.

“Let’s hope so.” Rossi answers, staring at the glass doors.

“I hate when people fight.” Garcia says quietly as Morgan pulls her into a side-hug.

----

You don’t know if you should even be driving right now, but can’t find it in yourself to care or think too much about it.

You just need to get somewhere where you can be alone and clear your head. Somewhere there’s less people and more open space.

And lucky for you, you know just the spot.

Almost on auto-pilot, you drive your truck away from work, heading out on the main road, not driving for long until you turn onto a small side road. It can barely even be called that, small and uneven as it is, but it’s no problem for you truck where you drive it with sure hands.

You end up in a clearing near the water, a small beach barely touched or seen by anyone else, except maybe the occasional hiker. You debate going down to the water, but instead you park your truck with its back towards it, flipping the tailgate down so you can sit on it.

Jumping up to sit on the tailgate, you pull out the newly bought pack of smokes and lighter from your pocket. You had quit years ago, but tonight seems like a good idea for bad habits, you think to yourself as you light one.

Taking a drag, you can already tell you will regret it later with the aftertaste you know it leaves, but you continue smoking nonetheless.

Turning some old candy wrapper in your pocket into an improvised ashtray and putting it on the right side of you, one cigarette turns into two, soon morphing into a third.

It’s just seconds after lighting your forth cigarette that you hear another car approach. Which is odd, because you were certain few people know about this place, but you’re not too worried, your private gun resting in the back of your pants a comforting weight.

The car rounds the last bend of the small road, coming to a stop not too far from you, lights illuminating your truck and the beach beyond. Turning to look, you’re almost blinded by the lights, but they are quickly shut off as the car is turned off, and you realize you know the car.

Aaron’s car.

You snort.

The trip out here from the main road couldn’t have been comfortable for his car, or for Aaron.

Good.

You turn back around just as the driver door starts to open, and you ignore the sound of Aaron’s steps in the dirt in favor of taking another drag of your cigarette and staring into the water.

Aaron comes around your truck, leaning against your truck’s tailgate on your left, keeping his distance. He places a plastic grocery bag in the space between you. It makes a dull thud and despite you trying to ignore it, you find yourself curious.

“Peace offering.” Aaron explains as you eye the bag. You reach over and push at the top of the bag so you can peek inside. A couple of your favorite snacks, drinks, and a DVD with the logo of a movie you had talked about wanting to see. You push the bag behind you into the truck bed, taking another drag of your cigarette.

“How did you find me?” You don’t look at Aaron just yet, but you can tell he is looking at you.

“You told me about this place a few months ago and how you go here to relax sometimes and I- I just thought with how I acted-” Aaron sighs. He holds out his hand just in your field of vision, gesture clear. You give him your cigarette, watching him for the first time since he arrived as he takes a drag, letting the smoke lazily spill out from his lips with practiced ease.

“Didn’t take you for a smoker.”

“I had a phase in college.” He offers, taking another drag before giving the cigarette back to you. You take a drag yourself, letting the silence linger for a moment before you speak.

“You know you were being stupid.”

“Yes.” You’re just slightly surprised with how there is no hesitation in the one-word answer, but you’re a little content as well.

“If it had been anyone else in the team you wouldn’t have reacted that way.” Aaron sighs, putting his arms back on the tailgate, using them as leverage to hoist himself up so he’s sitting on the tailgate too, still keeping his distance.

“No one else in the team are you.” You wait for him to say more, taking a last drag of your cigarette, putting it out with the three others in the candy wrapper.

“I’m sorry.” Aaron admits, but you still don’t say anything. “I was acting and thinking like your significant other, and not your boss. I let my worry get the best of me, and I tried to find a way to shield you from any further harm in what little way I could by telling you to take a week off.” You nod, at least seeing his reasoning a bit clearer now.

“I’m not taking it.”

“You are but-” He holds up a hand before you can protest and glare at him too hard “-but so am I.” You blink, staring at him for a few seconds.

“You are?” He nods, and you lean forward to place the back of your hand on his forehead. He almost jolts at your touch, but doesn’t move away.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking if you have a fever.” Hotch scoffs, but a small smile peaks through as you let your hand fall down. He felt fine, and other than looking a bit tired and very sorry, he looks fine too.

Hotch takes your hand in his, bringing it up to kiss your knuckles and you can’t help the fond smile on your face.

“I’m sorry.” He offers up again, letting go of your hand in favor of moving closer so he can put an arm around your waist and lean his head on your shoulder as you look at the water again. You hum, turning your head ever so slightly so you can kiss the top of your head. You can’t see the little shy smile on Aaron’s face, but you can almost hear it in his almost hopeful voice as he speaks.

“Does that mean I’m forgiven?” You hum, moving your hand to rest on his knee.

“Mostly. But you are the only one doing chores this week.”

“That’s alright with me, as long as I get to spend time with you.” His hand on your jaw turns your head towards him, letting him give a brief kiss to your lips, and then a feather light one just below the butterfly strips on your forehead.

“You’re a fool Aaron.”

“I’m only a fool for you.”

“Cheesy.” You roll your eyes at him with a smile as you get down from the tailgate, Aaron joining you, standing close so he can give you another kiss.

“Always.” He says with a grin, making his eyes light up and you can’t help but kiss him.

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x gender neutral reader #aaron hotchner x gn!reader #gender neutral #criminal minds #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #reader #readerinsert #reader insert #gn!reader #gender neutral reader #written

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maybe-itll-be-someday · 3 years

Text

Teenage Dreams

The one where someone disrespects Emily and Jack remedies it by punching them in the face.

Read on AO3

Emily was a great Mom.

Despite the fact that they weren't related by blood, she was the only mom he truly ever know. He never really knew his actual Mom since she had died so long ago now. He had snippets of memories, barely threads now since it's been over a decade since she passed, and the stories that his Dad would tell him. About how they first met in the Pirates of Penzance play in high school, how she supported him through law school and the Academy, and how she loved strawberry ice cream and will always love him.

But Emily had always been around, on the sidelines of his soccer games and baseball tournaments, wiping his tears and kissing his bandages when he scraped his knee or slammed his finger in the car door. They had gotten married almost five years ago now and it was only in the last three that Jack had insisted on calling her Mom.

"You're the only Mom I have." He had said when she was stunned into silence as he tested the moniker on his lips on a Wednesday afternoon. He doesn't think he'd ever seen Emily cry so hard before.

The only thing Jack Hotchner didn't really like about his mom, is all the snide comments and half whispers among his friends whenever they came over. He was aware that Emily was beautiful, if the way his Dad always told her was any indication.

It was after school and Mom had come to pick him up after his first soccer practice, his friends quickly starting to elbow each other as his Mom made his way towards them, still dressed from work with her FBI badge hanging off the side of her blazer.

"Hi sweetie." Emily greets. She smiled brilliantly at all his friends, some of whom quickly averted their eyes at the sight of her.

"Hey Mom. These are my teammates." He says, introducing her to the gangly group of teenagers who were either outright staring or doing everything in their power to not make any eye contact.

"I just need to go grab my stuff from the locker room. I'll meet you at the car?" Emily nods, knowing that now that Jack was getting older he was starting to enter the phase where everything his parents did embarrassed him, even if it was just something as simple as picking him up from practice. If Emily were a betting woman, she would wager a large amount of money that Jack wanted her to park down the street so his friends never saw her.

If only she knew exactly why Jack was keeping his friends far away from her.

His friends immediately start whispering to themselves as Emily makes her way back towards the parking lot to wait for Jack.

"That's his mom?"

"Holy shit."

"That is a MILF if I've ever seen one." Jack is quick to shoot an angry glare at his teammate, who at the stern look in Jack's eye, had the decency to look embarrassed before they made their way into the locker room.

Jack could still hear the rumblings among his friends, catching the words sexy and red from the direction of the showers. He tries to block it out, but he can feel the tips of his ears go read as his teammates swapped remarks about their list of hottest Moms and somehow, his own makes it on the list.

He's still bright red when he hops into the car, Mom with a concerned look on her face.

"Are you alright, Jack? You're not catching a fever, are you?" She frowns, checking his temperature with the back of his hand as he swats her away.

"Mom, I'm fine. It's nothing." Emily tuts, Jack's tone toeing the boundary between upset and disrespectful.

"Jack, you know that as a profiler I can tell when you're lying to me, right?" She says, her eyebrow raised and Jack grumbles to himself. Emily smiles at the muttered words, but for her benefit, she asks him to speak up.

"Sorry, what did you say?"

"I said yes ma'am, I am well-aware."

"And you also know that I won't force you to talk about anything unless you want to talk about it?"

A small smile breaks on Jack's lips. Mom never did push him to talk about anything, always just letting him know that she was available when he eventually did want to. Her only condition was that he would talk to her eventually, no matter how long that took. It was one of Jack's favorite things about her, since she could really calm his Dad down when he had that vein bulging from his neck whenever information was withheld from him.

"I'm aware of that too."

"As long as you know." She says, before turning up the radio and singing in an off-tune pitch to the latest pop song on the radio, clearly unaware of the actual lyrics or which key the song is supposed to be in.

Okay, maybe there were two things he didn't like about her.

The next time someone makes a comment about his Mom, they make it to Jack's face.

Dennis Smith was one of those kids you'd consider an outcast in school. Always dressed in torn jeans and black, followed by thin cronies who were too afraid to stand-up to the kids who picked on them so they ended up hiding behind a larger bully. He had been taunting Elliot, Jack's lab partner, for the past three weeks. Elliot had run into class that day, his shirt torn and bag half-opened as he rushed to sit next to Jack.

"Dude, what happened?" Jack asked when he spotted the torn pocket and the hastily stuffed belongings in his backpack. Some of his books were wet and if Jack had to guess, they had roughed him up in the boy's bathroom.

"Dennis." Elliot just mumbles, pulling out his notebook and cursing when he realizes that they took his wallet.

No one was going to pick on his friends if he could do something about it.

At least, that's what his Dad taught him.

So when Chemistry ends, he stalks Dennis and finds him bent over a water fountain, his friends chatting away while leaning on the locker next to him. Jack reaches over and taps him on the shoulder, a bewildered expression on Dennis' face.

"What do you want, Hotchner?" He spit out, puffing his chest to make him seem bigger than he actually was. Dennis didn't like him, since he was one of the only ones who wasn't scared of the bully. Jack found it hard to be scared of him, considering the fact that both of his parents were in the FBI and dealt with much scarier things than insecure teenage boys with an anger issue.

Jack crosses his arms, Elliot hiding behind him as he stares Dennis down.

"What's your problem with Elliot?" He asks flatly, interested in getting to the bottom of this. The hallway slowly starts to flood with students exiting their classes and the commotion causes a small crowd to form. In the corner of his eye, Jack can see cellphones being pulled out and aimed right at them.

"My problem is that little pipsqueak told Ms. Gardner that I was cheating." The bully stares directly at Elliot, who cowers further behind Jack despite the fact that Jack was only a few inches taller than him.

"But you were cheating."

"Well, if he learned to mind his own business, then maybe we wouldn't pick on him so much." Jack sizes Dennis up - he notices the muddy state of his shoes and pants that dangle just above his ankles, clearly too short for him. He smells faintly of body odor and some form of energy drink and if Jack had to guess, no one was providing him parental supervision at home.

He was angry, and had no one to direct that anger towards except for a student who was just doing his due diligence.

"Look, Dennis. I get it - your parents don't spend enough time with you, they leave you alone a lot, and you're angry about it. Can't you find something better to do with your time? Like actually studying so you don't need to cheat?"

Dennis flushes bright red and Jack turns and motions for Elliot to follow him. Hopefully, that would be enough to stop them from bullying Elliot. It's only then that he hears what Dennis mutters under his breath.

"Not all of us have a hot ass stepmom to tend to our every need. If I had a stepmom like that-"

Jack's fist connects with his nose, his knuckles flashing in pain at the contact. He feels a white hot rage spark under his skin, directed at anyone who would think to badmouth his family. The crowd gasps as Dennis falls to the floor, clutching his nose and yelping in pain. Jack flexes his knuckles and winces at the dull ache that settled in his joints. He freezes when he hears a familiar voice call out his name.

"Jack Hotchner!" Jack's eyes close and hopes that it isn't who he thinks it is.

He plasters a smile on his face and turns around, hiding his swollen hand behind his back.

"Hi Principal Gibbons."

"You are grounded for at least three months." Aaron says, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. It was just his luck that his Dad would be the one to pick him up. Apparently, Mom was off on a case with the BAU and Jack had a feeling she would be more understanding of him breaking Dennis' nose after fifth period.

After all, she was the one who signed him up for self-defense classes.

"What were you thinking Jack? Breaking a kid's nose?" His Dad had been furious upon arriving at the Principal's office. To the normal outsider, he looked calm, but Jack knew the fury that lay underneath. Dad had an excellent poker face and he managed to keep his anger under wraps until they got back into the car.

"He was being a dick."

"Language." His Dad warns and Jack sighs, knowing that swearing probably wasn't going to save him from the thin ice he was already on.

"Look, he was bullying my friend Elliot and I stood up to him."

"So, instead of talking it out, you punched him." Aaron says in disbelief and Jack shakes his head in frustration.

"No, I told him that his parents weren't around and that he was angry, so instead of picking on Elliot, he should just study."

There's a beat of silence.

"You profiled him?" Aaron curses the pride that blooms at the realization, not wanting Jack to get off that easy. After all, he did get suspended for three days and had to visit the school counselor with Dennis upon his return for 'mediation'.

"I did. Then I walked away."

"Then why did you punch him?"

"Because he said something about Emily." Jack's arms cross, his gaze out the window and Aaron sighs. He had been ecstatic when Emily came to him with tears in her eyes because Jack wanted to start calling her Mom. It was a decision that Aaron always left entirely up to Jack, not wanting to force him into feeling like they were replacing Haley since they were getting married. She had always been perfectly fine at being called Emily, not wanting to infringe on Jack's view of Haley. Jack only reverted back to calling her 'Emily' when he wanted to distinguish Emily and Haley.

Aaron lets the silence sit for a minute, his anger deflating. "What did he say?" He eventually asks.

"That not everyone had a hot ass stepmom to tend to their every need."

A different flash of anger runs through Aaron, his grip around the steering wheel tightening a little bit and his knuckles flashing white.

"That's why I punched him. I don't want anyone to talk about Mom like that."

Aaron lets out a breath, the last of his anger dissipating with Jack's words. He had always taught Jack to stand-up for those who couldn't stand up for themselves and he did just that. He stood up for Elliot and he stood up for Emily as well, not tolerating any disrespect for the people he cared about.

"Hot ass stepmom?" Aaron asks, a curious eyebrow raised.

"Oh Dad, you have no idea."

Emily comes back home to the angry marks on Jack's hand settling into purple and yellow bruises.

"You did what?"

"He punched a kid at school. He'll be suspended until tomorrow." Emily crossed her arms, disappointment in her expression. "Did this kid attempt to hit you first?"

Jack shook his head, hung low from the stare his Mom was baring into him. Aaron chuckles, rescuing Jack from what he is sure is a tongue lashing with a gentle hand placed on her shoulder.

"He was actually defending a friend." Mom's stance softens ever so slightly and eventually, she uncrosses her arms and sighs.

"As long as it was for the right reasons. But I still don't condone the violence and you're grounded until next week." Jack nods, knowing that it was a lenient punishment considering he spent the last month grounded because he had snuck out to see a girl.

Later, when Jack is in bed, Aaron tells Emily the true reason why he had gotten in trouble. Her heart swells with pride and an absolute adoration for the boy she's watched grow up and felt honored that he would defend her from his peers.

"Hot ass stepmom, huh?" She teases as Aaron bristles. She loved that even after years together, he still got jealous. Many cops and detectives have been the end of the Hotchner glare when he caught them checking her out and somehow, it doesn't surprise her that a few harmless teenage crushes would cause his heckles to rise.

"Oh sweetheart." She coos, snaking her arms around his neck as his hands land on her hips. She doesn't miss the way his grip is just a little tighter and giggles as he grunts in acknowledgement.

"You don't need to worry about a bunch of teenage boys stealing me away."

"Who says I'm worried?"

Emily just laughs, smoothing the frown on his forehead.

"Whatever you say, sweetie."

Later that week, when Jack's friends come over before they head to the high school football game, Emily comes home from her run. Her hair is thrown up in a messy bun, her sweat slick on her skin and her running shorts hugging her behind tightly. Aaron walks into the living room to greet her to see two pairs of eyes glued to Emily's form as she walks into the kitchen to get some water.

He throws them a death glare and doesn't fight the smirk on his face when Emily presses a kiss to his lips in greeting.

#hotchniss #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jack hotchner #aaron x emily

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tundrainafrica · 3 years

Note

I've been following your blog for a while now and I love your writing and your meta! I was wondering, do you consider Levi and Hanji's relationship to be romantic in canon? Do you consider it canon that Levi had romantic feelings for Erwin?

Thank you for the ask anon, also, thank you for ruffling my feathers a bit too :D. I’m glad you like my writings and meta and I hope that my works continue to bring you joy.

The types of questions you asked up there could only lead to the types of answers that can spark ship wars. I mean the dialogue in 136 and the change in kanji for chapter 132 hinting their own ships canon were enough to have Eruri and Levihan shippers bashing each other on twitter tbh.

Personally, I see the romantic potential for both Levihan and Eruri in the show. That’s why I found myself reading a good number of Levihan and Eruri fics. (But lots more Levihan if it isn’t obvious from AO3 bookmarks and my tumblr title). I mean lots more romantic potential than let’s say.... ereri

Do you consider it canon that Levi had romantic feelings for Erwin?

I’ll answer this one first. No. I don’t think Levi had romantic feelings for Erwin anywhere on the show. Was there potential for something to bloom? Possibly, that’s why I still read eruri fanfiction. I like exploring the possibility if Erwin wasn’t a little too obsessed with his dream, maybe their relationship could have turned out differently.

In canon, by the time they introduced Erwin, Erwin had already forsaken all romance and I think whatever feelings Erwin had towards romance rubbed off on Levi and their relationship ended up being more professional than anything. Due to Erwin’s one track mind and the position he had taken upon himself. any romantic possibilities between them in canon was just harder to make happen.

Levi though still had strong feelings towards Erwin. It’s undeniable. Erwin had given Levi purpose to live and direction on where to go next, what to do next so that’s why regardless of whether canon had made it possible or not, this relationship is still very interesting to explore.

Erwin was more professional and cold than Levi imo and honestly, despite the cold demeanor of his best friend Erwin, Levi was an incredible softie at heart and we’ve seen that side of him multiple times, when he gave Petra’s badge to that one soldier, when he stared at that one mother and child when they were on the wall ready to leave to retake Shiganshina.

We all know Levi begrudgingly wanted that soft side of him indulged and between Erwin and Hange the one more likely to indulge that softie side of Levi was Hange.

Which brings me to the next question.

Do you consider Levi and Hanji's relationship to be romantic in canon?

I wouldn’t be obsessively writing Levihan fics if I didn’t see it as romantic in canon. But at the same time, I don’t believe Hange and Levi have been in a relationship since Season 1. My headcanon here is Hange and Levi built that relationship over time and this relationship just rapidly progressed after season 3

It’s incredibly subtle which is one of the reasons people like to pretend it doesn’t exist. Probably because they’re trying to promote another ship or they don’t wanna see romance in AOT

But I don’t think a relationship developing subtly is at all a sign that it can be more platonic than anything else.

In fact, most healthy relationships and most relationships from a bystanders point of view, develop subtly. Like we were the bystanders in many other developing relationships in real life, I think we, the audience of AOT, were also bystanders watching the subtle development of Hange and Levi’s relationship.

Let’s think about how we’ve watched relationships develop in real life.

If we’re not invested, they happen incredibly subtly. These people are just constantly together, then eventually we realize we can’t invite the other without the other, then we realize we can barely get them alone, then we realize the person changed and eventually they drop this bomb saying “by the way, I’m dating this person now.”

This pattern happens way too many damn times among my friends though and people I just randomly watch everyday that it just became so expected for it to develop into romance so eventually, when I’ve seen the formula play through, I tend to lean on the side of ‘yeah, they’re probably togteher or getting there.’

Yeah, I get it, there’s a danger in assuming that people are together. I’ve seen enough romantic relationships develop though to realize that leaning on the side of ‘romantic’ given specific signs is usually the correct assumption. In fact, I have earned a good amount of money irl winning bets with my friends that two people are actually together but are hiding a relationship (or possibly are in denial).

What are some of these signs?

The way they treat this one person is so glaringly different from how they treat other people

Through the years, I have lost a lot of my best friends to their boyfriends/girlfriends and as the youngest child, I have watched all seven of my siblings get into a relationship and believe me, a lot of them have a certain line they would draw on what they are willing to do for their close friend or sibling and what they are willing to do for a lover.

I have seen people in love so willingly have their hand crushed while the person they love has their fingers set back. “Hold my hand as hard as you need to.” I’ve seen my friends take a detour 1 hour away from the destination just to pick up the person they love. And here’s the thing, they wouldn’t have done it for anyone else usually, they would have only done that thing for that one person.

Yes, okay doormats exist. But even people with doormat syndrome, the threshold of what someone is willing to do for a close friend and for a person they love still differ regardless. In a life or death situation, I think both Levi and Hange would have fought to conserve lives but if we consider small things, like routines, groceries, small favors, I feel like Levi has an incredibly low threshold of what he’d be willing to do for a random person. But Levi still carried her groceries for her so he could meet her with Moblit in the smartpass. Levi still picked her up and waited for her in Season 2 when she was researching the rock. And for Hange, chapter 115 is all the hint you need. I honestly don’t know if Hange would have gone through those lengths for anyone else but selfishly abandoning commander duties for one guy? She practically said screw you to everyone else.

The way they talk to each other is different.

This is something I notice in real life too. Most people won’t notice when they themselves do it but it’s incredibly obvious for listeners if the listeners look out for it. The tones of people’s voices change when they’re talking to someone they love. For a lot of people, sometimes their voices get a little high pitched. For others, sometimes their voices get a little softer. Just watch when you’re talking to a friend and suddenly their SO calls. (It might not apply to everyone but I find this incredibly common.) Not just tones, speech patterns change or tendencies too. In front of that one person, sometimes people are a little more selfish. Like maybe, they don’t usually say what they want to eat but when the one person asks, they would answer because suddenly they know what they want.

With Hange and Levi we have the ‘let’s live together’ and the ‘dedicate your heart’ respectively.

These are two expressions/phrases they would have not used with anyone else. There was probably more in canon, but these are just the most glaringly obvious ones with two pivotal scenes that blatantly show that Hange and Levi do have signs of the above.

Hange and Levi who are generally very selfless all business people, are suddenly only selfish with the person they love. Hange with “let’s live together?” An injured Levi deciding to rest and sleep despite the fact that they were in a war because Hange was nearby to take care of him?

Those two were suddenly selfish when they were alone with one another?

They are constantly together.

Okay, irl, you can see this when you have all your friends ride in a car together and somehow, it’s always them taking those two seats next to each other. They leave the classroom together. They leave every single dam room together. And it could be subtle or not but they always wait for one another. Yet if one person is not there, they’re the type to just go ahead and leave without giving the room behind them a second look. When someone wants to buy something, the other always has an excuse to come. And oh my god, when you call your friend in the middle of the night to hang, that person is always in their dam house or in their dam room, no breaks.

And Hange and Levi have their equivalent of this.

Levi literally picked Hange from her lab in Season 2 while she was injured and he had no need to.

I think I have made a post where Levi and Hange are shown constantly together but lemme make some points. Even early in canon, why were Hange and Levi introduced riding next to each other, they’re not even in the same squad. Why were they riding out the gate together? Shouldn’t Levi have been with his squad and shouldn’t Hange have been with her squad?

Yeah sure, maybe they just decided to ride together. But why were they next to each other in the Ilse’s notebook too when they went out the gate? And even when they were going to take back Wall Maria, Levi and Hange were next to each other in the lift, they were back to back on Wall Maria.

Like the only expedition where they weren’t riding together was when Levi had to protect Eren yo.

“They’re both leaders of course they were together” Mind you, Levi’s position in the military is a special one. He’s the captain of a special operations squad and not at all a squad leader so he shouldn’t be riding next to Hange if it were by “leaders” and in the retake Wall Maria, if they were divided by “leaders” why didn’t Hange take the lift with the other squad leaders? Why wasn’t she back to back with the other squad leaders on top of Wall Maria?

Why did she pick to hang out with Special Ops squad Captain Levi of all people, in every. Single. Damn. expedition. Scene.

And don’t even get me started on post Season 3 man. They’ve been inseparable since Erwin died.

They literally come in a set.

And you kinda realized your friends are in love when you wanna invite one of them out and you realized you kinda have to invite their special little friend by default.

And Hange and Levi are just like that too,

Hange and Levi have always come in a set. In fan art, in those advertisements, Hange and Levi are always next to each other. In those fan audiobooks, smart passes, there are always Levihan crumbs. Attack on Titan Chuugakkou was literally a testament to the canonicity of Levihan since in that show, they didn’t even hide anything, Levi and Hange were always next to each other. (I think Hange actually ended up living with him towards the end?) Post Season 3, I don’t even think there were many seasons where Levi and Hange were apart and when they were apart it was more of for duty than anything else.

Hange was always with him when she could, despite her duty as commander. Given their circumstances, they wouldn’t even be together a lot if they didn’t make the effort too.

Especially towards the end, 126 - 132, the few times Hange did leave Levi behind were for commander duties but Hange never left Levi for the lulz. And also, in 132, Levi was magically able to walk when Hange finally left him behind, and Levi could barely walk in 132, yet he still pushed himself to stand up, walk toward her and attempt to stop her.

In fact, Hange’s first scenes were next to Levi and Hange’s last scenes were also next to Levi “See you later Hange.”

And I think the huge efforts they put to being together despite their circumstances says a lot already. Hange and Levi’s treatment of each other and their being together constantly in general is a huge testament to the canonicity of their romance.

Sure, there were no ‘I love yous’. But really, before our irl friends who were in love actually came out to us, maybe months or even years after we’ve watched them be joined at the hip, were there really ‘I love you’s between them or did we all just place bets on it because they were just being too glaringly obvious about it in how they treated each other?

#levihan #levi x hange #levi x hanji #meta

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devilsodas · 3 years

Text

night hawks ii

words: 2.6k

pairing: Hayakawa Aki x reader

Also on: ao3

a/n: hope everyone is staying safe and warm! hell (i.e: Texas) has frozen over and this is the first time I’ve had any internet for the past three days, so any mistakes I'll just edit out later! + spoilers for chapter 25 and light mentions of alcohol and canon typical gore

part i | part iii

Her hand rummages through a discarded jacket and pulls out a cigarette, studying it before slotting the stick between her teeth in a fashion you’re all too familiar with. Her smile glints like a branded knife.

“I’ll be sure to finish my business before then. In the meantime--wanna take a puff ?”

ii. peacefall

You don’t think you’ve seen a sunrise so breathtaking. Or at least, you don’t remember seeing one.

Even in your hungover state-- eyelids heavy and bleary in its alcoholic daze--you can still appreciate the warm hues of pink, purple, and blue that glow across your face. Almost sweeter to view up upon the terrace than the sugary syrup you lick off your bottom lip. You rarely have the opportunity to drink at Himeno’s, schedules always too conflicting, and you intend on indulging in every moment while you still have a chance.

Speaking about the eyepatch-clad women, Himeno lazes about across from you, eating her share of fluffy pancakes and speaking about a topic you’re listening to half committedly.

You can’t help but think she appears more reserved than usual, words fluttering through her mouth a mile a second, yet all of it superficial. Just filling the silent morning with noise. At the end of the day, you didn’t really mind though; content with the warm morning shine and your pancakes drowned in strawberry syrup. If she wanted to interrogate you on what your least favorite vegetable was (which were eggplants, those things are horrid) then so be it. Why ruin such a good morning over small details like that?

“Hey, do you like Aki?”

You choke.

A laugh rips through her, the smile resting on her face doesn’t reach her eyes. She looks at you the same way a wolf watches its prey before it pounces, gaze sweeping for weakness, opportunities to strike. But her body language is picture perfect nonchalance, with her legs crossed on the seat and her head resting in her palm.

You blink, embarrassed, waiting for the punchline of whatever unfunny joke she’s dropping on you. And Himeno stays quiet, the only part of her moving is the left eye that watches intently.

You shrug. “I-I mean, I guess-”

She tilts her head. “So you don’t like Aki?”

“No! I mean-Yes!” Heat warms you from the top of your head all the way down your neck. What's this all about? She’s probing you about your affections the same way one would interrogate about the ethics of cannibalism. “ Of course I like him, he’s a friend.”

A long, drawn out sigh leaves her nose. The sickly sweet smile still stained on her lips. “Okay, how about this? Do you like-like Aki? Do you love him?”

You open your mouth, feelings you didn’t know how to phrase on the tip of your tongue, and close it. Busy your hands with the napkin laying in front of you and keep your eyes trained on the horizon; anything to distract you from the question posed before you because in all honesty--you’ve never humored these thoughts before.

Do you love Aki?

He’s a familiar face, someone who always happened to be around--you could hardly remember a time where there wasn’t a Hayakawa Aki in your life. He’d ask if you liked to tag along for lunch with him and Himeno. If he didn’t get the chance? He calls you later that evening. When you’re sick he drops by with medicine and homemade soup. He even walked you home once when you forgot the way to your apartment, and though he complained most of the time, he still made sure you remembered the way and even offered to walk you again the next day.

And when an assignment went awry and you landed in the hospital, he was there when you awoke, shaky hands and tracks of tears you pretended not to notice.

Dependable, familiar, attentive Aki was a close friend who resided even closer to your heart; always feeling lighter after you spoke to him.You couldn’t fathom a world where you didn’t know him, where he didn’t exist.

But does that mean you love him?

The thought makes your heart drop to your stomach, because any pursuit of passion in your profession is just a pipedream. As long as anyone carried that godforsaken badge in their pocket, they became a beacon for self damnation. That’s why devil hunters always dropped like flies, too fast for you to learn their names or bother remembering it. You can’t afford to care too deeply, to hold anyone close to you but yourself.

But you do. And in a world where you face the most grotesque phantoms of reality, are you at fault for attaching to someone who makes it enjoyable? Even for just a moment?

You’re way too hungover for this.

“Hmm, well I like Aki. He’s pretty easy on the eyes, dontcha’ think?”

You raise a questioning brow and meet her gaze, and it's as if she sees right through you. Feeling exposed you busy yourself with the leftover food on your plate. The pancakes are cold and soggy and taste like chalk on your tongue.

“He’s really kind too, y’know? Super selfless.”

“Yeah..”

“And he’s pretty serious..I’ve never met anyone so hung up on that damn gun like Aki is..”

You give a hum.

“Yep. That’s what makes him as good as dead.” Himeno says languidly, the same tone of voice you’d use to talk about the weather and you almost miss it.

Startled, you laugh, it comes out as a forced breath of air. “What’d you mean? Don’t believe in your own buddy’s abilities?”

She looks to the horizon. The sun is creeping along the clouds now, almost in view, but still tucked away. Himeno stares at it with somber eyes, the playful, almost sinister smile wiped clean from her face. A shadow of who she was a moment ago.

“It’s because I believe in him so much..,” She mutters, voice thick, pauses. “Aki is..he’s cool and serious and kind--he’s the type of guy who’d help old ladies on the street, but-”

She looks at you, earnest, “ If you saw him somewhere, you would never think he was a devil hunter because he doesn’t look like--doesn’t act like..”

She points a finger to her chest, then to yours.

Aki isn’t like Himeno. He isn’t like you, either.

Because Aki is normal.

And you, with your spotty memory, are not.

There’s nothing in you that objects to the suggestion, but it doesn’t stop you from resenting Himeno just a little for saying it. For the food in your stomach to feel like stones weighing you down.

You lost your appetite.

“I hope you didn’t get me drunk last night just to tell me how normal Aki is.” Your voice came with more bite than you’d like, but you don’t take it back. Himeno accepts the venom and throws it away, chuckling in response.

“I want him to leave public safety--switch to the private sector or change jobs completely--I don’t care.” She says, “But he can’t stay here.”

“Okay? Why’re you telling me?”

She gives you a look, eye glittering with mischief and a devilish grin on her lips. People say that contracts can only come to fruition between a devil and a human, but if they felt the clutch of Himeno’s perspicacious eye, they’d know bindings between mortals are the most consuming of them all.

“Well..he’d never listen to me.”She drawled, “But if I had someone to give a second opinion..”

And leers up at you.

You scowl, but before you can get a word out Himeno reaches across the table and grips your hands in hers.

“Listen, he’s the first buddy I’ve ever had that hasn’t kicked the bucket in the first six months, you can’t just waste a life like that.” Her voice wavers,your chest pulls at the sound.

“I care about him.” She says.

“And if he’s such a friend that you like,then you must care about him too, no?”

You fix your gaze to the intertwined hands and Himeno gives them a warm squeeze, a summer smile. Your cheeks flush.

You can’t remember the last time someone held your hand.

You’ve been in public safety as far back as you can remember, for a good chunk of your life you’ve been wearing the same uniform everyday, but you barely know any of your co-workers. There were familiar faces you could halfway recognize in the fourth division, and you’re sure you’ve probably had a good conversation with a couple of them, but a harsh assignment would come around and you’d..well..forget.

Maybe people took that as you being apathetic. To be budding friends one day and give them the cold shoulder the next. Or maybe they thought it to be a fruitless endeavor. Why be friends with someone you could never reap the benefits of a close connection from?And as your memory left, so did everyone else.

Then you met Aki.

When you think of your first meeting, you can’t remember much except for the fact you gave him a bloody nose that you never apologized for. But even after that, he spoke to you the next day.

And the next.

And then before you knew, you’d go out to lunch with him and Himeno. Help out with groceries, he’d come to your apartment and help you relearn whatever kitchen appliance you forgot how to use.

That’s what makes him as good as dead

You can hardly remember days where Aki wasn’t around, and you’ve never doubted his abilities enough to consider he never would be, but Himeno wasn’t wrong.

Aki is cool and serious. Dependable and selfless. A kind guy you’d see on the street.

A normal guy.

That’s what makes him as good as dead.

And no matter how strong you are, normal never survives in a fight against the irrational fears of others.

The thought alone leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Because a world without Aki wasn’t a world you wanted to relearn.

You sigh. “Fine. But I’m not asking him first, you bring it up.”

Himeno gives you a grin, spreading as smooth as margarine across her face and you almost hate how infectious it is. Your mouth twitches.

“But y’know,” You say belatedly,“ caring for others is a pretty typical thing. With the way things are going, we’ll be six feet under before we can help anyone else.”

“I’ll be sure to finish my business before then. In the meantime--wanna take a puff ?”

“Hell no.”

A year and one bullet wound later, Special Division Four shrinks to five members.

You don’t know the movie you’re watching.

Eyes glazed and unfocused, you stared at the television screen as a mess of muddy and muted blues and blacks gave way to a blooming primrose red. The delicate color bleeds into every corner of the screen until it seeps its way into the apartment, consuming all four of you in an eye straining scarlet that makes your eyes burn. You blink and ah,

It’s blood.

The crimson sucks the technicolor vibrance of everything around it, the wailing women on screen appearing more lifeless than her wound suggested. A pair of hands came into view, haphazardly pressing makeshift gauze on her abdomen. It was shrapnel, and if you weren’t so out of it, you might have looked away in disgust from where it protruded.

Instead, you ogled the television, taking in every pixel until it’s seared into your mind. Your own messily wrapped abdomen throbs at the scene and you move to thumb at it, to rip the gash open wide once again in hopes of keeping the memory of why it’s there.

Because there's a familiar tug in your gut, a ringing in your ear, that tells you that this wound will join a litany of scars that you have but don’t remember why. And it terrifies you.

Because Himeno is dead, and the ghost that always haunts the graves of her colleagues will not be buried herself.

There wasn’t a body left to bury.

Aki stops your hand before it can make contact with your shirt, and changes the channel.

You probably shouldn’t have been watching it anyways, but Denji picked it. And, from what you gathered, the kid has only seen one movie in his life. It felt wrong to say no.

(Then again, him and Power are off snoozing together on the edge of the couch, you’re sure he wouldn’t mind if you shut it off, not that Aki cared.)

Your side still hurts. You squeeze his hand.

It’s warm.

“I heard Madoka quit.” He murmurs.

You blink, a pair of glasses and a faded scar comes to mind, and nod, a little dazed and foggy-eyed.

“The new girl, what's her name? Kobento?”

“Kobeni.” Aki interrupts.

“She told me she’s gonna resign soon.”

The studs in his ear shimmer in the perwinkle halo of the room, catching your eye. A children show is playing now, one of the characters is moving away. They all huddle together, teary eyed, and cry.

Aki changes the channel.

“Do you think it’s the right choice?” You look at him, but he keeps his gaze on the tv, “quitting, I mean.”

Your side hurts. You squeeze his hand. His right eye’s a little foggy.

(Distantly you wonder if it’s due to the Future Devil. Did it show him what you’d do if he didn’t catch your hand? Or was it all Aki’s intuition?)

“It’s better for them to quit now while they're ahead then find out later.” He answers.

It’s a chick-flick. The heroine’s reuniting with someone she met before, they embrace in the rain.

You change the channel.

“Why? Are you considering quitting?” In the corner of your eye, his earring flashes and moves, he turned his gaze to you.

The back of your mind thrums like a war drum and your mouth feels thick and gummy. Your gut lurches, urgent. There’s something you wanted to say to him, something he needed to know, but you draw a blank.

You turn your head, Aki is still turned to you. The tv screen gleams a bright white and your breath hitches. He looks awful; paler than you remember and two, crescent moon bruises under his eyes. He’s still waiting for a response.

He looks glassy, almost transparent and you wonder if you should say anything at all. Terrified to say the wrong thing because there’s a weight behind his gaze when he looks at you and you might just crumple under it; might just say the wrong thing and he’ll break.

‘That damn gun’

Oh. Right.

You reach out to cradle his cheek with your free hand and he leans into your palm, (was it the future devil or aki’s intuition) gently swiping your thumb on the lavender skin that resided there.

It’s still warm. You hope he gets some sleep after tomorrow.

“I gave up too much to stop now, I have to at least meet the devil waiting at the end of this. We have to meet the devil waiting at the end of this”

‘That damn gun’

The words felt muddy on your tongue. Was that the wrong thing to say?

Aki sobers up and nods. You give him a (summer) smile.

Denji and Power startle themselves awake and you jump, moving your hand. He clears his throat and rest his palm where your hand used to be, thumb absentmindedly sweeping under his eye and your cheeks feel hot.

You must’ve circled back on the channels, because it’s showing the first movie. The women lays in a hospital room now, abdomen smothered in gauze and dressing, but she still bleeds through. Shocking the white surroundings in a hot pink.

Your side throbs, Aki squeezes your hand.

#aki hayakawa x reader #hayakawa aki x reader #writings #csm #chainsaw man #aki hayakawa #hayakawa aki #x reader #I put a lot of repetition in this #and at this point I can't tell if its stylistic or just plain annoying #anyways I live in the us's armpit but for some reason im able to build a snowman outside??#crazy #also #to the ppl who sent me messeages #im not ignoring I just dont have a strong enough connection to reply lol

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growup-thatbeautiful · 3 years

Text

drive is out now!! It’s a Post Season Harringrove Hurt/Comfort and I’m pretty proud of it. Read it on ao3 here or below the cut. Likes and comments are very very much appreciated :))

Billy doesn’t drive after starcourt. Something about being behind the wheel makes him sick with memories that he can’t understand. They’re abstract and totally unreliable.

But it’s kind of always been like that for him. He's used to having gaps in his memories, except most of the time it’s because of trauma. Or that’s what Joyce tells him and the rest of them whenever they have nightmares about things they don’t remember happening.

He's been living with the Byers and El. He tries to be useful around the house, doing whatever he can because he really doesn’t have anywhere else to go. It’s hard, though. It seems like everything he does, he does wrong. He never had to learn how to fold sheets or clean dishes. Not only was neil hargrove terribly homophobic, but also misogynistic, which is a word joyce taught him because she teaches all her kids that stuff. And he’s one of her kids now. So, yeah. Neil never had Billy do the chores because “he’s not a true man, but he sure as shit isn’t a woman.”

It's alarming how quickly this odd family replaces his old one. Neil seems miles away. Neil doesn’t try to look for Billy, and that’s fine as far as Billy's concerned. He's got scars to cover up the ones Neil made. no need to dwell on that when he has so much other trauma to process., right? Kind of.

He does check up on max. Asks her if neils pulling any of the shit he used to get from his dad. double checks for bruises hidden under makeup or long sleeves, and never finds any. Good.

Joyce is good. great, even. She doesn’t blame him when he breaks a dish because he heard a noise. She listens when he says he needs some alone time, and she knows when he’s just saying that. She gives good hugs and has no problem giving him Jonathan's old room to stay in while he’s off at college. leaving Hawkins behind him, calling every night anxiously awaiting the return of It. Nothing happens, and eventually they relax. Or they try to. That part of billy’s been broken for a long time, though.

So Joyce starts fading into memories of his mom, and he tries not to blame her.

Again. He's never had a great memory anyway. He does remember his mom telling him that boys don’t marry other boys when he was five and told her he wanted to marry his best friend. Then she told him never to tell his dad. It's strange, because he can’t remember her saying that she loved him, even though he’s sure she did. Did she? Huh.

At least the painful memories he gets to keep. Neil beating’s. Beating up on Harrington that night he didn’t know what was going on. The car crash before his mind was taken from him. Max’s terrible scream of “Billy” mixed in with the ear-ringing pain. Waking up in a hospital with starburst scars across his body. Skin that isn’t his. They remind him not to get to comfortable, remind him that the kindness he’s being shown isn’t well earned.

Because Billy knows he wasn’t worth those hospital bills and sleepless nights. All he’s done to the people here is hurt and scar and he’s seen them with the deepest kind of fear in their eyes. Fear because of him.

Everytime he goes down a path like this, he tries to stay clear of everyone. Because. They all tried to hide how much hurt he’s caused. They don’t blame him like they should.

He didn’t know any of them well before. But he knows El didn’t always carry around that police badge or look up at every siren, praying for a familiar face only to be disappointed and try not to show it. Because if Billy survived, couldn’t the more-deserving Hopper? Apparently not.

He knows Joyce didn’t always search for Will in every setting and have those folded up pictures of the two men that died because of all the shitty things that happened. Because she can’t stand to forget their faces or not carry that burden for just a second.

Will didn’t always get quiet every time a draft went through the room or refuse to go out that front door first. Because so many things have been ruined for him.

The rest of the kids didn’t always jump at every noise or bunch together for every corner, carrying lucky momentous and items. Because God forbid they have a break.

He doesn’t see them a lot, but Nancy and Jonathan definitely didn’t carry around an emergency kit everywhere they went, packed with medical supplies and Nancy’s choice gun. Because they’re going to be there to help if anything tries to take another person they loves away.

Some part of Billy reasons that it’s not all his fault. He wasn’t one of those scientists or government agents that started the whole thing.

But he did enough. Enough to warrant all the shit that he’s going through. It’s not the healthiest way of thinking, he’s aware of that, but it helps him get by.

No matter how hard he tries, though, there’s always someone at the house that finds him. Curled up into a ball, dry hitching sobs and no tears because “Hargrove men don’t cry.” Billy gets damn close sometimes, but the fear that Neil’s going to come out from the cracks in the wall and kick him where he lays is too real.

There are usually soft words.

“We don’t blame your here, honey. That wasn’t you, that did all that stuff. And I’m not going to let anything else bad happen to the people under this roof.” Joyce’s strong and sure voice, only breaking at the edges.

“I know what it’s like to have him control you like that. I know better than anyone else, and I know how scary it is. Mom says it’s over now, though, and I can’t feel It anymore. I would tell you first if It came back.” Will never says anything more than that, which is comforting in itself. It’s nice to have someone else.

“They lost. You’re here. I’m here. Will’s here. It is safe.” El’s statement is simple, but she makes it easy to believe.

He believes them until he gets another new memory of what he did. The Mayors blood on the floor. Heather’s petrified screams. Standing before that thing and feeling nothing but a perverse sense of but awe and, buried beneath that, a screaming sense of horror and the constant feeling of slipping in the sand.

There are times, like right now, when he doesn’t want someone to make him feel better. He wants someone who can drive him away from here and sit in an empty parking lot and smoke away the thoughts. Someone like Steve.

He would do it himself. He would. But he can’t. Can’t get over that fucking gas pedal. So he calls Steve.

They’ve done this enough times for it to make sense for Billy to have Steve’s number memorized. And his work schedule. And to know when he with Dustin or Robin or any of the others on one of those group outings Billy can’t bring himself to go to. There are too many sad faces, too many broken homes.

It doesn’t matter what he wears. It’s just Steve, and they’ve gotten past the point of caring about things like that.

Which. Is obvious to anyone who looks at Billy, not that he sees anyone. He’s lost a lot of weight. Muscles that used to be defined are gone, replaced by scars. He can’t get them back yet, because he’s not strong enough to lift any of them. And because muscles like that can hurt and hit. His eyes are surrounded by heavy bags, bloodshot and tired. The new callouses on his hands are mostly scars from anxiety ridden breakages, and the pained nails are because El wanted to try the new dark blue out. His hair is greasy and flat, nowhere near what it used to be. It hangs around his shoulders in curled waves, so far from where he used to be.

He doesn’t even try to smile to the sad reflection in the mirror.

Steve doesn’t honk when he arrives. The first time he did that and the noise sent Billy spiraling, and Steve had felt terrible, cussing up a storm that actually helped Billy out of it. Luckily, it was just Billy home and no one else was there to witness they’re collective train wreck.

Before he leaves, Billy grabs something from the bathroom and stuffs it in with the rest of the random shit he brings.

Billy slides into the passenger seat, leans his head back against the headrest, and says, “So, Harrington, how you been?”

Steve, mercifully, looks the same as always. He looks good, the asshole. It’s a relief that he’s still able to feel that fire Steve lights up. Different than all the other King’s from California. A few more scars, but they all have that. His shades are pushed through his hair, brown strands flopping over lazily.

“Same as usual, so fairly shitty and on the brink of breakdown. You?” It would be a normal conversation if Steve wasn’t completely serious, corners of his mouth only ticking up when Billy reaches over and bats at the band-aid charm hanging from the mirror. A joke from Billy to say sorry for, you know, almost beating him to death for no real reason.

“Oh, you know.” He doesn’t need to say more for Steve to get the idea. It’s the same way they’ve been feeling for months now.

“Yeah.” The car ride over isn’t far from the Byers’ house, and they spend it in almost silence. Some pop station is playing low on the radio.

“This the shit you listen to, pretty boy? I expected more than this.” It’s an attempt at normalcy, something that they’ve slowly been working up to.

“At least I don’t blast out my eardrums every time I want to listen to music,” replies Steve quickly, smile evident in his tone.

And it’s normal. It’s them. The way they were before it all got so messy. For that brief moment, there’s no winter night or july 4th. For a brief moment Billy can entertain a reality where he went to the find Steve instead of a fight. A world where Steve, with those pretty eyes and snap remarks, could hold his hand and stop him from doing all the bad things in the future.

But the moment passes. Steve clears his throat and looks forward at the road.

They arrive to the quarry, water at the bottom glinting, tossing, teasing. The car doors slam shut, and they slide up on to the front of the car. Billy pulls his last minute grab out of the bag and hands it to Steve.

“I want you to cut my hair.” Steve takes the scissors and towel in his hand, looking at Billy.

He doesn’t ask if Billy’s sure. Billy figures that Steve knows at this point he wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t real. If Billy wasn’t sure. Steve cards a hand through Billy’s hair. It feels. Good. Real good.

Steve starts cutting, and Billy winces at the sound of the scissors closing around his hair. His past.

“I like to think it isn’t just part of me.” The comment comes out of nowhere, surprising Billy more than it surprises Steve.

“What?” Steve’s voice is calm, the sniping of the scissors is methodical.

“The anger. The aggression. The tendency to hurt. I like to think it’s not in my nature, but my nurture.”

“I don’t think you’re violent.” It’s a laughable statement.

“You’re joking. Did you forget most of last year? I’m the one with the bad memory here, Harrington.” Billy can practically hear Steve’s disapproving mother’s frown behind him.

“That wasn’t you.”

“Right, sure, whatever, bullshit. But what about…you know. Last winter.”

“What happened before that?” asks Steve patiently.

“Jesus, you’re worse than Joyce. My dad sent me after Max. Found her at Byers’ place with you. Hurt you a whole fucking lot.”

“Is that all he did? He just told you to go after her?” Billy ignores the way his stomach does flips when Steve runs a hand through Billy’s hair, straightening it out.

“So you’re my fuckin’ therapist now? What do you want me to say? He kissed my head and sent my on my merry way? That’s now how he works. I’ll admit, I was saved by his new wifey. He can’t use me as a punching bag when she’s standing right there, not like he did with mom. Nothing I couldn’t handle. Nothing worse than what you’ve done to me. And the insults weren’t too bad either. He forgot to call me a fag.”

“Oh. Shit, Billy, I-“

“It’s fine,” cuts in Billy, hating the pity in Steve’s voice. He’s not the one who should have it.

“You didn’t deserve that.” This time it does make Billy laugh. It’s a hollow and haunting sound, an echo of his charming boyish laugh.

“Sure I did, dipshit. You’re probably one of the people who knows best why I did, in fact, deserve it.”

“So then I’m the best person. to tell you that you aren’t that person. You haven’t been that person since you left him and all of that shit. Let me ask you something. Do you want to hurt people now?”

“No!” Billy startles himself with his sudden enthusiasm, and Steve jumps a little behind him. Steve is quicker to recover, though, and he runs a hand through the hair he hasn’t cut yet. It’s soothing. Billy barely resists the urge to lean into it. Ask for more.

“Did you ever want to hurt people? Like really, truly want to see them hurt?” Billy has to think about the question. Steve deserves an real answer.

Flashes fly through his mind, bringing on too familiar emotions. Anger, a need to make someone, anyone, feel the way that he’s feeling. Fear that not having this power over people would make him weak. Horror at what he’s about to do. Detachment, painful as he grinned and laughed.

“I just wanted to have control. Take some of the hurt I was feeling and give it to other people. It was a rush that I was addicted to. The thrill of the fight, the feel of flesh against my fist, the look of blood on my knuckles. I liked fighting, still do. I didn’t like hurting people.” Steve puts the scissors down on the car hood, fluffing Billy’s hair and sliding down next to him.

“I’ve been on the wrong side of the fists of two people I’m now okay with,” admits Steve. “Believe me, I know now to take a beating. I’ve been heartbroken by two other people I’m close friends with. I forgive too easily.”

“So you’re a compulsive truster and I’m a compulsive fighter. What a pair we make, huh Harrington?”

“Yeah.” agrees Steve, bumping his shoulder against Billy. “What a pair.”

Maybe it’s the haircut. Maybe it’s the sunlight confessions. Maybe it’s how carefree and happy Steve looks. But Billy feels lighter. Like there was this unspoken weight he had been carrying around that no one knew about. Or everyone knew about, but couldn’t help.

The thing is, Steve didn’t even say anything. He didn’t promise a better future, he didn’t say that he was safe. He shared some of the personal pain they all carry around.

“I don’t think I ever said sorry. I am sorry, you know. I. I didn’t-“

“I know. I’m sorry too. Someone should’ve known. About you.” Steve leans closer, and Billy chalks it up to the night chill as the sun settles below the glistening rocks.

“I was good at hiding things I didn’t want people to see.”

“Yeah, well you’re not alone there either.”

“You good at hiding, pretty boy?” Billy’s eyes flick down to Steve’s lips, and, is Billy imagining it or is Steve looking at him the same way?

“Apparently not good enough,” jokes Steve. His smile falls off of his lips, and he leans minutely closer. If Billy wasn’t paying attention to all of Steve…

The way his hair glows white and gold in the sunset. That wrinkle between his brows. The way one of his eyes is a little darker than the other. How he smells like cigarette smoke and that fancy hairspray, even when his hair is blown from the wind.

The way he looked that night. Cool and collected, then terrified and fighting for his life. So beautiful in the harsh starlight and then so abstract in the broken kitchen light.

Before he knows what’s happening, Steve is filling that gap. Kissing Billy like he’s trying to sooth the pain from their past. Maybe he is. Billy wouldn’t put it past him.

His hand finds a way to Steve’s hair, the same way Steve’s been running his through Billy’s now shorter hair. He curls it into the strands, holding on tightly. Soft.

The way Steve sighs his name takes Billy away from it all. The pain. The memories. The lack of memories.

They lay out under the stars for a few minutes, but Billy knows Joyce will freak out if she can’t find him. Not because she doesn’t trust him, he has to remind himself, but because she doesn’t trust others.

On the drive home Steve plays that pop stuff again, and Billy gives him the appropriate shit for it, a smile on his face the whole time. His fingers laced through Steve’s.

They arrive at the house, and Steve declines to come in. Gives the excuse that his parents will be waiting up when they both know it’s not true. Billy can’t blame him. Billy understands needing to be alone, needing to get away.

Billy leans through Steve’s window and wished that he could kiss him goodbye. Well. The teasing will have to do.

“Night, King Steve.”

“Goodnight, Asshole.”

If Joyce gives him a knowing smile at the door, Billy doesn’t smile back. Probably.

He definitely does. Maybe he deserves the smile. If Steve thinks he does.

#steve harrington x billy hargrove #harringrove fan fiction #harringrove #harringrove fanfic #harringrove fic #harringrove fandom #harringrove stuff #harringrove au #stranger things #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove #steve harrington fic #steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things post season 3

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snowbellewells · 3 years

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“Thick as Thieves (or Princesses)”

I hope you will enjoy my first brand new one shot in quite a while. It’s written for the lovely Alma ( @teamhook ) for the #love4teamhook collection. Though I realize this didn't happen in canon, I consider it more a divergent missing moment which could have happened than fully AU. Killian did seem to make friends with a lot of the various princesses who came and went on "Once", until it sort of seemed like he had a Princess Squad. This story came from that.

Alma, it’s my hope that this little sidetrip to Agrabah might bring a few chuckles as welll as some heartwarming fluff.

Summary: When Killian, Emma, and the Storybrooke crew travel to Agrabah for the wedding of Aladdin and Jasmine, our pirate learns just how many people have his back.

Also available on AO3 here

“Thick as Thieves (or Princesses)”

by: @snowbellewells

“I never thought I’d see the day,” a disgruntled voice tsked, standing at the mirror and just out of Emma’s line of sight. The speaker had that disapproving tone to her words, one that Emma had come to know well growing up surrounded by people who looked down their noses at her and were constantly disappointed in her prickly demeanor and tough exterior.

The speaker’s companion, a woman whose robes were a violently garish mauve and who kept fluffing her already quite voluminous mane of curly dark hair, sighed in regretful agreement. Her curls bounced as she seemed to nod sagely at her friend’s words. “It’s true - seems just about anyone can marry into the royal family now.”

The first woman tittered gleefully, enjoying having a sympathetic ear for her gossip no doubt. “Never mind the scruffy length of that Aladdin’s hair…” the mocking emphasis she put on the new prince consort of Agrabah’s name, as if it were too ridiculous to take seriously, had Emma clenching her fist angrily, ready to storm into view and speak up on her friend’s behalf. However, the rest of the woman’s words, knocked her back on her heels for several stunned, painful seconds, “...but did you see the sort of riff raff on his side of the aisle? Street rat that he is, I suppose I really shouldn’t have expected more from the guest list, but honestly!”

“And the visitors are no better! What are Queen Snow and her Charming thinking accepting a pirate for a son-in-law… with his reputation and that hook?”

Emma’s pulse was pounding so strongly in her temples that her vision was going a bit hazy when she charged into the ladies room from the short hall where she’d been listening, revealing herself to the bitter hags at the sinks, practically vibrating with righteous anger and staring them both down as their mouths fell open in shocked embarrassment. Their entire aspects changed as they began to simper and apologize, hoping to placate the royal standing before them.

Emma was having none of it. She might not have grown up being taught the diplomacy and etiquette she would have if she’d had the chance to really grow up as Princess of Misthaven, but she had enough manners not to mock people behind their backs and then feign sweetness and innocence to their faces. Breathing heavily, she glared at both of the Agrabahn women. She darkly thought that the scare served them right as their obsequious attempts to atone eventually trailed off into silence. Crossing her arms over her chest, intending to cut every bit as imposing a figure in demure light blue dress (so she’d wanted to try to match her pirate’s eyes, sue her!) as she would wearing her red leather jacket and sheriff’s badge.

“You two should be really glad I don’t know your names. I can’t imagine that the Sultan would like to deal with this sort of disloyalty on such a happy occasion. He at least seems astute enough to care for who brings his daughter happiness rather than who comes bearing the fanciest pedigree or the newest style.”

Blowing out a breath, she almost turned on her heel to storm back out and leave them with some food for thought, but then she wheeled back around, drawing even closer, until she was almost nose-to-nose with the two gossips. “And furthermore, my husband might have been an indentured servant, and a pirate, but he is the finest man in all the Realms, and I won’t stand for any insinuations otherwise. If you really want to pick on a street rat, you might as well start with me. I may have been born a princess, but I grew up as much ‘riff raff’ as you called your new prince.”

She gave them an arched brow and waited; a clear challenge to direct their taunts and barbs to her face.

Shaking their heads in nervous denial the two women quickly excused themselves and hurried from the room without looking back.

“That’s what I thought,” Emma muttered under her breath with a curt little bob of her head as she watched them flee. She wasn’t even offended on her own behalf; she didn’t care if some strangers and hangers-on thought she was the “right sort” of royal, and she knew her parents felt the same. The barbs struck beneath Killian’s armor though. He talked a good game, and played off such insults well if one didn’t know him as Emma did. He judged himself too harshly and was loath to bring any imagined slight to her name with his past.

Shaking her head, Emma breathed out a sigh, hoping to shrug off her consternation, knowing said pirate would be waiting for her just outside.

Sure enough, as she re-entered the large, open air ballroom set up on the shining gilt-covered porches of the Sultan’s palace, her husband was at her side in moments. Brows waggling playfully, he clearly had a quip or come-on at the tip of his tongue, but he stopped short at the sight of her face. Head tilted to study her, his hand came to her elbow, steadying her curiously. “What is it, Love? You look like thunder!”

She wasn’t about to lie to him any more than she intended to hurt him; they understood each other too well for that. “Nothing important,” she fluttered her hand carelessly. “Just turns out that snobs and bullies are the same in any realm is all.”

He gave a small nod of affirmation, clearly understanding her. “Aye, that does seem to be the way of it.”

Both were quiet for a moment watching couples dancing, Aladdin and Jasmine mingling and greeting their guests, Belle laughing merrily as Henry told her some story with impassioned and enthusiastic gestures for emphasis, before Killian spoke up again. Devilishly handsome smirk in place once more, his eyes sparkled as he added. “No matter, Wife. I’m sure you showed them the error of their ways.”

She snorted, shaking her head at his antics, even if he was absolutely right. Holding out his hook to her gallantly, Killian bowed before murmuring so close to her ear that it sent shivers all along her skin, “Pay no more heed then. Dance with me, instead?”

Flushing in a way that she knew spread all the way down to her more pushed-up and on-display than usual decolletage, she grinned broadly. Her husband seemed rather spellbound, his eyes following the rise and fall of her breaths helplessly and his tongue flicked out to trace his full perfect lips at the sight on display. “If you think you can handle it,” she winked. “I was starting to think you’d never ask.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sometime later, after several dances and Emma’s begging to rest her feet, unused to heels that weren’t knee-high boots these days, Killian had seen her back to the table they were sharing with her parents and Henry, and was fetching them both drinks from the elaborately flowing sangria fountain, somehow arranged to flow steadily into a large punch bowl, where waiters then dipped it into crystal glasses for guests as they approached the table.

“Two please,” he told the server when it was his turn.

Accepting the filled cups a moment later, Killian couldn’t resist a quick sip right then, having worked up quite a thirst with he and Emma’s exertions, the close crowd, and the arid desert surroundings. Humming at the pleasant blend of flavors on his tongue, he questioned curiously, “Is there rum in this? It tastes as though some of the best has been blended in with the fruit juices.”

“I - I believe so,” the server stammered rather uncertainly.

“Well, my compliments. It is one of the better libations I’ve had the pleasure of imbibing.”

It was as he had turned away, heading back to Emma at their table, that he heard the words whispered behind him. “Well, he would know, wouldn’t he?” hissed one lowered voice.

“Word has it he’s found the bottom of more liquor bottles than most people have ever seen,” countered another insinuating murmur.

“A one-handed pirate with a drinking problem given free rein in this palace full of treasure to tempt his baser instincts… seems like a recipe for disaster, if anyone had bothered to ask me,” chimed in a third, the sniff of indignance making that barb carry with a bit more volume. Killian felt his shoulders hiking up toward his ears with the tension, but he managed to hold himself steady and not to turn to glower at the servants threateningly. Time was he would have whirled and taught them all a lesson they’d not soon forget, but he was trying to be a different man - a better man - though it would seem to some his efforts made little difference.

“And to think, he has the Crown Princess of Misthaven on his arm!” huffed yet one more hateful voice, again well within his sharp hearing whether or not that had been the intent. This was the shot which met its mark, causing Killian to drop his eyes to the two cups balanced carefully in his right hand, hoping to make a quick escape before anyone realized he was around. It was like he had tried explaining to Emma before - people had a long memory when it came to expectations for their leaders, and married True Loves or not, there were some who would never approve of Captain Hook as Prince Consort to one of the most prominent kingdoms in the Realm.

His hasty retreat was abruptly blocked however, by two dainty feet in golden and turquoise-jeweled sandals, barely skimmed by the hem of a long, white silk gown standing right in his way.

Surprised, Killian’s head jerked up to find Princess Jasmine’s eyes staring back at him sympathetically. She had clearly heard the same hateful words he had just been subjected to, yet she appeared anything but ready to sneak off and let it continue. In that moment, with her lips pursed and eyes calculating as she weighed her next move, a delicate hand on his forearm to stall his retreat, she looked incredibly like his fierce and beautiful Swan.

“Speaking of temptation,” she purred, the feigned placid smile on her face a warning as she stepped around him to eye the gathered help pointedly. “The only thing I am tempted to do is search for a new kitchen staff - one cultured enough not to speak ill of a particular friend of the bride and an honored guest.” Princess Jasmine was a petite woman, but the way she drew herself up before them, staring down her nose imperiously at each offender in turn, made her seem every inch a tall, proud monarch it would not be wise to cross.

A hushed, abashed-eyed chorus of “Yes, ma’ams” and “Apologies, your majesty,” fell over each other as the whisperers bowed or curtsied and then hurried from the princess’ sight, properly rebuked for having displeased her, and on her wedding day no less.

“Ahh… thank you, Milady,” Killian offered quietly, feeling more than a bit awkward that she had felt she must come to his defense in such a way. He had certainly heard similar insults before - and much worse. Even carefully cradling the two drinks in one hand, he still found the curve of his hook raising to rub behind his ear in nervous embarrassment - his eyes hardly wanting to hold his saucy friend’s gaze even as she eyed him knowingly.

“Nonsense,” she dismissed easily, waving away the sheepish gratitude with a quick flutter of her hand. “They needed correction. Anyone who is going to work in the royal palace needs to be wise enough not to insult the guests!”

“Be that as it may, Lass, there’s no need for you to trouble yourself over my hurt feelings. They weren’t wrong, after all…”

Jasmine was having none of that. Her dark hair beneath the gorgeous flow of her organza veil swished around her as she shook her head emphatically, eyes sparking intently as she refused to allow him to glance away. “Hardly, Captain! I think I am a better judge of character than that, and I know backbiting chatter does not begin to capture all of your fine qualities, merely the flaws. Besides,” and she winked here, lacing her arm through his free one as she steered them back toward his family’s table to greet them all herself, “you would do the same thing for me were the situations reversed. And I hear that your lovely wife has already been speaking up for my own handsome scoundrel. We princesses who can recognize a diamond in the rough have to stick together!”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Things calmed down as the reception festivities wore on through the afternoon. Killian found it easier than expected to brush the sniping words he’d heard to the back of his mind and enjoy himself. There was too much to see and do, too many friends, both new and old, to catch up with, and far more happiness to celebrate than sour notes to dwell on. He had challenged David to a game of darts and trounced the royal soundly. He had spoken at length with Aladdin himself about the future as a married man, starting families, and loving a princess. He had even attempted to settle a heated debate between Henry and Belle over whether The Thousand and One Nights or The Book of the Wonders of India were the better read. He had respectfully declined to offer his opinion in the end though, knowing better than to side against either one of them when they were so passionately involved.

As the hours seemed to melt heedlessly into evening and the lavish banquet was served to conclude the night, Killian found himself seated with Henry and Emma on one side of him and Belle on the other at a long table, and across from him, grinning broadly with the guileless enthusiasm one couldn’t help but love was none other than Ariel and her husband, Prince Eric. Everyone was chatting happily throughout the appetizer, but as those first plates were cleared away and the main course was served, Killian encountered a rather vexing conundrum.

The fragrant lamb dish placed before them was tempting enough to make his mouth water in mere seconds. However, how to actually go about eating it posed a bit more of a challenge. Had he been on his own or back in Storybrooke where he was comfortable, it would have been no trouble. He would simply have pierced the larger cut of meat with the point of his hook to hold it still and then cut it into smaller pieces with his knife, then switched to his fork when finished. However, using his hook at this fine a table and in such company seemed as though it might raise a few eyebrows.

He paused, attempting to gauge his options without alerting his companions that anything was amiss. And, of course, it took no more time than that for the jackals to begin circling once more. Prickling along the back of his neck, Killian sensed that he was being watched as he debated his next move. Glancing about him surreptitiously, he found the culprits easily enough. Agrabahn nobles or wives of council members, he thought he remembered vaguely from an earlier introduction. They had also seemed reluctant to shake his hand, and now he saw that his instinctual assessment has been correct. Though he couldn’t hear their actual words, their heads were bent together as their eyes drifted from him to his plate and utensils and back before he did hear a small trill of smug laughter.

What he did not expect was the cry of outrage that rang out just across from him in the next moment. Shooting to her feet with an abruptness that sent her chair toppling to the floor behind her with a loud crash, sweet natured Ariel herself was pointing at the two catty women with a finger that practically trembled in her righteous anger. “How dare you, y-y-you harpies!” she exclaimed, her volume attracting more attention than Killian would have hoped, staring at his plate with jaw clenched enough to make the muscle within it tick noticeably as well as the heat of a blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!” Ariel continued, her own pale cheeks flushed with her fit of pique. Eric reached out a concerned hand in an attempt to soothe her, but she wasn’t finished. Killian half expected her to stamp her foot for more emphasis.

“Have you - either of you - any idea how much the man you’re giggling at can accomplish with just one hand? How much he has done for numerous ones gathered at this very table? It would hardly matter if you were about to see him use one of these ridiculous forks incorrectly!”

As if to illustrate her point, Ariel picked up a fork and twirled it around her fingers rather menacingly, if Killian did say so himself. “I’ve had to learn to eat with unfamiliar manners and utensils too. It’s not as easy as it looks! And if any of you have any more to say about it in regards to my friend, well… I’ll show you another way to weld the pointy end of these things, right in your pompous behinds!”

The whole gathering was stunned into silence for a moment. Killian could hardly move as he watched Ariel breathing heavily and then plunking back down into her righted seat and leaning in Eric’s solid comfort. He could sense Henry’s wide-eyed awe beside him as he looked at the mermaid princess admiringly. Yet, he struggled to make himself shift his eyes to Emma on Henry’s other side, hating that he had put her so close to such an embarrassing spectacle. Though when he did, a relieved whoosh of air escaped as he saw her glancing back at him, biting her lip and looking torn between wanting to pull him away from the table and soothe him as only she knew how, and standing up to whistle and applaud her agreement with Ariel’s speech.

Leaning closer, so that only he and Henry could hear her, Emma’s eyes twinkled merrily with mischievous pleasure as she told him, “You’ve got an entire Princess Squad watching your back, don’t you, Pirate?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Late that night - or early the next morning, depending on how one wanted to look at it - Emma rolled over in bed to prop her chin on her husband’s chest, idly running her fingers through the dark hair covering his always deliciously warm skin. Though he had been holding her cozily as always, arm around her waist and her back pressed to his front, cocooned in his embrace, she knew he was still awake and was sure she knew what was troubling him.

She couldn’t help thanking her fellow princess once again in her mind for remembering that she and Killian were basically still newlyweds as well. Jasmine had seen to it that they had a gorgeously appointed suite to themselves, far enough from her family and the rest of the Storybrooke visitors to afford them some privacy. The large, open room’s windows with gauzy curtains let in the rapidly cooling air deliciously after it had blown so hot across the desert all day. It felt luxurious on her bare skin beneath the fine, light sheets in the giant canopy bed. She had definitely thought there would be some things they could get up to in that bed once they’d returned from the reception some hours ago, but Killian had merely readied for sleep, lay down, and opened his arms to hold her.

Not that there was anything wrong with that, or that she minded cuddling up with her handsome husband whenever they could catch a quiet moment, but she sensed something bothering him in his lack of playful banter and the tension she could feel in his body. That was why when she rolled over and began to run her fingers lightly over his skin. She took a deep breath, and then finally raised her eyes to meet his. Words were not always her strong suit, but she was determined to try - especially when she got a glimpse of the melancholy lingering behind the look of sleepy affection in his eyes.

“You know that those few people who would doubt you are such a tiny minority… don’t you?” she asked, hoping that he did, and that he would believe her in this as he always had before. “And even if they weren’t - which they are - it wouldn’t matter. The people who count know what kind of man you really are; they see the same hero that I do.”

Emma paused, holding her breath, watching as Killian opened his mouth, then closed it, then swallowed hard, before finally speaking aloud in ragged but determined tones. “Aye, so all of you have assured me. Most of the time, I even believe it. Still, those incidents tonight…. They remind me that I do not wish for my past, my villainous reputation, to cast doubt upon your family. I would never want to tarnish your rule or your standing with your people.”

He looked so distraught, so painfully sorry that Emma had to cradle his face in her hands and lean up to kiss him right then, trying to pour all of the comfort and reassurance she possibly could into the gesture, even before she answered his concerns. When she did pull back, he offered her a smile looked at least mildly soothed, and she gently brought one hand back to his chest while the other sought out his hand to twine her fingers with his.

Squeezing gently for emphasis, she tried to answer him the best way she knew how. “Okay, first of all, what’s this about my family and my people? They’re yours now too. Killian, you have to know that my family loves you. My dad is like a lost puppy when you can’t come to his Tuesday Guy’s Nights - ” That did make him crack a genuine smile she noticed happily. “That’s what it means when you marry and two become one, right? What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. There’s no separating it back out now.”

Killian nodded his agreement, but a furrow of concern still creased his forehead. “Aye, Love, of course you’re right, but still - ”

“Ah ah ah,” she shook her head, cutting him off, “I’m not done. You also have to see that though it felt like a lot bubbled up today, it was less than 10 people, in a gathering of hundreds. They are such a tiny percentage, and they do not matter. Anyone who really knows you would never think any of those things you heard today. Besides that, this rule and kingdom you seem so concerned about? What bearing does that have on our everyday life? Storybrooke isn’t some old-fashioned monarchy, and we’re going back to Storybrooke. You aren’t hurting anything… you make it so much better.” She spoke that last with fervent emphasis, clinging to his hand and waiting for his response.

Slowly the last of the clouds and the frown of concern seemed to ease from her husband’s face. Emma felt her heart flutter a bit as he met her eyes with a look of such awed reverence and love, and joy where there had been shame and self-doubt. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you, Emma, but you’re right. I’ll not allow a few naysayers to ruin what we’ve built.”

Shaking her head, eyes welling with tears of relief and love of her own, Emma just managed to choke out, “I’m the one who doesn’t know how I managed to deserve you. You chose me, you didn’t give up on me - even when I made it difficult, and you put me back together, Killian. You - you showed me my heart still worked.”

He was on her the minute she stopped speaking, lips capturing hers as his thumb came up to brush away her tears. He rolled them to hover over her, and just stared at her for a moment, both their hearts pounding, before she reached up and pulled him back to her. There were still a few hours of darkness left, and neither of them planned to waste it with any space between them.

Tagging a few others who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @revanmeetra87 @xsajx @elizabeethan @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @spartanguard @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @lfh1226-linda @ultraluckycatnd @stahlop @hollyethecurious @gingerchangeling @kday426 @profdanglaisstuff @shireness-says @thisonesatellite @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @let-it-raines

#love4teamhook #cs ff #ouat canon divergence #ouat missing moment #thick as thieves (or princesses)#cs one shot #ouat one shot

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masterjedilenawrites · 3 years

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Blueberries and Cowboys: Chapter 2

A choose-your-own-adventure style fic. First, 2 platonic chapters for set-up/build-up. And then, the story will split into 2 paths depending on your romantic pairing preference: You and Thrawn, or You and Eli.

Chapter Masterlist

Chapter 2: The Plan

Pairing: None...yet...

Chapter Warnings: Mentions of bullying

Length: 2k

AO3 Link (In case you like it better over there, it’s okay, no judgement)

The rest of the week saw the three of you using every bit of free time outside your classes and studies to gather information for Thrawn to build a solid plan.

Eli tailed his pesky classmate Arden everywhere, even skipping a class one day to break into his dorm, trying to learn anything about the guy that could be useful to get him involved in the plot. Thrawn analyzed the simulation software and protocols that would be used to administer the tests, mapping out every possible way Commander Burdick could hijack it. And you were the one spying on the Burdick himself. Since the commander didn't seem too interested in your grades, you were able to shadow him without suspicion, and had been able to slip a bug into his offices to eavesdrop on any potential conversations about his plans for sabotage.

Your classmates and the staff were none the wiser. That was the advantage of being social outcasts. Half of them avoided you all like the plague, and the other half already thought you were weird people doing weird things. So it wasn't long before you'd all gotten enough intel to work with.

It was late in the evening at the end of the week. You found yourself in Thrawn and Eli's shared dorm, which looked identical to your own in the opposite wing, because the Empire couldn't bother with things like individuality or comfort. Eli sat on the edge of his top bunk, his legs swinging casually, and his coat unbuttoned to reveal a wrinkled undershirt you knew he hadn't bothered to wash all week. Thrawn paced about in the middle of the room, his long strides only allowing him about four good steps before he had to turn around. He still had his uniform on, boots and badges and all.

You leaned against the railing of the bed, watching Thrawn as he went back and forth. Sometimes he sat still when he was scheming, with his fingers steepled and his gaze seemingly reaching into some unknown dimension beyond your comprehension. That usually happened when he was running through variables that didn't concern you, at least from his perspective. You and Eli had accepted long ago there would always be parts of his plans he would never share with you. He was kind of a control freak like that.

But tonight, he seemed to be more welcoming of collaboration, hence his steady rhythm of pacing in front of you.

"Only one variable remains, as I see it," he was saying. "We understand how the commander will manipulate the system to cause a redundancy in the simulation, thus rendering the test impossible to finish successfully."

You and Eli shared a glance; the only person who truly understood how that was going to happen was Thrawn. He'd tried explaining numerous times but when it came to codes and tech, the two of you weren't able to fully keep up.

"We also know through your investigating," Thrawn motioned to you with what you thought was an impressed look, causing you to feel a little pride, "that the commander plans to only sabotage my test, believing it will be too suspicious if Eli also fails. He will also manipulate his false code to originate from the computer of his former lover Eva Carroway, who currently works in HR. So if an investigation does ensue, it will be traced to her and not him."

You and Eli chuckled under your breaths. It had been a little amusing when you'd discovered Commander Burdick was using this plan to not only undermine Thrawn, but also get revenge on his ex-girlfriend. But even more hilarious was how awkward Thrawn treated the subject. He had been quite perplexed to learn people could be so vindictive after a break-up. And any time he explained that detail of the plan, like he was doing now, he hesitated over his word choice. You couldn't tell if he only pretended to be confused about romantic relations, or if that was truly an area he found himself lost in.

If Thrawn noticed your snickering, he didn't respond to it, only continued to recap the plan. "We have also determined how we will expose the altered code naturally, so it does not cast suspicion on us... What was the word you used?"

"Backfire," said Eli.

"Yes. It would not due to have anyone suspect that we altered the test ourselves, or to have our concerns disregarded altogether. Thus, arranging for the maintenance crew to get a mild case of food poisoning so their performance checks are postponed to occur right before the tests will take care of that variable. At the least, they will fix the altered code and I will take the test as normal. At the most, they will report it and the commander faces expulsion."

"So..." said Eli through a yawn as he stretched. "What's left to work out, then?"

Now it was time for you and Thrawn to share a look.

"Were you not interested in involving your classmate, Arden Fey?" asked Thrawn in his soft, contemplative voice.

Eli shrugged. "Yeah. But Burdick's already got his scapegoat, his ex. So it'll be easier to keep him out of it. Whatever."

You could tell he was trying to be nonchalant. But just this morning, he had spent the entire walk between classes ranting about some new insults Arden had come up with, and how badly he wanted to show the guy up once and for all. You knew your friend wasn't feeling "whatever" about it.

"It's not a matter of ease or difficulty," Thrawn stated plainly. He had stopped pacing and was standing with hands behind his back, highlighting the broadness of his shoulders and the height of his stance. His presence seemed to fill up the whole room, and not for the first time, you were glad to be his friend and not his enemy.

"Yeah," you added in encouragement. "We just have to get creative. Find a way to make Arden a more appealing scapegoat than Burdick's ex. In fact...."

You trailed off as an idea occurred to you. You darted out of the room, surely leaving your two friends perplexed, but you would only be a second. You sprinted down the corridor toward the lifts, where a bulletin hung against the wall with fliers and pamphlets. One notice was a bit larger than the others, a promotion of an upcoming gala event to celebrate the Academy's anniversary. You ripped it off and went racing back to the boys' dorm room.

Eli had come down from the bunk and held a concerned look, probably prepared to follow you if you hadn't returned so quickly. Thrawn was still standing composed, but there was a curiosity in his eyes that made you smile.

You held up the poster in front of your chest. "What do you think the likelihood is of us playing successful matchmakers this week?"

Thrawn understood your idea almost immediately, looking down on you with a pleased smirk. It made you flush a little, to know the Chiss was impressed. You rarely had a chance to contribute good ideas when his mind worked so much faster than yours.

Eli caught on next, and he started to grin, the happiest you'd seen him in a while. His smile was infectious and you grinned back. Happy looked good on him.

"We know Eva's not shy with younger guys," you explained. "Before Burdick, she was fooling around with some intern in the med bay."

"And Arden's vain enough," added Eli. "If he thinks anyone's interested, he'll go for 'em."

"So we get him to ask her to the gala as his date...." you said.

"Burdick sees the two of them together...." said Eli.

"And realizes he can get back at his lover in another way, by pinning the sabotage on another student...." joined Thrawn.

The three of you stood together, proud and satisfied that yet another plan had finally worked out. It was almost worth the stressful studying and petty bullying and all the other unpleasant things you had to endure at this god-forsaken school, just to have fun moments like this with trusted friends.

"We should attend this gala as well," Thrawn said eventually, holding out a hand for the poster. He inspected it thoughtfully. "It is only a few days before the tests, so I hadn't planned to pay it any mind. But now...."

"Yeah, we should make sure Burdick's as jealous as we want 'im," nodded Eli.

You were secretly pleased. The plan was already a win-win, but now you would be able to go to the event yourself, too. You hadn't mentioned your desire to go to either of them before, figuring they weren't interested and not wanting to sound silly if you suggested it. But you did love dancing, and it was so very rare you got a chance to wear something other than your Imperial uniform.

"It's a dance," you noted, in case they couldn't tell by the details on the poster. "We'll need to go in pairs."

"I suppose it would make the most sense for you and Eli to go together," said Thrawn quietly.

You looked between the two, realizing both of them were flushed slightly. Eli's cheeks were dotted with pink, standing out amongst his dark brown features, while Thrawn had more of a purple tint to his face now, a color you'd never seen there before. You could feel yourself growing warm and uncomfortable as well. It was only a dance... only a way for you to enact a much more important plan... but it was the first time your trio had had to engage in anything other than platonic friendship. The balance of your group seemed to be shifting ever so slightly in this moment, and you had no way of knowing if it was for good or ill.

You cleared your throat, pushing away any feelings that might have been brewing in your chest, and instead calling focus back to the mission at hand.

"Actually, I think I'd better go with Thrawn. Whoever doesn't go with me would have to find their own date, and no offense Thrawn, but I think Eli has the better chance of asking someone else."

You hoped they hadn't noticed how hollow your voice sounded, how hard you were trying to keep yourself emotionless.

Eli was pinker than ever. "Uh, I highly doubt that..."

"You're not completely hated around here, you know," you said quickly. "Definitely not with the girls. You're not bad looking, you can be charming if you try, and you're... you know, human." You glanced at Thrawn and added again quietly, "No offense."

Thrawn shook his head. His color and demeanor had already slipped back into his usual neutral self. "No, I agree. Those are the dynamics of our peers and we must work with it. I will take you to the gala, Eli will find his own date, and all three of us will push Arden and Eva together as well. It's a good plan."

You all nodded in agreement. But there was a knot in your stomach, a nervousness you didn't quite understand. You cared very much for both Thrawn and Eli. They were your best friends, your only friends. As a group, you were bonded by your ostracism, protecting and supporting each other on your journey out of this hell-hole.

And separately, you had something special with each, too. You and Eli came from similar backgrounds, and had the same need to disconnect from your surroundings and just have a bit of fun every once in a while. The two of you had spent many late nights together, either hopping between bars, exploring the city, making each other laugh uncontrollably, or quietly sharing the honest thoughts you both buried far too deeply inside. Some nights you'd done all of the above, and returned to your dorm feeling both exhausted and renewed.

But Eli didn't always appreciate the finer things in life, and that's where you connected with Thrawn. He wasn't necessarily an optimist, but he had this way of noticing the beauty that existed everywhere around you, even in the most simple or mundane of moments. Everything had the potential to be interesting. His calm but strong presence had kept you grounded and sane throughout your studies here so far. Sometimes you would talk, other times you would simply be in the same space. And either way, you felt better about life.

You didn't exactly want your relationship with them to change. But you couldn't help but feel this gala would do just that....

Next Chapter: The Preparation >

Blueberry Path | Thrawn x reader

Cowboy Path | Eli x reader

#star wars #thrawn #eli vanto #thrawn x reader #eli vanto x reader #choose your own adventure #friendship #romance #friends to lovers #mitth'raw'nuruodo

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shireness-says · 3 years

Text

Seeking Shelter, Seeking Solace [1/3]

Summary: 1895. Emma Swan answers an ad in the paper from a man looking for a wife in order to flee Boston - only to arrive in rural Storybrooke, Minnesota and discover that her intended husband is dead. Left with no other options, Emma takes a position at the local tavern alongside the sullen, dark-haired barkeep with demons of his own. But what will she do when the forces she’s worked so hard to escape reappear in the new life she’s building, forcing her to turn to this unlikely savior for aid? ~8.6k. Rated M for suggestive content. Also on Ao3.

~~~~~

A/N: Every year, my mother insists we watch “Sarah, Plain and Tall” because she thinks it’s a great tradition and doesn’t quite understand that she’s the only one that loves it. So last time, I plotted this in my head instead of watching: CS fic inspired by that story.

Thanks, as always, go to my wonderful beta, @snidgetsafan.

Tagging the interested parties (and let me know if you’re one of those!): @welllpthisishappening, @thisonesatellite, @let-it-raines, @kmomof4, @scientificapricot, @ohmightydevviepuu, @profdanglaisstuff, @thejollyroger-writer, @superchocovian, @teamhook, @optomisticgirl, @winterbaby89, @searchingwardrobes, @katie-dub, @snowbellewells, @spartanguard, @phiralovesloki, @initiala, @revanmeetra87, @quirkykayleetam, @captain-emmajones, @hollyethecurious, @officerrogers, @lfh1226-linda, @jrob64, @therooksshiningknight.

Enjoy - and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

Emma can’t help but fidget in her seat as her train tears across the Midwestern landscape. Though this was her choice, she still can’t help but be nervous; after all, this is a very different world from Boston, the only home she’s ever known. She’s used to bustling streets and the lap of the waves against the docks at the harbor, not these miles after miles of plains and crop fields. It’s almost enough to make her second guess this whole thing.

It’s not a mistake though, she knows. She’d needed to get out of Boston, as quickly as possible, and this had been the best of a variety of bad options. Emma has never been particularly romantic, even as a little girl, but in the few imaginings she’d allowed herself of her future, answering a newspaper ad for a wife had never factored in. Then again, her fantasies had never anticipated the particular situation she’s trying to escape: a man who wouldn’t hear no, who was willing to pursue her relentlessly, from city to city, always a threat on her tail. The security of marriage, and of distance, had only made sense. And then again, she’s never been sentimental ; true love isn’t something she anticipated in a union, or even particularly believed in, for that matter.

The man she’s travelling to meet seems kind, she consoles herself with knowing. Emma hadn’t been particularly picky in selecting a man from the handful of querants in the paper, but Graham Humbert seems to be a good one. He’s the sheriff of a small town in Minnesota, who found himself lonely and wanting companionship.

I can darn my own socks and cook my own dinner, though neither with any exemplary skill, he had written. I’m not looking for someone to look after me in that way, regardless of what my friends’ wives think; I’d hire a lady to do the cleaning if that was the issue. I’m searching for someone to speak with at the end of a long day, someone to listen and to laugh with. I don’t believe myself to be a sweeping romantic, but I will be happy to give and receive a kind of gentle affection. Maybe we can come to love each other in time; I would be happy with that too, though I am not counting on it.

She’d liked that about him, that amiable practicality so evident even in his letters. It’s what had made her agree to travel to Minnesota with the intent to marry him, really - the feeling that they viewed a union in the same way. There will be a trial period, of course, a month during which to decide whether the two of them will suit each other before anything is formalized - but Emma is determined to make it work. What other choice does she have?

The train will be pulling into Storybrooke soon - a tiny dot on the map, where Emma doubts anyone else will be alighting. All of her belongings have been tightly packed into two measly carpetbags in order to, hopefully, start a new life. Maybe it’s foolish, but Emma had splurged on a new, sleek jacket before she’d left the city, a cheery blue to pair with her navy skirt and white blouse in an attempt to impress. Mostly, she wants to look neat more than anything else: a capable woman, one who won’t be afraid to adapt to a new life with a minimum of fuss, one who won’t make Sheriff Humbert’s life more difficult. Pretty is of secondary concern.

She sees the town coming long before the train pulls into the tiny station, roofs and chimneys rising above the flat landscape and copious corn fields. Somewhere in this state, she knows, are hundreds and thousands of lakes; however, they’re nowhere to be seen here. Storybrooke itself is a bare cluster of buildings seeming to group around a single main street, with homesteads and farm plots doubtlessly stretching out to the surrounding area. It’s a whole different world from what she’s used to, but that’s the entire point, really; no one will think to look for her here, in the rural midwest as the wife of a sheriff.

When the train finally pulls into what passes for a station, a single cramped building with barely enough room for a ticket office and a luggage closet, a man is waiting on the platform, sheltered from the late-spring sun by an awning off the station roof. The star-shaped badge on his coat and the way he shifts nervously from foot to foot make Emma think this must be the anticipated Sheriff Humbert. His hair is rather more golden than the sandy blonde-brown color Mr. Humbert had tried to describe in his letters, but Emma supposes that’s to be expected. She likely didn’t give a perfect description of her appearance either.

Quickly, she gathers her bags and alights to the station platform with the assistance of a young porter. The man waiting quickly doffs his hat, playing with the brim in another nervous gesture. “Miss Swan?”

Carefully, Emma arranges her face into something she hopes passes as an amiable smile. “Yes, that’s me. And you’ll be Sheriff Humbert, I presume?”

“I - well, no,” the man who isn’t Graham Humbert stutters out. “I’m David Nolan, actually. One of the deputies here.”

Unexpected - but there are countless excellent reasons that Deputy Nolan might be sent instead. Trouble can happen even in a small town, dozens of minor disputes that can somehow only be settled by the sheriff himself. “In that case, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Nolan. I must admit, I was expecting Mr. Humbert. Pardon my mistake.”

“About that —” Deputy Nolan cuts himself off, looking curiously uncomfortable. It sets Emma a bit on edge, but there’s no way to dance around it - not when she doesn’t have all the information.

“Yes?”

Deputy Nolan swallows heavily, visibly, his fingers tightening around the brim of his hat again before he drags his eyes to meet hers. “I’m sorry to tell you, Miss Swan, but Graham - Sheriff Humbert - died two days ago.”

Of all the things she thought he might say, all the ways she imagined this might go, that certainly wasn’t one of them.

———

“It wasn’t anything violent, or related to his job,” Deputy - well, now Sheriff Nolan tells Emma once he’s led her to a seat in Storybrooke’s one and only bar, the Sherwood Tavern. Emma finds herself grateful for the glass of dark liquor the man behind the bar slides to her without asking; after this shock, she could certainly use it. “He just collapsed. Graham had been bothered by periodic chest pains for… as long as I can remember, really. We figure it just finally caught up to him.”

Emma nods at the words, not sure what to say. It’s all jarring, really, sad for the loss of who she believes had been a good man, but it’s hard to muster much emotion. She had only known him through letters, carefully crafted missives in which they had doubtlessly both tried to show the best sides of themselves; she doesn’t have the same attachment to the man as Nolan, and everyone else in town, understandably did. Her grief is for plans and possibilities never realized, for the idea of a man instead of the genuine article.

“We know you came out here specifically with the intent of marrying Graham. There’s not much other reason to come to Storybrooke,” Sheriff Nolan comments with a laugh. “Graham’s savings and property are set to go to the town, but we’d be happy to buy you a ticket back to Boston. It’s the least we can do, when you turn out to have come all this way for nothing but disappointment.”

It’s a kind offer, really. There’s no reason for Emma to stay, after all, and Storybrooke doesn’t have much to offer. But even if Emma hadn’t needed to escape Boston… there’s nothing there to pull her back. No family, and only a single friend. She isn’t even attached to the city, though it’s all she’s ever known. Returning to Boston would be returning to a sparse boarding house room and a life spent looking over her shoulder. Here - well, there’s no promises, but Emma would be willing to bet it’s not any worse.

“If you don’t mind,” she responds carefully, “I’d prefer to stay. There’s nothing for me back in Boston either, believe it or not. This may not be permanent, but… for the time being, I’d prefer to stay.”

“Then we’ll be happy to welcome you.”

———

And they are. Sheriff Nolan takes her down the street to the boarding house run by a Mrs. Lucas and her granddaughter over their family’s pharmacy, where both women welcome her with open arms. Ruby Lucas, the granddaughter, is tall and willowy, every inch of her full of personality, and her grandmother is a gruff old lady poorly hiding an enormous affection for her loud-spoken granddaughter. Emma can practically see the moment Mrs. Lucas - “That’s Granny to you, girl, only strangers and enemies call me Mrs. Lucas” - absorbs her into their little fold. The room they provide is small, but clean and bright; Emma is more than agreeable to the small fee she’ll owe to rent the room each month, especially knowing that breakfast and dinner are included in the rent.

Storybrooke is exactly the quiet little town it appeared to be from the train. Besides the bar and the pharmacy and the sheriff’s station, there’s a general store and a post office, a bank and a rudimentary library. There are a handful of other buildings too - Emma’s been told that one houses the doctor’s office - but she hasn’t had cause or need to learn them. Perhaps in time, she’ll learn all the ins and outs of who belongs where in this little place. It seems inevitable; after all, that’s small town life, even when so many of the so-called residents live further out on isolated farmsteads.

As much as Granny seems to immediately see Emma as her ward, Ruby Lucas seems to view it as her duty to introduce Emma to Storybrooke’s small social scene, and attacks the task with gusto. Even if it’s just a small circle - Mary Margaret Nolan, Sheriff Nolan’s wife; Belle Gold, the town librarian; and Elsa Jones, whose husband operates the general store - Emma finds herself somewhat overwhelmed by the attention. She’s never had this before, not really; there hadn’t been much of a chance to make friends, growing up in an orphanage. There’d only really been August, who she’s come to view more as a brother than anything else. It will take some getting used to, having this number of people eager for her company and opinion.

(There’s an argument to be made, Emma supposes, that Neal had been a friend, too - but he’d been a lover, more than that, and then he’d been gone. It’s hard to justify counting him, even in her pathetically brief list.)

“It’s so nice to have a new face about town,” Mrs. Nolan - Mary Margaret gushes as she leads Emma arm-in-arm down the street to the library. “Not that there’s anything wrong with the familiar faces of course - oh no, of course not! But it is so nice to hear new perspectives and meet new personalities, you know? Oh, I’m just so thrilled you’re here!”

It is exhausting and touching, all at once - and just another thing Emma will learn to expect in this little town, she’s sure. She’s determined.

———

When Emma decides to stay, Sheriff Nolan offers to put some of Sheriff Humbert’s assets towards paying her room and board, but Emma refuses. It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate the offer; it’s a nice change to have someone else trying to look out for her, even if she gets the sense that David does this for everyone. However, she never even met Graham. They’d exchanged letters, had come to a rudimentary understanding, and that was all. She has no right to lay claim to any of his money on such a flimsy connection, no matter how obligated Sheriff Nolan feels to look out for her.

Emma resolves to get a job instead, to pay her own way, and only accept the help if she’s forced to. It’s not a particularly big deal; Emma has been working in one way or another since she was a teenager. She’s worked in factories, and shops, and more recently as a secretary in a bank and then a law office. Her favorite had been the stint as a companion to a wealthy invalid. Ms. Ingrid had had a sharp tongue and had loved to turn her quiet, yet cutting comments on passersby outside her townhome’s windows, often leaving Emma in fits of laughter and the older woman with a satisfied look on her face. She’d had a fondness for Emma, too; privately, one of Ms. Ingrid’s nieces had once told Emma she had lasted longer than any of the previous companions, a small compliment she couldn’t help but treasure. She’d ultimately left, shortly before the old lady died; one of Ms. Ingrid’s sister’s husbands had been making ever-more-insistent passes Emma had been struggling to dodge, and she hadn’t been needed much as Ingrid had slowly slipped away.

(She thinks about Ms. Ingrid often, still, and the year she’d spent in that house; sometimes, Emma thinks it was one of the only times she’s ever been purely happy.)

Her opportunities for employment are limited. The general store doesn’t need additional help, and the library is barely big enough to justify one employee, let alone two. She’d played with the idea of helping out at the Sheriff’s station; with the way Sheriff Nolan seems desperate to be of assistance, for Graham’s memory if not her own sake, she’s certain he wouldn’t mind. But the fact of the matter is that this is a tiny town, with a tiny sheriff’s office to match. What would there be to do? It’s not like Boston, where there’s enough crime to produce enough paperwork to keep her busy. Sheriff Nolan himself had said that they didn’t deal with much more than petty disagreements and the occasional barfight. Even the local pickpocket had reformed and was working at the post office, running the telegraph machine.

Instead, she turns to the Sherwood Tavern - the one place in town she’s certain gets enough business to need help. Making inquiries, she discovers that it’s owned and operated by a pair of friends: Robin Locksley, who spends most of his time just outside of town at the horse stables he runs with his wife, and Killian Jones, the sullen, dark haired man who’d been behind the bar that first afternoon when Emma had arrived. They’re an interesting pair; Mr. Locksley is all smiles and sunshine, even with that slightly roguish grin, and happy to talk about anything, while Mr. Jones barely talks at all and smiles even less. Still, it’s obvious that the two men are friends, watching the way they work around each other in the space behind the bar. Maybe that speaks well of Mr. Jones, or poorly of Mr. Locksley; Emma thinks it’s likely the former, just based on Sheriff Nolan’s own reaction to the two men. Somehow, she doesn’t think he’d allow her to take a position at an establishment run by men he didn’t trust.

Mr. Locksley is immediately amenable to giving Emma a position as barmaid. It’s Mr. Jones who has more questions, and evidently more hesitance. Emma isn’t sure what to make of him; he’s an attractive man, objectively, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, but his silence and moroseness are jarring, even if he seems to be a beloved member of this little town. There’s a story there, somewhere, maybe related to the scars that dominate the skin of his left hand.

“This isn’t a glamorous job, you know. It’s messy, sometimes even rowdy,” he says, studying Emma carefully where she stands in her neat skirt and shirtwaist.

It only makes her draw up taller. “I know. I wasn’t expecting it to be. You run a bar, not a tea room.”

That gets her a faintly approving nod, at least. “Pay won’t be anything to write home about either.”

“Will it be enough to cover my room over at Granny’s?”

“Aye, it ought to be.”

“Then that’s good enough for me.”

When Jones finally gives his nod of approval, Locksley beams across at her. “Well, Ms. Swan, it looks like you have a job, and we have a barmaid. Welcome aboard.”

———

It is not remotely the life that Emma expected to find herself living, but it’s nice in its own way. There’s a pleasant routine to it all, of Granny fussing over her at mealtimes and Ruby dragging her out to socialize and keeping busy at the bar in the afternoons and evenings. It’s almost… cozy, she supposes the word is. The citizens of Storybrooke seem determined to absorb her into the fold and make her feel at home, and Emma even finds herself becoming fond of the regulars at the bar. There’s something constant and reassuring about Leroy’s complaints and the way Mr. Marco comes in for exactly one beer each night, no more than 30 minutes after sundown. Will Scarlet might be her favorite; he’s a mouthy bastard, a former thief who now inexplicably runs the post office and operates the telegraph line, but his particular brand of attitude amuses Emma and keeps her on her toes.

(It takes her approximately a week and one passing observation in the street for Emma to realize that he’s head over heels for Belle Gold, wife of the man who owns half the town, and most likely reformed his life for her. A brave man, too, then - or maybe just a fool. From what Emma understands, it’s a bad idea to get on the wrong side of Mr. Gold; he’s a manipulative man who always needs to be in control of everything and does not tolerate people standing up to him or encroaching upon his perceived territory. Emma imagines that Gold’s wife is very much included in that inventory.)

It’s usually just her and Jones and the other barkeep, Mr. Smee, working at the bar every day. Emma thinks Mr. Locksley - “Robin, please, I’m not the formal type” - might have been involved just as a favor to the other man; he’ll put in appearances every so often, especially when his business partner requests it, but he mostly seems happy to stay out at the horse farm he operates with his wife. There’s a story there, Emma’s sure - but she’s certain that she doesn’t yet have the right to ask.

She doesn’t know what to make of Jones, really. He’s a meticulous man, and she thinks even a good one, based on the way he takes care of his establishment and is willing to patiently listen to various gripes from patrons at the bar as they work their problems out themselves. The sullen, quiet demeanor doesn’t seem like his natural state; sometimes, she catches his eyebrows twitching or the sides of his mouth trying to quirk up when one of the regulars says something suggestive, like it once would have been instinct to reach for innuendo or even jokes in the same way. She almost wonders if this is something of an emotional shield, an affectation he’s worn for so long that it’s become comfortable. Regardless, there must have been something in his past that led him here - something that’s emphasized by the careful way that Robin and Sheriff Nolan - David, now - treat him.

Jones’ brother, Liam - who operates the general store and is Elsa’s husband - seems to be the only one that doesn’t indulge Killian’s reserved state. It intrigues Emma, and really reinforces her feeling that the younger man must not have always been like this. It’s somewhere between a matter of the elder Jones not having a tolerance of it, and trying to purposefully provoke the younger.

“Is everything alright?” she dares to ask one afternoon after Liam Jones storms away from a discussion carried on in angry, hissed tones.

“Fine. Liam’s just trying to control everything again.”

It’s probably a wonder she managed to get that much out of him.

It’s hard, though, to be expected to spend so much time with a person and barely trading ten words in any given day. It makes the day longer, and the work harder. On a particularly slow day, when there’s barely a soul in the place and no longer even any cleaning left to do, Emma finds herself scrambling to break the silence, just to cut the boredom.

It is a mistake.

There’s a tattoo on his right forearm, usually covered by his shirt sleeve and just barely allowing hints of dark, swirling ink to peek through. Emma usually only sees the edges in flashes, when the sleeve of his shirt shifts just right as he reaches for something, but his sleeves are rolled nearly to his elbows tonight, revealing the whole work. It’s a detailed piece, one he must have gotten in Chicago or Minneapolis or some other city big enough to have an artist of talent. There’s certainly not a tattoo shop in Storybrooke, of all places. The swirls of black she’s caught glimpses of frame a heart with a jagged dagger through it, with a single word on a tattered scroll at the forefront.

“Who’s Milah?” she asks, instead of wiping down the tables for the twentieth time this evening. “On the tattoo.”

It’s like his whole body seizes - spine straightening, eyes shutting down, every inch of him infused with tension. It’s obvious she’s struck a nerve, one that affects his entire being.

“Someone from long ago,” he finally mutters, before stalking off to scrub imaginary grime off already-spotless tables.

It would be stupid to wonder what she did; that’s obvious to anyone with eyes. What she’s more confused about is why that particular question set him off. It’s obvious there’s a story there, one she doesn’t know but that must be central to the man he is.

Robin is there that day, taking care of something in the small office at the back; without Emma even asking, he slides up next to Emma with an explanation.

“Milah was his fiancée,” he explains quietly. “She died, several years back, in a freak accident. He was driving her to town and the horse startled, flipping the whole wagon. It’s how he injured his hand, too.” Another question answered, then; Emma can see the way the scarred limb still pains him, seizing and spasming in ways that make him scowl deeper with irritation.

“He wasn’t always like this,” Robin continues. “He used to be the most charming man you’d ever meet, always with a smile and some saucy comment. You’d have barely recognized him back then. It’s funny, and awful, what grief does to a man.”

And that explains a lot too - the way she sometimes sees his eyes flash or mouth pull like some half-forgotten instinct. That’s the look of a man who was broken, and who forced his pieces back together with the weakest glue, where things no longer fit together in the same way as they did before, even if all the fragments are there.

It is just another piece of the puzzle that is her silent coworker, but maybe the bit that makes it all make sense.

(Emma has never been much for guilt - but she can’t help but feel some small guilt for this.)

———

The thing about living in a small town, for better or worse, is that there are expectations. Despite its small size, there seem to be a million and five social functions in Storybrooke - church picnics and sewing circles and, tonight, a social and dance in Mr. Clark’s new barn. Emma could decline to attend, technically; it’s not as if she’s contractually obligated to make a showing. But Storybrooke is a tiny town, and Emma is the new face, and she’ll be thought of as unfriendly, even odd, if she doesn’t at least put in an appearance. Besides, everyone is going - and Ruby would never let her hear the end of it if she didn’t at least make an appearance.

So she goes. She stands with Mary Margaret and David and lets Ruby pull her along and compliments Granny on her contributions to the potluck spread. She even takes a turn around the dance floor when asked, even dares to enjoy herself a little bit.

That doesn’t mean that it doesn’t get to be too much, however. The residents of Storybrooke are all so welcoming and well-meaning, but Emma’s spent so much of her life alone, and suddenly being inundated with all this good cheer is a particular variety of overwhelming. It’s not their fault - it’s entirely hers - but Emma can’t resist slipping out the barn doors to creep around the side, seeking a quiet and solitary moment.

It’s not to be found, however; as Emma rounds the corner, it is easy to see Jones in the light of the nearly-full moon, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back and clearly avoiding the festivities in the same way. There’s half a thought of just retreating, creeping around the other side instead, but he turns his head to meet her eyes before she has the chance.

“I’m so sorry,” she tries to apologize. “I’ll just leave you be —”

A brief smile without much feeling twitches across Jones’ face. “Hiding from the party?”

“Yes, but I can find somewhere else —”

“There’s no need. Stay.”

Emma stays. What other choice does she have? She isn’t exactly eager to spend this time with Jones, but it would be blatantly rude to insist on leaving after he had made such a generous offer. Carefully, she props herself against the wooden wall, ignoring the way that stray splinters try to poke through her dress.

She assumes they’ll just stand there in silence - they aren’t exactly friends, for all the time they spend together, and after the other day she’s sure he isn’t much fond of her - but Jones surprises her by breaking that silence after only a few minutes.

“I owe you an apology, Miss Swan,” he says softly, but clearly. “I’ve been less than welcoming these past weeks. I am sorry for that.”

It’s the last thing she expected him to say, and Emma has no idea how to respond. “Thank you,” she finally settles on. “I appreciate it.”

She thinks that’ll be it; that he’ll have said his piece, and they’ll go back to a more-or-less easy civility. It isn’t. “I suppose Robin, or one of the others, told you about… about Milah?” Emma nods. It’s clear this is difficult for him to speak about; she wonders a little why he’s bothering to tell her, of all people. “After she was - after she passed, I rather fell to pieces. She was gone, and the accident all but mangled my hand so it seemed like I couldn’t do much of anything with my life, and it was easier to fall into a bottle than to face my grief. Robin helped a lot, giving me something to do at the bar and eventually letting me buy into the place, but some days I still feel like all those pieces are still barely held together.”

“I understand,” Emma tells him softly, almost too softly to hear. And she does; she’d felt something of that despair when Neal had left, like she’d never find anyone or anything to compare again and there were a whole host of feelings and experiences she’d never reclaim, never experience without him. She can only imagine how much deeper that pain must run for him, when his fiancée had died and not just run away.

“Thank you,” he says, but she can tell he doesn’t fully believe her. That’s alright; she hasn’t given him any reason to. “Anyhow. It’s been five years now, and I’m… acceptant, I suppose. I don’t anticipate being that same man I was ever again, or being able to truly move on and find someone else, but I’m not actively trying to drown all my feelings anymore, which most agree is a significant improvement.”

“Most?”

“Most,” he repeats. “I believe you’re acquainted with Mary Margaret Nolan?”

“Ah. Yes.”

“Exactly. Ah. Mrs. Nolan is a very kind woman, of course. She truly does mean well, and she and David are wonderful for each other. But she is… unbearably optimistic, if I’m being blunt. Mary Margaret is of the opinion that now that I have reached an acceptance of everything that happened with Milah - everything that I lost with Milah - that it’s time I move on, and find a new ‘happy ending.’ So when you came to town - a new face, lonely, needing help…”

Emma sees exactly where this is going. “You assumed she would immediately start trying to play matchmaker.”

“Precisely. Well, not quite assumed; I’ve known Mary Margaret long enough that it was more like knew.”

“And you decided to head it off before it even started.”

“Aye. Again, I do apologize for how it means I treated you. You didn’t deserve that kind of hostility. But I didn’t want her getting any ideas about fixing us up together.”

“Then I forgive you.”

Killian stares blankly at her for a moment, clearly not quite processing her words. “Just like that?”

“You forget - I’ve met Mary Margaret too.”

His lips twitch in that almost-smile again, and Emma could swear she hears him huff out the hint of a laugh. “She is nothing if not persistent. A second chance, then?”

And Emma finds herself surprisingly happy to agree.

———

They’re still not friends, exactly. Jones isn’t exuberant, and that doesn’t change just because they had a chance to reset things behind the barn. But they’re… friendly. Amiable. Companionable. A whole host of other almost-type words. She no longer feels like he resents her very presence in his place of business, and even makes sure to make her life better in little ways, like helping her wipe down glasses and handle more belligerent patrons. She appreciates it, truly; it makes her life easier, knowing he’ll back her up, and that’s more than enough. Despite the small town-big family feel of Storybrooke, she’s still a city girl at heart who’s fine not to make best friends with everyone. She’s more than satisfied to be his employee, and nothing more; in fact, it’s a welcome change after some of the jobs she’s had.

(That’s what landed her here in the first place, after all: a man who doesn’t much care about her many, many denials.)

Even if they’re not friends, she spends enough time around the man to recognize some of his reactions, the slight variations of “sullen” that still play across his face if you’re watching closely. And as soon as Belle Gold walks in with an older man Emma can only assume is her husband, Emma sees the way that Jones’ entire body tenses up. The tension in the air is palpable between the two; even Belle shifts uncomfortably as they approach the bar.

“Could I have a small glass of beer, please?” she asks Emma softly. It’s a relief to reach for the glass instead of just waiting for whatever this is to explode. “It’s so terribly warm out there today, I found myself needing a little something to cool down.”

Beside her, her husband hasn’t broken eye contact with Jones. Emma doubts he’s fully aware of what she and Belle are doing right next to him. “You’re still here then, Jones?” he asks in an icy, sinister voice.

“Aye.” Jones’ face is just as stony when he responds. Emma can practically see the way he vibrates with suppressed rage.

“I suppose you don’t have anywhere else to go, do you, or anyone else to chase after. No one really wants to take on a man with only one functional hand.”

“Let’s go, Robert,” Belle urges. Her beer is barely touched, but her refreshment seems forgotten as the encounter turns increasingly hostile.

Carefully, Jones sets the glass he had been holding back on the bar as the rest of the room holds its breath. Emma can see the way he flexes his scarred left hand, though she doesn’t think anyone else is playing close enough attention. “That’s true,” he says in that deadly quiet voice, “but you’re stuck here too, Gold. And we both know you’re the one who trapped me in this town.”

“Strong words from a weak man —” Mr. Gold starts to say, but his target has already stalked away towards the door Emma knows hides a staircase. Jones keeps an apartment above the premises; doubtless he’s gone there to lick his wounds.

Belle quickly ushers her husband out after that, leaving the barely touched glass on the counter. Emma takes a long drag, not one to waste the beverage; she can’t help but hold some bitterness towards Belle for this altercation, even though she knows the woman is otherwise lovely and kind and even something like a friend to Jones. She must have known this might happen, bringing her husband in here. The man has a reputation, one that makes it hard to believe that his wife is so kind - and married to him. Besides, the whole exchange reeked of an unknown history between the two men, of so many words and actions leading to today’s explosion.

Behind the bar, Mr. Smee - a timid man by nature, a predilection not remotely helped by these dramatics - looks anxiously between the room half-full of patrons and the door through which Jones had disappeared. It only takes a moment to realize what needs to be done - and that Emma will have to be the one to do it.

With a nod toward the bar floor for Smee, Emma quickly climbs the stairs, a glass of rum in hand. She’s noticed Jones taking a shot of the stuff when some customer is drunk enough to buy a round for everyone. If there’s ever been a time when a drink of something biting would help - well, this is probably it.

It isn’t hard to find Jones. He hasn’t even made it into his apartment proper, instead sitting propped against the wall in the hallway with his head hung between his upright knees. He looks up at the sound of her boot heels clicking on the stairs, happy to accept the proffered spirits, only to hunch back over the glass once it’s in his hands. Emma waits patiently for the explanation she knows is coming; she’s long since grown used to silence sitting between the two of them.

“He killed her,” Jones finally says, draining the remains of his rum in one swallow. “Milah. My Milah. He wanted her, but she wanted nothing to do with him, and she chose me.” He smiles softly in remembrance, a foreign look on his face from what Emma has come to know. “I could never prove it, of course. But he hated that she chose me, hated me for supposedly stealing what was his by pursuing the woman who pursued me first. And that wagon… it never should have tipped. It was sturdy, not even a year old, and the road was even. But there was a shot, fired someplace close that I could never pinpoint, and the horse startled, and the axle was apparently so weak or damaged that it broke, and by the time it was all over…”

“She was gone,” Emma supplies softly. Somehow, in the middle of all this, she’s found herself on the floor next to him. It seems like what he needs right now.

“It was quick, at least. She broke her neck and died instantly. I just… I could never prove it, but I always knew it was Gold. The sabotage of the wagon and the shot to set everything in motion.”

It makes horrifying sense; maybe Jones is wrong, but from everything Emma has heard and seen of Mr. Gold, she wouldn’t put it past him. “And now you’re forced to see him all the time.”

“We had plans, you know,” he tells her, staring into his glass like he can make it refill by will alone. “We were going to pack up, move to Duluth or Chicago - somewhere along the Great Lakes, where I could get a job on one of the ships. But she was - she was dead, and my hand was barely functional, and when Robin offered to let me buy into the bar instead of just doing my damndest to drink myself to death… I took it.”

“And you lived.”

He snorts. “Or close enough to it.” His head falls back against the wall heavily as he sighs. “He’s gone, I imagine. I’ll come back down in a moment, I just…”

“Take all the time you need.”

(Emma knows she didn’t do anything more than listen, but there’s still a satisfaction in seeing the way he has started to pull himself back together as she traipses back down to the bar.)

———

They’re still not friends, but knowing those bits of another’s soul bonds two people together in a way that’s hard to describe. Jones is still sullen and quiet, but it’s less off-putting when Emma knows it comes from a place of pain. What matters is that Emma feels comfortable and safe here in Storybrooke and at the tavern, in the midst of these kind - and yes, in some cases morose - people.

That all changes when a telegram arrives unexpectedly, marked urgent and portending dangers Emma had hoped she had finally escaped.

She opens it right away, of course; there’s only one person outside of this town who knows how to reach her, and August is too busy for needless correspondence. He hadn’t even responded when she’d wired him back in Boston that first day in Storybrooke just to let him know what had happened, and that she was still staying. Him sending a message can mean nothing good.

Emma sinks onto a barstool as she reads the stark letters. Even without a mirror, she can feel the blood draining from her face as her nightmares resurface.

Be aware Oz sniffing around STOP Hired private detective STOP Be on alert and do what you must STOP Will keep apprised STOP

Emma doesn’t know how long she sits there, staring at the little slip of paper. Somewhere, the yellow envelope it was delivered in has dropped away; she hadn’t noticed. She only comes back to herself when a firm hand shakes her shoulder.

“Swan!” Jones all but barks, jerking her back to attention and to meet his eyes. It’s evident he’s been trying to get her attention for a while; thank god there are only a scant handful of people in the bar at this early hour, though she’d rather Will Scarlet hadn’t had to see this either. “What’s the matter?” he presses ahead. “Are you alright?”

What an absolutely absurd question to ask as she sits here, white as a sheet. As much as Emma would like to deny it, claim everything is fine, she can’t. “No,” she barely manages to gasp out.

It’s like everything around her has become a blur, like her mind can’t focus on anything but impending doom. Jones and Will Scarlett must have corralled her into the little back office; she has no memory of how she came to be sitting in the padded chair. Jones crouches by her side, his shoes lost beneath the edge of her skirt, wearing a surprisingly tender look on his face.

“This is about what you’re running from, isn’t it?” he asks in as gentle a voice as Emma’s ever heard from him. It snaps her to alertness, eyes blown wide; it’s not remotely what she expected him to say.

“How did you know that?” she demands. Emma hasn’t told anyone in town the underlying reason why she came to this little nowhere town, and yet here Jones is talking like it’s obvious to see.

“I recognize the look of someone with demons to hide, and to hide from,” he says softly. “You’ve met mine, Swan.”

Faced with that kind of understanding, it’s like all the pride, the reticence, the fight seeps right out of her. What’s the point? He seems to see right through her front anyways, for some reason she can’t pinpoint.

“Yes,” she says, carefully making sure that neither her voice nor her hands tremble at the admittance. “It’s about the things I ran from in Boston.”

“Tell us.”

And she does. As Will Scarlet stands by the door and Jones moves to lean against the desk, Emma lets the whole tale unravel: about the law office in New York she’d been a secretary in, about the junior partner, Walsh Oz, who’d taken a sudden interest in her, about the way she’d left that job when he wouldn’t stop pressing his attentions on her. About how he’d found out where she lived, and forced her to move three times. About how she’d finally packed up and moved to Boston, only for him to track her there as well, showing up in the department store she worked in. How she’d gotten more and more desperate, finally seizing upon the idea of answering one of the marriage ads in the paper.

“It seemed like the perfect solution,” Emma explains. Against her will, tears have begun pooling in her eyes, and she blinks furiously to dispel them. “It’d take me so far away from Boston and New York that Walsh Oz would never track me down - and besides, I’d have a husband. It didn’t matter that I probably wouldn’t love him, I’d be safe. He wouldn’t be able to bother me anymore if I was already tied to another man.”

As Emma has told the whole sorry story, Will Scarlet has become visibly more upset in his stance by the door, bordering on fury, but Jones has remained implacably, unshakably calm. Emma appreciates it, in an odd way; it’s something stable to focus on, to keep the panic from overcoming her again. “And then you got here, and there wasn’t a husband to marry,” he says softly.

Emma nods. “I thought it would still be enough - rural Minnesota is so far from New York or Boston, you know? But now…”

“But now.” There’s something horribly ominous about his agreement.

“At least I have August to watch out for me - my friend, almost a brother. He works for a private detective agency.” Jones probably doesn’t much care about that, but talking and explaining keeps her in the moment. It only works for so long though, as the reality of the situation sets in. “If Oz comes here… where else can I go? What am I supposed to do?”

The silence sits for a moment, Emma trying not to cry, Scarlet and Jones looking at one another as if coming up with something. The question hovers in the room, threatening to suffocate them all.

“You came here because you thought a husband could protect you?” Jones finally asks.

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll marry you instead. If you like.”

It’s an absurd proposition, not least of all because Emma knows Jones may never get over his late fiancée. Beyond that… they barely know each other. They’ve worked together for two and a half months, and Emma has shared little bits of herself along the way and learned pieces of his own character, but that’s not enough to base a marriage on. But wasn’t that exactly what she was trying to do with Graham Humbert? To marry him, even though she barely knew him?

The difference, of course, is that Emma has worked alongside Jones for months, and knows this is not remotely what he’d ever planned for himself. It is much harder to go through with this when she knows that it isn’t something that both parties actively want.

“You don’t have to. I would never ask that of you,” she hurries to protest - but he’s already shaking his head.

“I know I don’t,” he tells her. “And if you don’t want to, that’s fine, and we’ll try to figure something else out. But I think it might be your best option.” Jones pauses, and his face softens. “Graham was a good man, and a good friend of mine,” he tells her quietly. “He waited a long time for me to be a better man, and do something with my life. Let me do this for him.”

And Emma agrees.

———

It is a small wedding - not that the occasion warranted anything different. They’re two people who barely aren’t strangers anymore, who hadn’t planned for this remotely or had even imagined such a possibility two days ago.

(Technically, it’s the second time since Emma arrived in Storybrooke that two days have abruptly changed the course of her life. Maybe it’s an omen, of some sort; Emma doesn’t have the energy, or the opportunity, to pay heed to such a thought.)

They make as much of the occasion as they can when Mary Margaret and Ruby only have two days to fuss. Emma wears her nicest dress - a summery, pale blue confection that makes her look a lot more girlish and innocent than she actually is - and there are fresh flowers along the pews of the little church that match the small bouquet in her hands. Only a small number of people attend to witness - the Nolans, Jones’ brother and his wife, Robin and his wife, and Granny with Ruby - but that’s alright. Emma may not know what her soon-to-be husband’s favorite color is, or his favorite meal, or even his middle name, but she does know that they’re both somewhat solitary creatures. Neither needs a crowd, or would be comfortable with one.

There’s something oddly comforting about his presence at the end of the aisle, waiting for her in front of the reverend. He isn’t dressed particularly elaborately, but he’s taken the effort to put on a tie and coat and comb back his hair a bit, even if pieces keep popping up again. Most of all, Emma appreciates that his hands don’t tremble when they take hers. She’s terrified out of her wits about the foolishness they’ve both agreed to, but he manages to be so calm; so certain. It’s like he’s found an odd kind of purpose in doing her this favor beyond thanks, beyond reason. He’s calm when she meets him at the altar, and calm all through the short ceremony, and still calm when he slides the thin gold ring on her finger. It feels like some kind of blessing.

Before she knows it, the words are all said, and they’re moving to sign the paperwork and make this legally official. And that’s it: some of the most momentous minutes of her life are over and done, and Jones - Killian? - is leading her back down the aisle of the little church with her hand tucked into his arm, still that pillar of stability and reassurance.

She’s married.

———

Eventually, they find themselves back in the little apartment above the bar. Emma’s pretty flowers have been set aside, her hat carefully extricated from the pins holding it to her hair, and Killian has worked off his jacket and tie. Silence stretches between them as they sit, she in the armchair by the fire and him at the kitchen table, but it’s not yet comfortable. They don’t quite know each other enough for that. It’s like they’re in a holding pattern, both just waiting for something to give, for the other to break or break through.

“I never expected to get married,” he finally says. Emma jerks her head to face him, but he carefully looks anywhere else, staring towards the opposite wall, fiddling with his fingers. “After Milah died… I expected I never would. That that would be it for me.”

It is not a good way to start a marriage - hearing that her new husband never wanted to get married in the first place. “I’m sorry, then. For trapping you in a marriage you never wanted.”

But he shakes his head at the words, finally meeting her eyes. “No, no, that’s not what I mean, Emma. I’m not trying to - I don’t want you to think I regret this. It is its own kind of honor, doing this for you and for Graham. Makes me feel like a better man than I’ve been in a long, long time. What I’m trying to say, I suppose, is…” He pauses, as if collecting his words. “I suppose I don’t have… expectations, so to speak, of our marriage. We get along. I think you’re a good woman, and I’ve appreciated the help in the bar. And that can be it. I’m not expecting anything more. I’m perfectly happy to have a paper marriage, companionship and nothing more, because that’s already more than I ever expected for the rest of my life.”

Ah. He’s alluding to sex. It’s kind of him to dance around this, but entirely unnecessary; delicacy has been out of the question for 8 years now, since she still thought Neal was her forever. It never really mattered for an orphan from the worst of Boston anyways. As kind as it may be, it’s unnecessary, and frankly too chivalrous for her purposes. In return, Emma chooses her words just as carefully as he did; at the beginning here, setting the stage for what may become the rest of their marriage, it seems important to do so. “Thank you, Mr. Jones —”

“Killian.”

“Killian.” He’s right; they’ve already traded vows, such as they were, after all. “Thank you, Killian - but the fact of the matter is that I need this to be a real marriage. If our marriage is to protect me the way I need it to… then I need there to be no reason for anyone to claim otherwise.”

———

They consummate their marriage that night.

It is not making love by any means, and it is not even particularly good - it’s been too long for either of them to be in practice, and too little feeling between the two of them - but there is no denying that it is a real marriage now. Emma can smell the shot of rum he drank for courage as Killian determinedly avoids her lips. His body is warm and firm above her, inside her, but there’s no feeling to it, except in the apology he mumbles against her ear when he finishes before she’s even close to satisfaction.

It is fine. It is no more than she expected.

But at least it is a union, in almost every sense of the word.

———

(She had been anxious about this - the idea of giving her body to a man she barely knows, no matter how much she knows it to be necessary - but as mediocre as the act itself is, Emma can’t help but feel… connected, afterwards. Despite everything, he had been gentle with her, considerate. She doesn’t quite feel an affection for him - not yet, though she hopes she might one day, if this is to be the start of years to come - but it’s the first link in a bond that they’ll strengthen with time. Consummation had been a fraught decision for both of them, an emotional minefield in many ways, but they’re truly in this together now.

All things considered - she’s glad she’s in it with him.)

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfiction #captain swan ff #marriage of convenience #my writing #Seeking Shelter Seeking Solace #independent!Emma #grumpy!Killian #and a bar

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coccinelle-et-chaton · 3 years

Text

in which adrien is a science teacher and has to pay his karma by babysitting a teenager that has his exact same humor when he was 15.

Chapter 2 of Chat Noir Is My Science Teacher is up, friends :D

Ch. 2. Mr. Deep

In which Matt is baby and Adrien begins to pay his karma for being a lil shit when he was younger, with interest.

When Matthieu braced himself for the day, the last thing he expected to happen was learning that Mr. Dupain-Cheng, his science teacher, was none other than his idol, Chat Noir.

Yes, Mr. Dupain-Cheng, the dorky teacher who laughed at his own bad science puns and had a themed t-shirt for every day of the week. Mr. Dupain-Cheng, the man who thought grading with “You Tried” stars and cat stickers was funny. Mr. Dupain-Cheng, who was so gullible he didn’t notice when students wanted to distract him from giving a lesson by asking him about his wife because they knew he could rant about her for hours. Mr. Dupain-Cheng, the only teacher that replied with an ‘ok :)’, a meme, and the signature, ‘Sent from my cat-phone,’ when replying to a well-thought email. That Mr. Dupain-Cheng.

How could this be possible? He was so... so uncool .

Read below the cut or on AO3 by clicking the link above.

When Matthieu braced himself for the day, the last thing he expected to happen was learning that Mr. Dupain-Cheng, his science teacher, was none other than his idol, Chat Noir.

How could this be possible? He was so... so uncool .

When Matt thought about who Chat Noir might be under his mask he always pictured someone bold and dashing, maybe one of those cool guys that worked in those crazy science startups. Someone brave, fearless... not a father of two who, Matt was pretty sure, screeched one time a flying cockroach somehow crawled from one of the sinks in the lab. He pictured someone like Barbara Keynes or Peter Parker.

They were witty and mysterious. Mr. Dupain-Cheng was too nice to be a superhero.

“Matt!” Timo tackled him into a hug as Matthieu and Mr. Dupain-Cheng joined the rest of the class. Ladybug had finished handing out autographs to his classmates and had already left. “Are you okay? Did you see the Akuma? It was so sick!”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Matthieu muttered, as Mr. Dupain-Cheng pointedly put as much distance between himself and Matt. He called the class’ attention to continue their museum visit.

“You’re in danger, kid.” His teacher’s words still resounded in Matthieu’s head. “For your own safety, lay low until I decide what to do with this, okay?”

He didn’t give Matt a chance to ask any questions, to say anything. He basically wanted him to ignore this, to act as if he had just found him practicing some obscure hobby outside school.

As they walked, Matt trained his eyes on the back of his teacher’s head, the blond, messy mop of hair towering over the group of teens.

“Hey, Timo?”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Deep is, like, a nerd, right?”

“Yeah, he’s pretty cool,” Timo said, his attention more invested in his portable video game console than in the conversation. “He knows, like, all the animes.”

“That’s not cool,” said Matt.

“Of course it is,” Timo said, finally peeling his eyes off the screen. “We like that stuff.”

Timo had a point, Matthieu had to admit.

“And remember the time he helped me solder that motherboard we used for the robot competition? That was pretty cool.”

“I... suppose.”

Timo shrugged, blissfully unaware of Matt’s current crisis. “I keep telling you, man,” he said, returning to his videogame. “Mr. Deep is the coolest teacher at school.”

After the field trip, Matt went home stuck in a contemplative trance, wanting to decide what the revelation was that truly bothered him: the fact that Chat Noir’s civilian persona was absolutely nothing like what he had pictured, or that Timo was right and the reason why he disliked Mr. Dupain-Cheng was actually because he looked up to him, and that he embodied the complete opposite of everything Matt was taught to be.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense, to be honest. As any self-respecting fan, Matthieu knew Chat Noir’s career by heart. He had seen those old clips of him as a teenager, cracking witty jokes and one-liners in the middle of battle. It kind of made sense that he’d grow up to be the kind of man that was unapologetically chaotic. Besides, those memes and punny cat stickers he liked to grade with? Suddenly it seemed all so obvious. It was almost as if Mr. Dupain-Cheng was flaunting the truth in front of everyone, knowing no one would peg him as the kind of man who was a superhero. It was all in the same way no one seemed to understand how on earth such a whacky dude would end up with one of the most successful designers in Paris.

Matt suddenly shot up from the comfort of his bed as he contemplated his thoughts.

Ladybug. Weren’t Ladybug and Chat Noir a couple?

Oh my god, is Mr. Dupain-Cheng cheating on his wife with Ladybug? Or backwards? Wait... Isn’t that famous designer his wife? What’s her name, MDC? No, that’s the brand. Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Wait.

Does his wife even know? Oh, no... Poor woman! Wait... what if...

Matt gasped. “She’s Ladybug. She has to be.”

He paced around his room, his thoughts going a thousand miles an hour. “I can never let Hawkmoth akumatize me ever again,” he screeched, grabbing handfuls of his hair. “Oh my god!” he shrieked. “Okay, Matt, breathe. Breathe. Just... Think. Okay. This can be good, right? This can be good.”

He kept pacing around.

“Okay, Matt. Okay. You just figured out that Mr. Deep is Chat Noir and his wife is Ladybug... Cool, it’s all cool,” he said to himself in a pitch heightened by the sheer panic that coursed through him. “It’s okay, it’s—.”

He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks as inspiration struck. He gasped excitedly and immediately got on his knees to reach under his bed.

“Of course!” he exclaimed, pulling out a small corkboard he kept hidden under the bed. The board was an indulgent little project if he did say so himself. It wasn’t related to any of his school activities, which is why he had to keep it hidden. Goodness knows what his parents would do if they found out he had been wasting time investigating who Hawkmoth might be.

This wasn’t bad, this was great!

I can help him! Matt thought excitedly. I can help him and Ladybug track Hawkmoth down!

He took a few shots of it with his phone to then ferociously kick it out of view, back under the bed again, when his mother entered his room.

“What are you doing on the floor, Matthieu?” Mrs. Magan, a middle-aged woman with stern eyes, said to him.

“I... lost a coin.”

Mrs. Magan frowned, not making much of the excuse. “Dinner is ready.”

Matthieu let out a silent sigh of relief as his mother turned around, then quickly followed after her, knowing better than to have her remind him a second time.

I can help him, he thought again excitedly. I can be his sidekick!

—-

Matthieu was not one to be late for school, but the day after discovering Mr. Deep’s identity he decided to be extra early, just to make sure he’d be able to talk to him in private. There was always the risk that he’d be late of course, but now that Matthieu knew the reason, he could hardly hold it against him.

Matt was lucky enough to spot him in the Chemistry lab when he arrived. He peeked through the small window on the door. it seemed he was grading papers.

He grinned and immediately went in, hardly being able to contain his excitement.

“Good morning, Mr. Dupain-Cheng!” he exclaimed enthusiastically, causing Adrien to jolt and knock some of the paper sheets to the ground. Matt rushed to pick them up before Adrien had the chance to do so. “So listen, I have thoughts ,” he said as he put the papers back on the desk and fumbled with his backpack to produce his phone. “I was up all night updating my Hawkmoth board, and I was thinking—I was thinking that maybe, you know this philanthropist, Lila Rossi—”

Adrien could only stare dumbfounded at how fast Matt rambled before he even caught the drift of what he was saying. Once he registered it though, he jolted once again.

“Shh!” Adrien hushed at the teen, frantically looking around himself to see if anyone was in the vicinity—even though the door was closed.

“Matthieu, what are you talking about?” he hissed.

“I wanna help you track Hawkmoth!” Matthieu piped with a bright smile, reaching into his backpack again to produce his phone. “Last night, I was thinking, ‘Hey, maybe this happened for a reason.’ I’m pretty good at this whole deduction thing, you know? I’m at the top of the class in almost all subjects and I have like, all the badges possible on the Ladyblog. Also, look, I have this board that I made about all the possible suspects because if you look at the akumatizations there’s a real pattern, and I’m thinking that whoever Hawkmoth might be, has some stuff to work through, because oh my god. Oh, like, this person he—”

“Matthieu, keep your voice down!” Adrien interrupted him. “No! I can’t let you do that. What happened yesterday was an accident, kid. Okay? It’s best if you just... If you just try to pretend like you don’t know anything while Ladybug and I decide what to do. This isn’t a game, Matt. You are in danger. If Hawkmoth ever lays hands on you, there’s no telling what might happen. Stay. Away. From. This.”

Undeterred by the ominous delivery of Mr. Dupain-Cheng’s warning, Matthieu beamed at him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Deep! I’m good at keeping secrets! I—”

“No. It is out of the question, Matthieu. This is dangerous and I—wait, what did you just call me?” Adrien said, suddenly catching the nickname.

Matthieu grew red in the face and smiled sheepishly at his teacher. “Mr. Deep... You know, ‘cause you’re always, like, going off these crazy deep tangents about the physics of akumas and stuff and—Oh my god, that makes so much sense now! Do you study them in your free time? Oh, wow! Do you and Miss Ladybug have a secret layer? Like Majestia and Knight Owl? Wait, actually, don’t answer that. Sensitive information, am I right? Oh! Also, I think Mr. Deep really fits you because you always give us this weirdly specific and deep life advice? And I don’t know how you do it but it’s always on point? Also, your name starts with a D...”

Adrien looked at the boy, shocked, and frankly a little scared that a kid could talk so much, so fast. There’s only one other person he had ever known whose mouth ran like a broken faucet if she was given the chance.

Wait , Adrien thought. Did... did he just pun with my name?

A part of him was flattered, another was surprised, a third one was slightly insulted.

The kid punned with my name. I’m his teacher !

“Matt!” he exclaimed, interrupting Matthieu’s spoken stream of consciousness. “No. This is final. Stay away from this. I don’t want to have to repeat myself. It is final.”

Again, unfazed by Adrien’s effort to act seriously, Matthieu beamed at him. “Don’t worry, Mr. Deep. I’ll prove you can trust me! I would not trust me, too, if I were you. But I’ll prove it! You’ll see.”

The bell rang, and with it came a thankful end to the conversation. At least on Adrien’s side.

“And don’t call me Mr. Deep.”

“Okay, Mr. Deep!” Matthieu said, beaming at him as he made his way out of the classroom. “Oops! I mean, Mr. DC.”

Adrien sighed, glaring at the boy and feeling some sort of karmic entity laughing at him. He knew exactly what Matt’s energetic yet jesterly energy reminded him of: a sixteen-year-old version of himself whose favorite pastime was seeing how much foolery he could get away with before Ladybug decided to murder him in cold blood.

“It’s your karma,” Plagg muttered quietly before his students began pouring into the classroom. “Kid’s your spitting image. Though I gotta say, he blabbers as much as Spots.”

“Oh, shush it!”

“You know you have to tell her soon, right?” Plagg muttered from inside Adrien’s overshirt. “The more you delay, the deeper your grave.”

“I said shush.”

The little god snickered. “Someone’s in trouble.”

Plagg was right, though. Adrien had to tell Marinette about this. It was already bad that he didn’t tell her the moment it happened. She hated it when he did that. But in his defense, he knew she had a tough day at the label and he didn’t want to freak her out. He hoped that excuse would be enough. Plagg had laughed at him when he asked for his opinion about it.

Yeah, he was in trouble.

There was no way but through, he knew this. That didn’t mean his legs could tell the difference between an honest conversation with his life partner and the visceral fear for his survival that was elicited at the image of said conversation. He felt them buckle as he casually leaned against the kitchen island, trying his best to act natural.

The kids had been put to bed and there was thankfully no Akuma in sight. At least not yet.

Marinette sighed with relief as she swiftly undid her hair and reached into the fridge for a bottle of wine. If Adrien hadn’t been so terrified by what he was about to do, he’d allow himself to swoon at her.

Witnessing Marinette shed the tiredness of the day as she swapped into comfortable clothes—usually loose shirts and yoga pants— and poured her drink of choice was one of his favorite things to watch. It didn’t matter that they had been living together for a little over seven years now, he’d never get tired of watching her exist.

“You want some?” Marinette said as she stood on her tiptoes to reach the shelf where they kept the wine glassware.

“Yeah, sure,” Adrien said, then continued speaking after thanking his wife for the wine. “You’ll never guess what happened today.”

“What?” she said, clinking her glass against his before taking the first sip.

“A kid punned with my name.”

Marinette chuckled. “Really? What did he call you?”

“Mr. Deep.”

Marinette snorted as she took another sip from the glass.

“He said it’s because I like to go on deep tangents and because my name starts with a D. Kid can’t pun to save his life.”

Marinette smirked at him. “You’re one to talk.”

He dropped his jaw. “I can’t believe you just asked me for a divorce, m’lady.”

Marinette rolled her eyes and smiled, walking past him on the way to the couch. She placed her wine glass on a small side table and pulled out a sketchbook from one of its drawers. She busied herself reviewing her work while Adrien gathered the courage to nudge the conversation in the direction it needed to go.

“M’lady?” he said from behind her.

“What did you do,” Marinette replied immediately, as she flipped through the pages of the sketchbook.

”I— why do you always assume I did something?”

Marinette turned around and mocked him, then gave him a knowing smirk. “It’s in your tone, Chaton. You can’t lie.”

“I am an excellent liar, I’ll have you know.” He stopped himself from bragging further, seeing as Marinette frowned.

“What is it, Adrien? What happened?”

Adrien’s palms were sweating with anxiety. He gulped. “First of all, I love you and you know that, right?”

“Adrien,” Marinette said, her voice hitching up her tone.

“It’s nothing bad . I mean, it’s a ‘could be worse’ sort of situation.”

“ Adrien !”

“Hypothetically speaking, imagine... what if, er... one of the wielders accidentally revealed himself to someone who, uh, someone who absolutely shouldn’t know? Hypothetically speaking.”

“Adrien, what did you DO ?” Marinette screeched.

#chat noir is my science teacher #ml fanfic #science teacher adrien au #ml oc #ml oc matthieu magan #adrien agreste #gen fic #miraculous next gen #marinette dupain cheng #chat noir #ladybug

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homerjacksons · 3 years

Text

Sonny Carisi Week Day 1: heartbeat Word Count: 2118 Pairing: Starisi Summary: Sonny is shot and Peter’s afraid of losing his constant AO3

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

Everything seems to slow down, all sound fading away until all Peter can hear is his own heartbeat in his ears, loud, fast, urgent. He swears it stops for a second, a whole moment that drags on for ages as something wet hits his face, splatters his coat, and Sonny goes down in front of him.

—

Peter’s hesitant as he rests his hand against Sonny’s chest, feeling the erratic beat of his heart. He doesn’t do this, he doesn’t kiss colleagues, friends, men he’s not dating, but God, he wants to kiss Sonny in this moment.

Sonny laughs, shy and sweet, ducking his head. “Can you feel that?”

“What?”

“How crazy my heart is going.”

Peter laughs and nods, relishing in the feel of it beneath his palm, full of life, full of passion, full of what he hopes is want and affection, too.

He meets Sonny's eyes, wide and dark and shining, and he knows he’ll never get tired of the feel of that heartbeat for as long as he lives.

“I’d like to kiss you now, if that’s alright with you,” Peter says, voice pitched low. He’s grateful for how steady it sounds when he feels anything but.

Sonny swallows, nodding as he’s already closing the distance. His lips press against Peter’s, tentative and hungry at once, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to ask for everything he wants.

Like he’s not sure Peter would give him absolutely anything he asked for.

As he cups Sonny’s jaw, deepening the kiss, he keeps one hand on his chest, tethered to his lifeline; Sonny’s heartbeat.

—

For a brief moment, he wonders if the heartbeat he can hear is Sonny’s and not his own, blinked out before Peter could even react to the vague memory of a gunshot.

But then it roars back to life, pounding painfully against his own ribs, and the rest of the world roars to life with it, too much noise and confusion as people scream and run and cry and armed officers unholster guns, spinning on the spot to see where the shot came from.

Peter’s knees hit the pavement hard as his fingers fly to Sonny’s neck, pressing down amongst the mess of blood.

Too much blood. Peter could see it draining from his face as he reached feebly for Peter’s hands.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Peter said, voice surprisingly firm and authoritative.

Sonny squeezed Peter’s wrist, and squeezed his eyes shut at the same time as he brought one of Peter’s hands down to his chest. For one painful moment, he couldn’t feel a heartbeat at all, but eventually he found it, weak against his palm, and he felt his own heart stutter in his chest.

“Look at me,” Peter ordered, but Sonny’s grip on his wrist went as limp as the rest of him, and Peter choked back a sob. “Look at me, dammit. Sonny. Look at me.”

—

It’s a while after Peter’s breathing has evened out and his heart rate has gone back down and he’s right on the edge of sleep, willing himself to find the strength to get up, to not fall asleep with Sonny’s hand in his hair, to not lean into the calm, the comfort that Sonny radiates and ruin their agreement, that he notices Sonny’s heart is still pounding hard and fast and loud against his ear.

He lifts his head to look at Sonny, suddenly wide awake and concerned. Sonny’s wide-eyed and staring at the ceiling, but he lowers his gaze and manages a soft smile, hand falling comfortably around Peter.

“You okay?” He asks cautiously, studying Sonny’s features.

“Course,” he replies easily, stretching out lazily, feigning nonchalance, but Peter knows him better than that.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” He flops down beside Sonny and turns towards him, resting a hand on his chest, over his heart, feeling the erratic thump of its beat continue against his palm.

For a while, Sonny doesn’t speak, but eventually he closes a hand over Peters, screwing his eyes shut like he can’t bear to look at Peter, can’t bear to be seen.

“I want more,” he whispers into the dark. When Peter doesn’t respond, he adds, “Of you. Of this. I want more than casual.”

Peter can feel Sonny’s heart attempting to break free from his chest beneath his hand, and he can’t help but laugh, relief and affection flooding him in waves as he presses his face into the crook of Sonny’s neck.

Sonny sighs, pulling his hand back, but Peter just grabs for it again, pressing himself further into Sonny’s side, hooking a leg over him so he can’t escape the moment.

“I want that too.”

—

“Hey.”

Peter startles at the sound of Liv's voice cutting through the silence like a knife, harsh and unnecessary and borderline painful.

Instead of taking the seat beside him, she crouches down in front of him, taking his hands in hers as she forces eye contact.

He can see Sonny’s blood still caked into the beds of his fingernails and he feels bile rise to the back of his throat and he lets his eyes fall shut, swallowing the feeling back down.

“Why don’t you get some rest,” Liv suggests gently, running her thumb over his blood-stained hands.

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut tighter before looking at her through bleary, unfocused eyes. “I need to be here.”

She nods, like she already knew that would be his answer, and offers him a small, sad smile.

He realises he ought to say something, to comfort her back. She cares about Sonny too, has known him longer than Peter has. But the words get lodged in the back of his throat and he can’t seem to push past it, so he gives up, tilting his head toward the ceiling.

He’s come apart in front of her once before. He doesn't much fancy doing it again.

“He’s gonna be okay,” she says in a voice made of steel, and he bites back the anger it ignites in him. It’s not her he’s angry at.

“Yeah,” he manages, voice strangled and hoarse, and he cringes at the sound of it.

She doesn’t try to speak again after that. She just takes a seat beside him, placing a coffee, a bottle of water and a granola bar on the empty seat on his other side, and settles in for the wait.

—

Peter startles awake, confused at first, before he realises Sonny’s sitting upright beside him, breathing ragged. He eases himself up, placing a gentle hand on Sonny’s arm, which Sonny flinches away from instinctively, brain still in danger mode from whatever he’d dreamed about, before relaxing into Peter’s touch with a shaky sigh.

“You wanna talk about it?” Peter asks gently, and Sonny shakes his head.

After a beat, a moment of hesitation, Peter sits behind Sonny, wrapping his arms around him, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding as Sonny rests back against his chest, body trembling.

“You’re okay,” Peter whispers, taking Sonny’s hand in one of his own, his other hand spreading across Sonny’s heart.

He can feel the erratic, panicked heartbeat beneath his hand as shivers run through Sonny’s body, and he sighs, resting his chin on Sonny’s shoulder.

“I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

He repeats it in a whisper, like a mantra, holding Sonny close, feeling as his heart gradually slows to what he’s used to listening to in the mornings, in those pockets of time where it’s just them and neither of them have to be anywhere or do anything.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers again fiercely, long after Sonny’s fallen back asleep. “Always.”

—

Amanda and Fin join at some point, then Kat, then Phoebe and Celine, and eventually the waiting room is full of their makeshift family and beyond, officers he’s never even seen before standing by in solidarity for a man who they still consider family despite him trading a gun and badge for fancy shoes and a briefcase.

It catches him off guard and makes him feel out of place in a way he hasn’t for a long time, and he excuses himself, beelining for the bathroom, desperate for fresh air but not willing to go as far as the doors.

He takes a few, deep, steady breaths, splashing water on his face before gripping the sink in a vice grip.

“Peter?” He hears from outside, and his heart plummets to his stomach. “Olivia said you’d come this way. Are you okay?”

Peter bites back a laugh, bitterness rising in his throat again, this time tainted with guilt. Mrs Carisi was coming to check if he was okay while her son was having God knows what done to him in an attempt to save his life. He feels like an ass.

“I’m fine, Mrs—Sofia,” he opens the bathroom door, not bothering to force a smile.

She smiles sadly at him and pulls him to her, and it takes everything he has not to cry as he hugs her back fiercely.

—

With the way Peter’s heart’s slamming against his ribs and his breath is coming in short, sharp gasps, anyone would think he’d run the whole way from the courthouse.

“Sonny—“ he manages as he catches sight of Liv.

“He’s okay,” she cuts him off before he can let loose every terrible thought he’s concocted on his way over here.

She leads him to an ambulance, and it isn’t until he sets eyes on Sonny sitting in the back, not a visible mark on him, that he finally feels as though he can breathe.

Sonny’s eyes meet Peter’s from across the road and he smiles, warm and inviting, if a little tired, and Peter feels his eyes blur with tears.

“What are you doing here?” Sonny asks, placing a tentative hand on his shoulder—they’ve disclosed and everyone knows, but they don’t do this when they’re at work, they’re just colleagues, saving everything else for home—and catches Peter's eye, looking concerned.

“Making sure you’re okay.” He doesn’t mean to sound angry, but it comes out harsh as relief floods him at seeing Sonny whole and untouched in front of him. “Don’t scare me like that.”

Sonny ducks his head, looking guilty but also battling a smile. “S’kinda the job,” he mutters, cupping Peter’s cheek.

“I thought—“

“I’m okay,” Sonny cuts him off, grabbing his hand to press it to his chest, his favourite spot. Sonny’s heart beats strong and steady beneath his hand, and he hands his head, a dry sob escaping his lips.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, more for his own benefit than Sonny’s.

“Always,” Sonny whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.

—

Ba-bum. Ba-bum. Ba-bum.

Peter drifts in and out of sleep to the sound of Sonny’s heartbeat beneath his ear, safely enclosed in his chest, still pumping, still breathing, still alive.

Alive, but he nearly wasn’t. The bullet had nicked his artery and they’d almost lost him multiple times.

But he was alive. Alive and safe and here where Peter could touch him, even if he wasn’t awake yet.

He starts as a gentle hand threads its way into his hair, and the sleep-hazed part of his brain wants to relax into it, let it lull him to sleep, but he snaps his head up, desperate to see those bright blue eyes.

They’re not as bright as usual, dulled by sleep and pain meds and a close call with death, but they’re still warm as they crinkle at the edges, lips quirking up in a tired smile.

“Hey, you,” Sonny croaks out, and Peter can’t help himself. Finally, the dam breaks, and Peter’s face is wet with tears.

Even through his tear-blurred vision, he doesn’t miss the way Sonny’s smile slips from his face, concern taking over his features.

“I’m okay,” Sonny says quietly as Peter’s hands find his, gripping tight. “We’re okay.”

“Yeah,” Peter breathes out, pushing it past the tightness in his chest as laughter bubbles up inside of him from nowhere. Relief, he thinks, but god, he knows he must look a mess. “Yeah, we’re okay. You’re okay.”

Sonny smiles again and gives his hands a squeeze.

“I love you.”

“God,” Peter chokes out, pressing his face into Sonny’s chest for a moment before meeting his eyes again. “I love you, too. So much.”

He lays a hand on Sonny’s chest, fingers splayed wide, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath his palm, and presses a kiss to Sonny’s knuckles still gripped tightly in his own hand.

Sonny was alive. He was okay. His heart was beating.

He was safe.

#carisi week #dailysvu #starisi #sonny carisi #peter stone #law and order svu #svu #svu fanfiction #fanfiction #my writing

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