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verduresapiens · 3 years

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Answers and Questions

“You know... I’ve been meaning to ask. How the hell did you and Simon get into contact?” Hershel asked from where he stood in his kitchen, puttering away making a pot of stew. “If he’s as ruthlessly paranoid as you infer, then it seems rather difficult that either of you could have stumbled onto the other by chance.” Randall - standing nearby, too interested in watching his friend cook to sit down - chuckled softly, looking amused in a mildly irritated kind of way.

“He found me because he’s paranoid, not in spite of it. I was looking up as much about you as I could - which to be fair, really wasn’t much - and about magic, curses, Targent, and the Azran too, just in case, and he... got defensive.” Randall paused, then looked over at Hershel. “Mind you, this was a good few years after you were... taken, though. But Simon must’ve noticed my digging around and got scared. So, Simon did as Simon does best. Hunted me down and aggressively questioned me. He can be really scary if he puts his mind to it. It worked out in the end though - we started working together and now, here we are~!” Not to mention, Hershel thought to himself, Simon would also have been a man that lost his wife and child, and presumably found out not long after that his brother, too, had vanished thanks to Targent.

No wonder this iteration was so much more paranoid than the others. Not only had Targent tracked him down and ruined his life, but despite all he’d done to get his brother as far away from them as he could manage, they’d tracked down and shattered his brother anyway. Of course the man would grab violently onto any potential lead he found. Frankly it was amazing Simon didn’t just kill Randall. Those early days of the two communicating must have been absolutely wild. Though it did make him wonder where Raymond was...

“Does Simon believe the whole... magic, thing? I can’t image that after what happened to me, you’d be too keen on showing off that accursed little carving.” Randall shuddered at his friends question, making a disgusted noise.

“Not entirely - no offence, Hersh, but there’s no way in hell I’d follow you down that rabbit hole. I haven’t said much of anything to Simon about magic beyond what he asks for, he gets too worked about about the logic of it. Starts trying to figure out if it’s just really advanced technology like the Azran stuff. He did ask me once to show off it’s effects, though.” Randall said, his almost eternal cheer finally dying a bit. “Was real stubborn about it. Too stubborn - this was when we were still iffy about each other. I got mad, snapped at him. Didn’t contact him for weeks, or respond to anything he sent. He didn’t react well to that, but... I apologized. Never did show him how it worked. Simon probably figured it was a sore spot.” Hershel could imagine.

If there was one thing Descole hated, it was losing control. Simon was probably similar - Randall flying off the handle and getting so angry he’d ignore Simon completely? It was no wonder the man would react poorly - but also Hershel wasn’t surprised at the idea Simon would catch on it was a sensitive topic.

“It’s a damn good thing you don’t want to follow me - bloody curse has me unable to feel full.” Randall had the decency to look horrified before Hershel preemptively cut him off. “I’m more than used to it, and a fairly strict eating schedule has me fully in control of my rampant hunger issues. Well...” He continued, grinning lopsidedly as he continued messing with his pot of stew, “‘in control’ in that I never went out unwillingly.” Mostly. There were probably a few bits. Little might’ve done something, he never did learn all what she’d done when she controlled him.

“God, Hersh I - I swear. I swear if I’d known everything that would happen I’d have shattered it the day I saw it.” The grin fell from Hershel’s face with a sigh, replaced with a tired glance in Randall’s direction.

“Honestly, had I the chance, I’d do the same. I wouldn’t go back to being normal now, but... given the chance to change the past? Erase any of it from happening? A tempting thing.” It would cause a grand amount of different trauma, but... none of it would be torture. None of it would be a child locked in a cell and starved for days just so his captors could learn how his affliction worked.

One day he’d get revenge. One day. If the timeline tried to follow it’s path, he’d meet up with his old man eventually, and when that day happened he’d say ‘to hell with the rules’ and pretend Lucy Baker and everyone else just didn’t exist... Just him and his madman of a gene donor.

“...Glaring awful hard there, Hersh. You alright?” Hershel snapped out of his thoughts at Randall’s nervous-but-concerned tone. Glanced over at the man, whose expression was just as nervous-but-concerned as his voice had been.

“I - I’m fine. Got lost in thought for a second. Bad thoughts, you don’t need to hear them, trust me.” Randall sighed quietly, gave Hershel an expression that said he didn’t at all think Hershel was ‘fine’ - but didn’t press.

“You really need to find a therapist one of these days...” Randall said in return, wandering off as he did so. Hershel just kind of... sighed to himself. Continuing to cook. He knew damn well he needed ‘help’. But not right now. He was fine. He’d got this far on his own, he’d get the rest of the way there too.

Doing otherwise would feel like cheating.

#Sev Writes #this was meant to be posted soon after 'questions and answers'#but because I got lazy the name reflection won't be as noticed rip #felt a bit drabbly so I did another thing #writing domestic roommates stuff with Hersh and Randall feels good #they have to catch up like a lot #one day I'll write these two being brotherly and happy #but today is not that day

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hurt-care · 5 years

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HP Universe Drabble Challenge Pt.4

And the next set for the snzfic/sickfic drabble challenge.

16. Dinner for Three (Sirius Black) 17. Doctor (Harry Potter) 18. Dust (Ron Weasley) 19. Feather (Hermione Granger) 20. Anticipation (Tonks) 21. Bed (Remus Lupin)

16. Dinner for Three

“Lils?”

James Potter emerged from the front hallway of their cottage, brushing snow out of his hair.

“In the kitchen,” she called. “Dinner's almost ready.”

Hurhh-TSCXHHH!

“Bless you!” Lily said as she moved towards the sound. “James are you --”

She stopped short at the sight of a second figure in the entryway. Sirius Black was standing behind James with his hands steepled over his nose.

“Sorry,” James said, leaning in to kiss his wife on the cheek. “I didn't say. I dragged this miserable sod with me. Will we have enough dinner to feed three?”

“I don't need dinner,” Sirius chimed in. “Just the couch, thanks.”

“And some Pepper-Up, by the sounds of it,” Lily said. “Are you alright?”

“He's been sniffling all day,” James said. “I said he better come here instead of back to that dark little flat of his.”

“Of course. We can make up the spare bed, Sirius,” she offered. “Now, get those cloaks off and come warm up. I made stew and there's plenty.”

Hehh-nghGHXT!

Sirius doubled over, sneezing loudly.

“Oh, Sirius,” Lily said sympathetically. “Come on. We'll find you some Pepper-Up and a hot drink too.”

17. Doctor

On the second night in a row of listening to her husband coughing all night, Ginny Potter laid down the law.

“If you're not going to take a potion, at least agree to see a Healer,” she urged as Harry lay listlessly on the sofa with the wireless playing the day's Quidditch match.

“Hmm?” Harry murmured. “What do you mean? I'm not going to St. Mungo's for a cold.”

Ginny gave him an odd look.

“I didn't say go to St. Mungo's. I said go to a Healer.”

Harry looked confused for a second but was quickly distracted by the brutal cough. He turned his face to his shoulder, chest straining as he hacked. Ginny grabbed his water glass and passed it over.

“Thanks,” he choked, taking a gulp of water. He got the coughs under control and he cleared his throat of the remaining congestion. “I can't just owl for Pomfrey.”

Ginny had the sudden realization that Harry had no idea that Healers existed outside of Hogwarts and the hospital.

“Do you know how Muggles go to see a doctor?” she asked.

“Well, yeah, of course,” Harry replied. “Had to get my shots from one when I was a kid.”

“Well, there are Healers who sort of like doctors,” Ginny explained. “You can go to their house or they can come to you.”

Harry stared at her, brows furrowing. At first she thought he was upset, but his mouth dropped open and he took a small gasping breath before pressing his hands over his nose.

Eh-tsCHHH!

He sneezed forcefully and cleared his throat again.

“How soon do you think we can get to one?” he asked wearily.

18. Dust

“Anything yet?” Hermione shouted up the attic steps.

“Just a second,” Ron's voice replied. “I think they're in this box.”

At the base of the ladder, Hermione tapped her foot as she waited. They were making plans for George and Angelina's upcoming wedding and Ron was looking for his dress robes, which he'd inexplicably shoved in some box at the Burrow after wearing them for both Bill and Fleur's and Harry and Ginny's ceremonies. After he and Hermione had married, the box didn't end up making it over to their house and Mrs. Weasley surmised it must've ended up in the attic.

So Ron was digging through box after box, trying to ignore the family's horrifying old ghoul that lingered in the far corner.

“Ah ha!” he shouted triumphantly. “I knew they were here somewhere.”

He appeared at the top of the ladder holding his robes. They almost appeared grey instead of black thanks to several years in the attic. Ron gave them a shake, releasing a cloud of dust, and held them up.

“I think they'll still fit,” he said. “They don't look so—hehh...”

His breath hitched and his eyes narrowed in a squint.

Hehh—ehh-CXHT!

He snapped forward with the forceful sneeze and immediately bent forward again with a second and third.

Eshh-SCHHT! Nhh'GSCHHHT!

“Bless you!” Hermione said from the bottom of the ladder. “Steady. Don't fall down here.”

“Shaking them was a bad idea,” Ron said with a sniffle. “Too much dust.”

19. Feather

The Office of the Minister of Magic was always abuzz with activity, but sometimes Hermione needed her own space to think. Today, it was more than just that. She'd been feeling off all morning and she needed time alone to recharge. So, with an authoritative demand, she sent away her under-secretaries and advisors before shutting her office door and putting a 'do not disturb' spell on it.

She sank down into her desk chair, relishing the sudden silence. There were about a dozen stacks of parchment in front of her to be reviewed but all she really wanted today was to be home on the sofa with Ron. No such luck. These papers were not going to review themselves.

Picking up the stack, she took up her quill and began to edit the proposed new legislation. Not ten minutes in to her work, she began to feel a troublesome itch in her nose. She wriggled it irritably and sniffled, briefly wondering if her allergies were flaring up. But there was nothing she'd been exposed to that would have caused them. Perhaps her 'off' feeling was the beginnings of a cold. Either way, the tickle in her nose was growing in urgency. She closed her eyes and took another deep sniffle, trying to coax the sneezes out or to make the tickle stop. Neither happened.

Frustrated, she pressed her palm to her nose and wriggled it. The itch rose in urgency and she felt her breath hitch, but then...nothing. She pinched her nose and tried rubbing the nostrils together. Again, her breath caught in her throat but no sneezes came. The itch was peaking to a maddening level, buzzing inside her nose like a trapped insect. She squeezed her quill tightly, caught in the tormented state.

And then in came to her. Of course! Her quill!

She raised the feather end and gave her nose a light brush. The tickle surged in intensity. She stroked the long plume across the sensitive tip of her nose and around her quivering nostrils. Her breath hitched, this time going wild with anticipation.

“C'mon....” she groaned, swirling the tip of the feather into her runny nose.

And then, it happened. She took a gasping breath and pitched forward, catching her nose in a cupped hand.

Eh-tshCHII! Heh-TCHII! Ehhh—hehh-CSCHIII!

The sneezes burst forth, scraping her throat and quelling the plaguing itch. At least for the time being.

20. Anticipation

He'd been desperate to get back to her all week. Despite their rocky start and some angst in the middle, Remus truly did adore his wife Tonks. And now they'd been apart nearly two weeks while Remus was up North recruiting the werewolves and he was very eager to get back home to her. In spite of his own weariness and aches and robes that needed a good wash, he bounded up the stairs to the flat and performed the charms to unlock the door.

“I'm back!” he said, stepping into the foyer and shedding his mud-soaked boots on the mat.

“In the den,” Tonks voice replied quietly.

He shrugged off his robes in favour of the jumper and trousers he had on underneath and practically sprinted into the den.

Dora was sitting on their worn sofa, a cup of tea clutched between her hands and a blanket over her shoulders. From her ears drifted a slow trickle of smoke.

“Oh no,” Remus said, taking in the sight. “Are you sick?”

“Maybe. But get over here,” she said hoarsely, opening her arms. He sat on the sofa and pulled her into a tight hug.

“God, I missed you,” he confessed. “I've been dreaming about this all week. I pictured it a little differently but it doesn't matter.”

She sighed and gave him a tight squeeze.

“If the dreams involved snogging me senseless, then yes, I'd maybe hold off on that,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, love, it's okay,” he assured her, leaning back and pulling her to rest comfortably against his chest. He carded his long fingers through her pale pink hair. She turned her head and coughed lightly into his jumper.

“Sorry,” she croaked. “The Pepper-Up is only doing so much. I- errr..hold on...”

She sat up, leaning away from him with an odd expression on her face. Her button nose wrinkled irritably and she snapped forward into her bent arm, sneezing damply.

Hurh-tshCHOO!

With a groan, she sniffled thickly and slumped back into his arms.

“You weren't joking,” he said sympathetically, resuming stroking her hair. “I think waiting a bit for snogging is definitely a good idea.”

21. Bed

Being back at Hogwarts was already incredibly emotional and then there was the fact that one of his former best friends had escaped prison and was on the run. And then there was the son of one of his other best friends who kept showing up at his office door telling him stories of hearing James and Lily's murder when the Dementors got too close. And of course, there was also the transformations and dealing with Snape's daily delivery of Wolfsbane. And teaching all of his classes to a student body that, frankly, was extremely lacking in quality Defence education.

It was all a little overwhelming.

So it wasn't really a surprise when Remus woke up one morning feeling the ache of a fever and the heavy congestion of a cold that had settled its way into his head and chest. He sat up in bed only to immediately flop back down onto the pillows with a heavy sigh. Thank Merlin it was Saturday.

He turned his head and squinted towards the clock on the wall. The hands read half-past eleven and he groaned. Snape would be around soon with his potion and the last thing he wanted was to be caught in his pyjamas. Untangling himself from the sheets, he rose and got dressed, sniffling and snorting as he went about the business of getting ready. Cozied up in a heavy jumper, he tucked some handkerchiefs into his pocket and went down into his office.

Might as well get some work done while he waited. He picked up a stack of papers that needed grading, but the pounding pressure of the congestion in his head made it difficult. He pressed slim fingers to his sinuses, spreading them across the sensitive ridge of his cheeks. Nose dripping, he reached for a handkerchief to clean up his nose and was grateful he'd grabbed it as he felt the sharp prickle of a building sneeze.

Eh-tsGHHHTT! Nh-ghhTSCHHH! Hehh...ehh-GHSHTT!

He sneezed harshly into the handkerchief, throat scraping with each brutal outburst, and quickly launched into a volley of chesty coughs. Clutching at his chest, he tried to settle them, but they seemed to tumble out with a persistent percussive rhythm. He took a wheezy breath and managed to stop, now red in the face and sweaty.

There was a knock on the door. Snape. Great.

“Come in,” he said hoarsely.

Snape swooped in with a goblet, pausing and looking at Remus with a disgusted expression.

“You look like shit.”

“Thank you, Severus,” Remus said wryly.

Snape put the potion down on Remus' desk, dark eyes scanning the stack of papers and the discarded handkerchief.

“Do you think your rooms might be a better place for you in this state?” Snape asked cooly. “Wouldn't want to infect the rest of the school.”

Remus picked up the goblet and inclined his head in thanks as he took a swig and tried not to gag. He drained the cup and set it down with a hard 'clink'.

“I believe you're probably right,” he said wearily. “There's nothing I can take to help?”

“Not unless you wish to become a raging monster in a week,” Snape replied. “Suffer now and you'll just be a quieter monster.”

Remus looked at him and felt the heavy tug of illness and exhaustion outweighing any desire to fight.

“Right,” he said, picking up his handkerchief and shielding a few soft coughs. “Bed it is.”

#dustyfic

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casandpuppies · 7 years

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October Destiel AU Challenge: Day 2 - Extra Salty

31 Days of Destiel Drabbles: Day 2 - Fast food hell

“Welcome to Sonic, my name is Castiel. May I take your order?” Cas tries to put as much false enthusiasm into the greeting as he can muster, but at this point he’s so dead inside that he feels like no amount of forced cheer can cover it up.

“Heeeey, Cas! How you doing?”

Cas groans when he hears the unfortunately familiar voice come through the speaker, and he honestly considers hanging up right then and there.

“I’m doing well,” he replies politely. “How are you today, sir?”

“Doin’ better now that I’ve heard your voice.” The sickly sweet tone is accompanied by a chuckle that makes Cas wonder if he could make it to the supply closet and drink enough bleach to kill himself before someone stops him.

Fake it ‘til you make it, he tells himself. You need this job. College isn’t going to pay for itself. Neither is food or rent. His deadbeat dad certainly isn’t going to pay for any of it. Hopefully once he graduates in a year he’ll have a better job lined up and he can finally quit this hellhole.

“What can I get you today, sir?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t come across as impatient as he feels.

“Oh, yeah, guess I gotta order, huh? Let me see, um…what do you recommend?”

Castiel sighs and drums his fingers impatiently on the table. It’s the same pattern every day. Literally nothing, he wants to say. Everything in this store is terrible. “Well, we have a special on our cheeseburger and onion rings right now.”

Charlie Bradbury picks that moment to walk in from outside. “Oh, hey, Cas, I was gonna tell you that your boyfriend’s out on stall twenty-one, but looks like you’ve already figured that out.”

This particular customer has come in almost every day for the past month, and Castiel is almost always unlucky enough to have to take his order. The few times he’s gotten lucky, the man specifically asks for Castiel by name. He’s afraid to ask whether this guy comes up on Castiel’s days off, because if the answer to that is “no,” then Castiel may actually fear for his life. Frankly, he doesn’t know what the man’s obsession-slash problem is. He’s never seen Castiel, and Castiel has never seen him. All he knows is that he drives an old, black muscle car. A Chevy Impala, according to some of the car aficionados in the store. For Heaven’s sake, Castiel doesn’t even know the man’s name.

He shoots her a long-suffering glare just as the customer speaks up again, after some humming and hawing about it. “Yeah, that sounds good.” Finally.

His finger has just hit the screen when Satan’s spawn speaks up again. “Hang on, wait. Sorry, man, I changed my mind. Make it a double-bacon and a large fry, instead. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” Castiel says through gritted teeth. “Anything else I can get you today?”

“Oh, I guess your number isn’t on the menu, huh?”

The guy sounds proud of himself, as if fast-food workers don’t hear that joke ten thousand times a day. Still, to his horror, he feels his face heat up, and when the unmistakable sound of one of his carhops bursting into laughter filters through the headset, he’s just about ready to quit on the spot.

He must stand there in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time, because the customer clears his throat and says, quickly, “Sorry, man, I’m just kidding. Uh, you guys don’t have pie, do you?”

His embarrassment turns into frustration, and he remembers how much he hates this guy. “No, sir, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, even though he’d much rather say ‘do you see it on the fucking menu?’ or ‘sir, you ask me this every time, and the answer never changes,’ or something along those lines. ‘Take your ass down the road to McDonald’s or bake your own damn pie’ is also an appealing option.

“That’s all, then, thanks.”

“Is the order on your screen correct?”

There’s another of those annoying chuckles on the other end. “You got it. What can I say, you know me well, Cas.”

“Nine-eighty-four, have a great day,” Castiel says quickly, forgoing his usual spiel of suggestive selling and offering condiments. He hangs up before he can hear any form of response.

“I honestly don’t know why you hate this guy so much,” Charlie says less than five minutes later. “Yeah, he’s kind of annoying sometimes, but mostly he’s actually super sweet and always tips really well. Speaking of which…” A twenty dollar bill is thrust into his face, and Castiel blinks dumbly at it for a moment. “He said, and I quote, ‘give this to the angel that makes my food.’ Ain’t that sweet, boss?”

Castiel groans and prays the blush on his face isn’t noticeable. Within the first week of “meeting” this mystery asshole-that’s-apparently-not-an-asshole, the man had asked him whether he was going to deliver his food, and Castiel made the mistake of saying “no, I’m the cook.” It’s not quite true, but after nearly losing his temper with the man, Castiel hadn’t had the guts to say “actually, I’m the manager.” Besides, he never wanted to be a manager anyway. And he wouldn’t be, if one of the managers hadn’t had a nervous breakdown and walked out, leaving Castiel—as the most experience—with no choice but to step up to the plate.

Now, this guy must think Castiel is the only one in the building who can cook, because he always sends the carhop back inside with extra money for him. He rolls his eyes and pushes the bill away with an irritated wave of his hand. “You know I don’t accept tips.” It’s not like he’s not allowed to. In fact, he could use the extra money, but his sense of honor won’t let him. Not when his carhops are paid under minimum wage. “Split it up with the rest of the crew, or put it in your pocket. I don’t care,” he tells her. “You’ve told him I don’t accept tips, right.”

Charlie nods while digging into her apron to make change for the twenty so it can be split between the three other carhops on shift. “I don’t know what this dude does for a living, but I wish I was doing it. Because he sure seems to make bank. He’s not even that old. Probably just a little older than you. You know, he’s really not bad looking. If I was into guys, I’d totally snatch him up. You oughta give him a chance. He might be your type, Cas.”

“Right.” The very idea makes him scoff. “The man is clearly an idiot.” He does his best to tune out the rest of Charlie’s description, because he definitely does not want to know anything about this guy. It’s already bad enough that the guy has the voice of a god. It’s even worse that everyone in the store agrees that he’s flirting with Castiel. He doesn’t understand why anyone would flirt with someone they’ve never seen. For all this man knows, Castiel could be ugly as hell. No matter what, he can’t get them to stop calling the guy “Castiel’s boyfriend.” They all think it’s funny and cute, because all of his employees are assholes. Apparently, this customer doesn’t cause this much trouble for anyone else, and Castiel honestly doesn’t know what to make of that. All the carhops love him (that may have something to do with the size of his tips), even if he often sends them back inside to fix something with the order. He must be charming, if nothing else. And if he’s not an idiot, then he’s a trouble-maker, which is just as bad, and Castiel wants nothing to do with him.

“Hey, Cas! Your boyfriend wants—”

“Oh no, just stop right there, Charlie. Just walk back out of the door and don’t say anything else to me.”

When he looks up briefly from the money he’d been counting, Charlie’s standing there holding up a bag of food.

She continues anyway, “He wants to know if there’s any way he can make his fries large.”

“Has he paid for his order?” Sixty, eighty, a hundred, a hundred ten…

“Yeah, he paid with a card. He says sorry, he thought he ordered large, but he wasn’t paying attention to the screen, the usual spiel.”

A hundred fiftee—goddammit. It takes an impressive amount of self-control to keep himself from smashing his face into the desk. “Just give it to him and tell him to bite me.”

“Careful, boss.” Cue a suggestive eyebrow waggle. “He might come in here and take you up on that.”

He slams the stack of money onto the desk. “Just...” His hand waves around uselessly in front of him, as if it’ll help him come up with the words. “Give him a family size for all I care, just get him off the lot.”

Charlie does, and it seems like two seconds later that Anna Milton comes in the door, with a look on her face that tells Castiel all he needs to know before she even opens her mouth.

“I’m taking a smoke break,” he deadpans as soon as she comes up to him.

“You don’t even smoke!” she protests.

Before he starts seeing red, he closes his eyes and forces himself to take a deep breath. He says, as calmly as he can, “what does he want now?”

“He says he’s sorry, he doesn’t mean to be annoying, but his fries are really greasy and not salty at all, and he wants to know if he can get a fresh order.”

Because he��s feeling extra “salty,” as Charlie would put it, he drops a fresh order of fries and spends a solid five seconds aggressively salting them. Three minutes later, he thrusts the bag into Anna’s hands. “Here,” he hisses. “Give him a drink too. Give him a shake if he wants. Get him off the lot. I’m going to smoke.”

He storms out the door, taking care to avoid walking by the black behemoth parked at stall seventeen, and spends the next two minutes stewing in his own frustration and glaring at every car that drives by. Unfortunately, his self-pity party is cut short when he spots the Chevy drive off and he’s forced to rush back inside before the guy sees him and somehow realizes who he is.

When he gets back inside, Anna tries to hand him a twenty, and Castiel never thought the sight of money could make him so angry. “He says to give this to the cook for all the trouble, and to tell you—specifically you—thanks.”

The damn box has been going on seemingly non-stop, and it’s grating on Castiel’s last nerves. Okay, in reality, it hasn’t been anything they can’t handle, but Castiel’s head is already pounding, and the high-pitched ringing doesn’t help.

He coughs into his elbow and calls across the store, as loudly as he can muster, “Sam, will you answer that? I’ll take over for you.” Sam, the newest cook, shoots him a pitiful look, like he’s just let Castiel’s puppy die. Castiel sighs wearily and makes his way over to the kitchen. Sam is a good worker, and he learns quickly. He’s fresh out of high school, and even though he has a full ride, he wanted a job so that his older brother, Dean, wouldn’t have to pay for everything while he’s in school. “It’s nothing personal,” he says, trying to soften his tone. “You’re doing fine. I’m just faster.” He doesn’t mention that his head hurts too much to listen to customers yell in his ear all day, and Sam’s surely smart enough that he doesn’t even need to mention the fact that he feels like his voice is going to call it quits at any time.

Sam obliges, and Castiel takes his spot at the sandwich station. Today has not been his day. He’s having to turn in an assignment late because he fell asleep last night before he could finish it, and he’s pretty sure he did poorly on a test worth five percent of his grade due to falling asleep too early and not getting the chance to study. To top it all off, he’s pretty sure he’s getting sick. At least, if the bone-deep exhaustion and the relentless cough is anything to go by. But he can’t afford to miss work, and none of the other managers could cover his shift, anyway. Supposedly they all have plans they can’t cancel, but Castiel’s not stupid enough to think that the reason is anything other than simply being too lazy and unwilling to close on a Friday night. In addition to all that, he had to deal with a rude customer not five minutes after walking in the door to start his shift. Castiel argued with the woman for nearly ten minutes before she finally drove off in a huff, even though he’d offered to give her the entire meal for free, despite the fact that the mess-up was her own fault.

And if he thought the day couldn’t get any worse, he’s wrong, because Sam turns to him, holding up his headset, and says, “hey, Cas, they want to talk to you.”

“Is it another complaint?” he asks hopefully. He’d much rather deal with that than the only other possibility.

Sam grins, and Castiel knows he’s done for. “He says he’s ah, your regular?”

The professional thing to do would be, of course, to just tell Sam to hang up on him if he’s not going to order, or tell him that he’s busy. Maybe he can blame it on being sick, or his pent-up annoyance at this customer who’s trying to make his life hell. Instead of doing the reasonable thing, he snatches the headset out of Sam’s hands and puts it on. “This is Castiel, may I help you?” he says unenthusiastically.

“Evenin’, sunshine!” replies a chipper sounding voice. “How’s it going?” It’s like he’s greeting an old friend and not ordering food from a complete stranger.

“Can I get you something?” Castiel asks, completely ignoring the man’s question. Usually, he at least tries to be polite, but he’s too fed-up right now.

“Whoa, buddy, you don’t sound so hot,” the man points out, and then has the audacity to scold him. “You should take it easy if you’re sick, not make yourself worse by working.”

That’s the point where Castiel decides he’s done. “Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t have time for this. If you’re going to order something, then order something. If not, then get off the lot and please stop bothering the employees.” His voice sounds cold to his own ears, and the guy’s probably going to call and complain, but he’s too tired to care. Without waiting for a response, he rips the headset off, shoves it back to Sam, and pours all his anger into making burgers. He doesn’t know if the asshole orders anything, and he doesn’t care. The dinner rush dies down after a while. Castiel sends Sam and a couple other employees on break, and locks himself in the employee bathroom to get some peace and quiet for a few minutes.

Then the peace and quiet is shattered by a knock on the door. He sighs and lets his head fall against the cool glass of the mirror. “Yes?” he calls.

“Cas, your regular wants to talk to you. He’s on twenty-eight.”

Of course. “He’s still here?” It’s kind of strange that Sam’s the one to relay the message, since he’s on break, but then again, customers don’t tend to care if you’re on the clock or not when they call you aside to yell at you.

“Well, he specifically asked for a manager, so there may be something wrong with his order…” Sam trails off awkwardly.

“Alright, fine.” Well, this is it, he thinks. Looks like he’s going to get cussed out for a second time tonight. The guy probably came back to bitch about how rude he was on the box, not knowing that his order-taker was also the manager. Which means the complaint’s probably going to go all the way to corporate, and his boss will have his ass. Great. “I’ll deal with him.”

As he makes his way towards the door, he internally bemoans the fact that he’s going to have to actually deal with this idiot in person, and his nerves set in as soon as he catches sight of the man’s car. Once he’s within five feet of the car, he stops. The man in question is standing beside his car, leaning against the menu board, to Castiel’s irritation. But that’s not what stops him. What stops him is the fact that this is, hands down, the most gorgeous man he’s ever laid eyes on. The man looks up when he hears him approach, and fuck, even his eyes are a nice shade of green.

Remembering that he’s supposed to be professional, and this guy is still an asshole, Castiel coughs awkwardly and hopes he’s not too flushed. It doesn’t matter how beautiful he is. “Um, is there a problem, sir?”

“Heya, Cas,” the man greets, and offers him a small smile. “Just wanted to apologize for bothering you.”

Oh. Well, that’s a plot twist. “Apologize?” he echoes stupidly. “You asked for the manager. I was prepared for you to complain.”

He laughs good-naturedly. “Yeah, I knew you wouldn’t come out if I asked for you by name. Sammy told me you’re a manager, and not a cook. Heh, with that attitude, I should have figured.”

“I..uh…do everything, really.” Smooth. Wait. His mind backtracks. “Sam told you? Then does that mean…”

“Name’s Dean.” The man, Dean, grins, and it’s unfairly dazzling. He sees why his carhops all fall prey to Dean’s charm. “I’m Sam’s brother.”

The revelation should probably be more surprising than it is, but Castiel’s mind is still sluggishly trying to get itself in gear. “Oh. So…is there a problem, then?” Blunt, but Castiel never was fond of small talk.

Dean laughs again. “Nah, man. Like I said, I just wanted to apologize. First time I came up here, I was drunk and I thought it’d be funny to mess with one of the workers.”

Castiel scowls at that, and Dean has the decency to look sheepish. “Yeah, Sam already told me it was a dick move. But look,” he holds up his hands in a peaceful gesture. “I worked fast-food from the time I turned sixteen all the way through college. I know it sucks. Believe it or not, I was hoping you’d get a kick out of me, rather than hate my guts. It was stupid, I know. I should have known better. I know my plan kinda backfired, but hey, I thought I’d end up annoying some bratty little high-schooler at best. I didn’t think I was gonna end up talking to a guy who sounds like he should be operating a phone-sex hotline.”

Castiel’s face turns bright red and he sputters for breath, inhaling so sharply that it sends him into a coughing fit. “Sorry,” he croaks, thirty seconds later.

Dean winces, and gives him a sympathetic look. “Oh, hey, so, yeah… Um…” Now it’s his turn to fumble for words, and he turns and digs for something in his car. “I actually wanted to bring you this.” When he faces Castiel again, he’s holding a Styrofoam cup in his hand, and is determinedly avoiding eye contact. “It’s not poisoned or anything, but I get it if you don’t want it. Just...you sounded kind of sick, and I wanted to give this ah, this peace offering? Kind of? My aunt owns a restaurant, and she makes really good tea—not that I drink tea, but I’ve heard it’s good—anyway, it might help your throat?” He holds the cup out towards Castiel.

For what feels like an eternity, all Castiel can do is stand there and stare. He must stand there long enough to send the wrong impression, because Dean shifts uncomfortably and starts to lower his arm. “I mean, I get it. Yeah. You probably think I’m creepy or weird, or whatever. I’ll just, uh, I’ll just leave.”

“Wait.” He reaches out and gingerly takes the cup, clutching it to his chest in both hands. He has to admit, the warmth from the hot tea feels good on his hands. “Thank you,” he mumbles, gluing his eyes to the ground. The tea actually does help, he discovers, and it has good flavor, too—a mix of ginger and lemon, and a sweetness that’s probably honey.

“Sooo…are we cool?” Castiel looks up to see Dean standing very casually, with his hands shoved into his jacket pocket, doing a very bad job of hiding the hopeful look in his eyes.

Castiel can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips. He tries to hide it with the cup. “I don’t know. You did cause me an awful lot of trouble.”

Dean’s face falls. “Oh, yeah, that’s totally fine, I get it.”

“You might have to buy me dinner to make up for it.”

Just like that, the gleam is back in Dean’s eyes. “I think I can do that.”

Naturally, the moment is ruined when Charlie calls out to them from three stalls down. “Hey, boss, hate to break it up, but if you’re done flirting with your boyfriend, we could kind of use you inside! I don’t know if you noticed, but the lot is kind of full.”

Both of them react instantly, stammering out excuses and trying not to appear as visibly embarrassed as they are. Dean clears his throat and Castiel straightens his posture, as if they were merely discussing official business. “Right, well, um…” Dean gestures towards his car and moves like he’s going to get back in. “I’ll…I’ll see you around, right?”

Castiel’s smile widens, and reaches inside his pocket to pull out a pen. Swiftly, before he loses his courage, he grabs Dean’s hand and scribbles his number. “I’m off at two tomorrow. Don’t worry, we’ll go somewhere that has pie.”

“Awesome. And hey, just a tip,” he adds with a cheeky grin. “Don’t put so much salt on the fries, yeah? Your attitude is more than enough salt.”

Sometimes his job isn’t so bad, after all. He just hates that his employees were right, and he’s never going to live it down.

#destiel #deancas #destiel fic #deancas fic #deancas fanfic #Supernatural #Mandy's writing #October Destiel AU Challenge #it's still october 2nd where I live so ha I made it #this one got away from me and ended up being over 3k words lmao I suck #This one is near and dear to my heart because I hate my job with a burning passion #and they're training me to be a manager and I am not happy :)#so I wrote Cas suffering at my job to make me feel better #except this has a happy ending #the ending is rushed but eh I like it #I might actually have to redo this one and make it a longer fic in the future because it's kind of cute

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eirlithad · 7 years

Text

Calling on Song//Chapter Thirty-Two

Rating: M (subject to change)

Relationship: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan

Summary: Kasde Rhiannon Trevelyan was promised to the Chantry. Fate found her at the Conclave. The Maker saw her through it. As the world falls down around her, she decides to take a stand. With a little determination, and a fair amount of snark, she just might make a difference.

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Chapter Thirty-Two: Stopgap

Dorian was not content to let sleeping mabari lie. For the next week, he continued to sneak Cullen’s name into every conversation he could manage. He did so casually at first, but as time went on, he abandoned all pretense and tact, dropping hints with all the subtlety and grace of an irritable, pregnant druffalo. To make matters worse, Bull began casting knowing, one-eyed glances in Kasde’s direction.

The Herald’s face rapidly assumed a permanent, rosy shade. Twice, Dorian’s probing caused her to slip. One such incident sent her sprawling into a nearby creek with a mouthful of blasphemy, and she sulked soggily off toward camp.

Even during their evening meals, he was relentless. What started out as friendly banter inevitably veered off course and careened into discussions of the Commander’s breeding and suggestive innuendos about trebuchet calibrations. After successfully sloshing hot stew on herself half a dozen times, Kasde stopped eating with them entirely, instead taking her share and stomping off into the dark.

One such night, Bull took a seat beside her at the edge of the campfire’s light. He smiled cheerily, saying nothing, and took a long drink from his oversized mug. Kasde was no fool; she knew precisely what he was up to, and steeled herself. She would give him nothing.

“How ya doin’, boss?” he said at last.

Kasde twirled her blade through her fingers, glaring at the darkness. “Don’t go there, Bull.”

“Oh, come on.” The large Qunari budged her playfully with his elbow. “You wanna talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” she muttered. “Really, Bull, I appreciate it, but I’m fine.”

He leered at her from the corner of his eye. “That’s crap if I ever heard it. Something’s bothering you. Doesn’t take genius to figure that out.”

“Don’t,” Kasde said, and flipped her dagger, pointing the tip of the blade in his direction. Without another word, her fingers resumed their previous, twisting dance.

Bull grunted absently, but was otherwise silent for a time. After taking another long drink, he nodded at her weapon. “Nervous habit?”

Her breath hitched; her fingers stilled. “No.” She sheathed the blade with an angry jerk of her arm.

“Mmm-hmm. And that chanting thing you do in a fight? Maker guide me, and all that crap. That’s not a habit either, is it?”

Kasde glared at him. “Are you trying to piss me off?” she growled.

“I think the ‘Vint has that part covered, boss.” Bull sighed, shaking his horned head. “I’m not trying to rag on you, but something’s eating you, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.”

“Did it ever occur to you that it’s none of your business?”

“Hey, I’m stickin’ my neck out, same as you,” he rumbled. “Maybe not as far, but still. If you’ve got some kind of hang up that could get me or one of my boys killed, I think I have a right to know.” He shrugged. “Besides, who knows? Maybe I could give you some advice.”

Kasde shoved off her perch and scowled down at him. “Why not?” she hissed. “Spat out of the Fade, blamed for everyone else’s problems... I’m a walking sacrilege. May as well convert to the Qun while I’m at it.”

The Qunari’s frown deepened measurably. While he said nothing, it was evident a line had been crossed.

She dropped her gaze. “I’m sorry, Bull. That was unworthy of me.”

He grunted quietly, and patted the ground beside him, saying, “Take a seat, and have a drink. I think we need to have a good, long talk.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Wasn’t asking, boss.”

Shamefaced, Kasde dropped to his side, tucking her knees under her chin. She had been out of sorts for days, throwing herself into danger to keep from going mad. Dorian’s incessant heckling had only made matters worse. Sitting still – even for just a moment – made her shoulder blades itch, and a looming, brassed off Qunari did little to slow her racing mind.

Once she was settled, Bull pressed his mug into her much smaller hands. “So,” he started, “you talk, I listen. Sound good?”

“Not really sure where I should start,” she mumbled.

“Skip the family crap,” he suggested. “What’s bothering you right now?”

“You mean besides this conversation?”

Bull hummed thoughtfully. “Deflecting with humor. It’s a good tactic, but I’ve seen better.” Leaning down so that his one eye was level with the pair of hers, he whispered, “Ben-hassrath, remember?”

Kasde grumbled unhappily, tracing the lip of the mug with the edge of a fingernail. Bull sighed, long and hard; the sound of someone refusing to let go.

“It’s not something I want to talk about, Bull,” she said finally. “Please, just…respect that? I’m dealing with it. In my own way, I guess.”

“Does this have anything to do with Cullen?”

She made a demented face.

“Come on, boss,” Bull chuckled. “It’s not like it’s hard to see.”

“Funny, coming from the guy with one eye.” She shook her head, swirling what remained of Bull’s drink around the sides of the mug. “It’s…complicated.”

“Nothing’s that complicated. Just talk to him.”

Kasde sighed and placed the untouched drink between them. “It’s not so simple,” she muttered. “What’s bothering me? He doesn’t remember any of it.”

“No shit?” The Qunari seemed genuinely surprised. “Does this have anything to do with what happened in Redcliffe?”

She scoffed, “You could say that.”

“Let me guess: shit went down, and he gave himself up so you could escape. Sound about right?”

“In a manner of speaking, yeah,” she replied leerily. It took a great deal to school her expression, but she managed. “Mind telling me how you know that?”

Bull’s laughter boomed in the still night, provoking a rather peevish “Do shut up!” from the direction of Dorian’s tent. Through the open flaps, Kasde saw the mage flop back onto his bedroll, spewing a litany of Tevene curses as he promptly mashed his pillow over his ears.

Once Dorian had quieted, Bull eased back into the conversation. “Cullen seems like the self-sacrificing type. That’s all.”

“Oh, that’s all, hmm?”

“Well, that,” Bull mused, retrieving his drink, “and you’ve got the look. Every time the ‘Vint drops his name, like some asshole just kicked your puppy. You know the one.”

“I don’t have a puppy, Bull,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow in her ears.

“Yeah, but he’s got the eyes for it.” With another heavy sigh, he added, “Look, boss, I don’t know what went on in that freaky, twisted future you wound up in. Frankly, just thinking about it creeps me out.”

Kasde grunted.

“But what I do know is that none of it really happened. World’s still here, demon-spitting hole in the sky and everything that comes with it. Whatever you saw, you need to let it go.”

“Easier said than done.”

“If you keep living like we’re all already dead, there’s not much point in the Inquisition, is there?” Bull growled. “I brought my boys on because I saw fight in you. I saw someone who could change things – make people listen.”

The Herald chuckled darkly. “Maybe your eyesight’s off.” She was beginning to regret refusing that drink.

Bull shook his head. “See, I don’t buy that crap,” he said. “You can beat yourself down into the dirt, but you’re not the kind to stay there and wallow in it. I can’t help you up; that’s for you to do. But I can promise you it won’t go down the way you saw.”

“How do you know?” Kasde sulked, lowering her chin behind the cover of her arms.

“You won’t let it.” He clapped her across the back with a meaty hand and ambled to his feet. With a knowing grin, he winked down at her – or perhaps blinked. The lack of a second eye made it difficult to tell. “Oh,” he perked up, “almost forgot. Harding dropped this off.”

A pale fold of parchment fluttered into the Herald’s lap.

“Hope you like bogs, boss.”

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#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #inquisitor trevelyan #devout trevelyan #CallingOnSong

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