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luveline · 9 months

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hurt/comfort for hotch

maybe he’s been having a hard couple of days at work and says something rude to reader, that he doesn’t mean, he’s just frustrated. then they talk it outttt<3

ty for requesting ♡ fem!reader, 1k

"Did you get wholemeal bread for Jack's lunch?" Aaron asks.

You wince where you're sitting at the table, closing the book you're reading over your fingers. "No. I knew I forgot something, I just couldn't remember what," you lament. You'll have to get some before the grocery store closes at nine.

You check your watch, a little silver thing that cost too much of Aaron's money, and you're so focused on telling time you almost miss his biting remark.

"It's fine," he says bitterly. "I'll get it in the morning. I shouldn't have asked you."

Your first instinct is to react in a similar fashion. "Ah, but you ask so little of me."

He flinches at your tone. You hate to see it, and regret what you've said immediately, but it's not as if he were being particularly kind himself. A weird, stringy silence pulls between you, a tightrope waiting to buckle. The first to walk will be the first to fall; with the mood he's in, he'll bite. Tonight, you're miffed enough to bite back.

Pissed, you stand up, grabbing your coat where it's draped across the table.

Aaron holds out a hand. "Wait a second."

"I don't want a fight," you say honestly. "It doesn't matter. I'll go get bread and we can forget about it."

"I don't want to forget about it. I'm not being fair."

You let your arms hang, coat in a ball against your thighs. "Aaron…"

"It wasn't fair. Sorry."

It obviously wasn't fair. Everyone forgets things no matter how hard they try, but you recognise that Aaron just got back from a week away. He's stressed, exhausted, and things need to feel normal for him. He asked you for something and you let him down.

"It's a loaf of bread, Aaron," you murmur, defeated. "I didn't mean to forget."

"I know." He rubs his brows, melting the last of your defences as he hangs his head.

To love someone, you have to give in. There are times where you feel hurt and you have to forgive him before you're strictly ready to do so, because he's his own worst enemy in times like this. Though it's harder now, because you're not used to his derision. Disapproval, silent annoyance, sure.

You put your coat down.

"Since when are you sarcastic?" you ask gently, stepping into his space. You tilt your head a touch to the side, braceleting the crook of his elbow in a loving hand.

His eyes crease at the corners, short wrinkles stark, shadows beneath them. "I haven't been sleeping well, away from you both," he says.

You trace the surface of his rough cheek with your eyes before bringing a tentative hand to it, thumb catching against stubble as you smooth it toward his ear. He doesn't smell like anything he usually carries, no aftershave or cologne nor laundry detergent, and the shirt he wears isn't sharply collared. It's safe to say he hadn't planned to be away that long, and even though he's home, he's not home yet in his head. You don't know how else to prove it, stroking his face, cheek in your palm, your other hand climbing his arm to rest over the hill of his pec. His heart capers under your touch.

"I didn't mean it," he says.

"I know," you say. Aaron often makes you feel small in the best way, his height, his naturally protective instincts, he stands by your side and you trust him to take care of you. You don't have to look out for yourself when he's in arm's reach. You aren't tall, aren't half as imposing, but you can try to offer him the same comfort.

"You just need to relax. I get that it's not as easy to leave your work at the door as you want, but you… it's hard for me too. I need your help," you say.

He closes his eyes.

"Sorry," you say softly. "For forgetting. And for being sore about it. You don't put too much on me."

"No, I do. You're right, I ask for a lot."

"I have a lot to give, Hotchner," you murmur.

He nods and you really do forgive him, then. You know he's only tired. You don't have to take it personally.

"Would you hug me?" you ask.

Take care of him by letting him take care of you; he's visibly and heartbreakingly relieved to be asked, wrapping his arms around you. You love the way he hugs no matter how he's feeling, like you're something that needs a gentle hand.

"Don't hug me too long, Paula's closes in twenty minutes."

His fingers spread over the small of your back. "It doesn't even matter. Jack asked me for wholemeal bread and turkey and I wanted to get something right for once."

"With mustard?" you ask.

"He's a weird kid sometimes," Aaron says. He gets a bit of pep back, giving you a sway from one side to the other. "I'll get the bread in the morning, and I won't act like an ungrateful idiot when I do."

"I don't think ungrateful is the right word."

"But idiot's fine?" Aaron asks, his laugh warming your cheek. He kisses it twice in succession, hands roving up, and up, before lifting his head to tuck you neatly beneath his chin. "It's right."

"What do you want me to say?" you ask coyly.

"Alright," he says with a laugh, his chuckle vibrating in your arms where you've curled them behind his neck.

"You're not an idiot–"

"No, because now I know you don't mean it," he says. Finally, some light in his tone, that playful drawl that demarcates Hotchner-style flirtation.

"You're not!" you say, leaning back enough to kiss the dip under his jaw. "You're just moody," you mumble into his skin.

"And you're too good to me."

"No, I'm not," you say. "You're better than you think."

He pats your back gently. "You're biassed, honey."

You're super biassed. "Nope. Totally impartial."

#aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x you #aaron hotchner x y/n #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fic #aaron hotchner blurb #aaron hotchner drabble #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds #hotch x reader #hotch #hotch x you #hotch blurb #hotch drabble

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jomiddlemarch · 10 days

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The Philosophy Inherent in Buttered Toast

Within a week of Shirley’s departure, Susan found that she could not fall asleep, no matter how much she exhausted herself; the windowpanes had never sparkled brilliantly so in the morning sunlight. She’d dare Miss Cornelia Bryant herself to find the smallest speck on the kitchen floor. She concocted impossible delicacies to try and tempt Mrs. Doctor, muttering under her breath about the various culinary restrictions and how she’d like to see anyone make a decent pie with the miserly amount of lard she was allotted, and she starched the Doctor’s collars so thoroughly he’d begged her to stop as he couldn’t turn his head when he drove out to see his patients, especially not that sharp curve onto the road over to the Lower Glen. Work, hard work that left her with a sore back and aching knees and hands too rough to get a pair of gloves onto for Sunday service, had always been a panacea, just as Mrs. Doctor had her garden and Mrs. Reverend had her needlework.

Once Shirley left, after a brief kiss on her cheek and a little squeeze of her hand as she gave him a neatly tied up box lunch for the train, the week’s sugar ration used up in his favorite sweets, she turned her hand to the plow as it were and expected to find some respite. Instead she found herself lying in her narrow bed, a stripe of moonlight across the foot, her eyes burning, wide open. Her body longed for rest but her mind, her heart, her very soul itself would not allow it, as un-Christian a thought as that might be. She’d drift off in snatches in the early morning, wake with the fog of dreams, a confusion dispelled by the splash of water in the basin and the cold cloth scrubbed across her face. She felt every one of her years like a millstone and if she hadn’t already been plain Susan Baker since she’d outgrown the very little prettiness she’d had a child, someone, likely that outspoken Mary Vance, would have remarked that old Susan Baker looked quite poorly.

She began by reciting psalms to herself and then all her favorite hymns but it made no difference. Unlike Mrs. Doctor, she took no delight in watching the moon wax and wane and thought only a man could have come up with the constellations, the greatest waste of time she could think of and nothing but a lot of foolish nonsense. She took to drinking her tea as strong as she could steep it, nearly black. Coffee was too dear to waste and had to be saved for the Doctor. If he nodded off over his surgery, Susan Baker would be the one responsible for the poor soul under his knife’s untimely passing. She was comforted when Shirley enclosed a brief note addressed to Mother Susan in the letter he’d sent to his parents and sisters, but the relief of knowing him safe didn’t see her dozing in her rocking chair, let alone tucked up snug in her bed.

She remembered something Walter had once said, that there was poetry in the most ordinary things, how he’d gone on and on about a perfectly buttered piece of her toast, sliced just the right thickness, the butter spread smooth and even to the brown crust. She was known for her bread, that was common knowledge in Glen St. Mary, whether it was a white loaf or wholemeal, but she’d thought if she hadn’t loved Walter since he was a tot, she would have given a mighty sniff at his folderol. Now, though, she thought perhaps making a list of all the ordinary things that could be what Walter had called the marvelous quotidian before explaining his fancy words, perhaps making a list might take the place of counting the sheep that would never be sheared nor help her nod off.

To begin with, there was Walter’s buttered toast.

The hiss the iron made as she flicked a drop of water on it to test its heat.

The first even row of knots she threw on her needles beginning another sock in the ugly drab worsted that was military standard.

The last swipe of the cloth when she was polishing the good silver.

The greedy sound the Doctor made as he ate his slice of pie, one she would have scolded the children for making.

Winding the clocks.

Rilla’s little frown as she tried to feed her war-baby and got mashed peas all over the front of her clean white shirtwaist, a dab on her cheek.

Slipping on galoshes when it was a rainy morning.

The crinkle of the pages as she read her Bible chapter before bed.

Beans, bobbing about in the pot.

Una Meredith asking for help with her darning, her blue eyes round as buttons as she said Please, Miss Baker, the only one of the Meredith children to use a title for her.

Throwing out slops when the bucket was full.

Spools of thread lined up in her sewing basket.

Spoons, nestled tight against each other in their drawer.

The milk folding around itself in her chipped teacup like the sheets on the line in the wind.

Shirley’s way of writing the letter S, the same in her name as his own.

Fat blueberries in a bowl, waiting to be made into jam.

She began each night with Walter’s toast. Most nights, she fell asleep between the bean pottage and the slops arcing out onto the dirt. When it had been several days since they’d heard from Shirley or the papers were black with battles and casualty lists, the milk in the tea took the shape of Shirley’s cursive S. When there were letters from all three Blythe boys and the Meredith ones as well, the knitting needles fell from her hands, stitches most certainly dropped.

The night they’d learned about Courcelette, she’d counted each one of the blueberries in the bowl and wept.

And slept.

With many thanks to @batrachised who posted this summary of fake fic with this same title: Susan and Walter have a conversation about the poetry of everyday things. Susan still can't quite understand that poetry nonsense, but after Walter waxes eloquent about her perfectly ensembled toast that has just the right amount of butter scraped on top, she decides that surely a little of it is harmless enough - walter is Mrs. Doctor Dear's son, after all.

I hope my "borrowing" did the initial post justice! @gogandmagog I would have shared this today anyway, but I did love your encouragement post.

#anne of green gables #angst #susan baker #walter blythe #insomnia #the poetry of everyday things #domestic #canon compliant #shirley blythe #miss cornelia bryant #gilbert's love of pie #I hope everyone who wanted to see this is satisfied!#aogg

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morethansalad · 2 months

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British National Wholemeal Loaf (Vegan)

#vegan #appetizer #british cuisine #vintage #bread #diy #yeast #treacle #whole wheat #sea salt

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foodcreation101 · 11 days

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Bread Pudding with Wholemeal Loaf Bread 🍞🌾🍫

#food #food photography #food diary #dessert #baking #bakeofthday #Bread Pudding #Bread #Dark Chocolate #Dark Chocolate Chips #Biscoff #Wholemeal #Wholemeal Bread

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oddman-the-oldman · 3 months

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Rye Bread 2.0

Rye is a very low gluten grain, but it does have some. As the result pure Rye is challenging to get to raise and build a proper sponge. Most recipes call for Sourdough fermentation in an attempt to fix the problem. A local bakery uses the same process on a low gluten wheat to remove even more of the gluten from their breads. The knowledge has not been lost on me.

Most bakers in the USA add wheat to their Rye to build a sponge. Being allergic to wheat rules that out for me and I need a traditional northern European recipe to improve the problem. I've been reading some research on how people who depend on 100% over come the problem, Most of the recipes available to me leave out a critical step.

The scald the flower with +/- boiling water when they mix the dough.

Above is the loaf we made last night. Another Rye bread tradition is to allow it to rest for about a day or two after baking so it can dry just a little before you cut into it.

#oddman-the-oldman #cooking with oddman

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not-available-for-comment · 1 month

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Right so I’m unreasonably proud of myself. I was experimenting with making buckwheat almond bread and somewhat accidentally produced a very delicious gluten free wholemeal soda bread. I was toying with this as a way of developing a somewhat diabetic friendly bread but honestly this is good eating regardless.

Note that I was using stone ground buckwheat, if yours is more refined you may need to tweak the liquid a bit.

Buckwheat Almond Soda Bread

2.5 cups buckwheat

0.5 cups almond flour

1 ts baking soda

1 ts baking powder

1/2 Tb salt

1.25 cups whole milk buttermilk

0.5 cups water

2 Tb sunflower seeds to top (optional)

Sift together dry ingredients and whisk to combine if necessary. Stir in water and buttermilk. The batter should be thick but slightly loose. Scrape into a buttered 9x5 loaf pan. Top with sunflower seeds if using. Bake ~35-40 minutes at 375F. Let sit 10 minutes in pan before turning out to cool on a wire rack. Let cool completely before slicing.

Delicious with butter, jam, cheese, cold cuts and pickles, fried egg…

#gluten free #low carb #recipes #rocky rambles #soda bread

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monstersandmaw · 1 year

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Hiii unrelated question but I seen you made a cake and was very curious if you made homemade bread? I've been wanting to try to make some and was looking for some good recipes if you have one?

Hi! I do make bread - made some the other day as it happens!

My standard recipe is this (sorry for metric measurements!!)

Ingredients:

500g bread flour (the one linked above is half wholemeal and half strong white flour, but any bread flour should work for this)

1 sachet of instant yeast

1 tsp salt

3 table spoons olive oil

about 300ml warm water (depends on how dry/wet mix is)

Method:

Combine dry ingredients in a bowl, keeping the salt and the yeast on separate sides (so you don’t kill the yeast with the salt)

Add olive oil

Slowly pour in the water and mix until it’s all combined smoothly but not sticky. If it doesn’t come together, add a splash more water, if it’s too sticky, add more flour

Knead for at least 5mins on a lightly floured surface until it’s smooth and kind of stretchy (you should knead longer but I’m lazy and this works fine for me)

Leave in a lightly oiled bowl (so it doesn’t stick as it rises), covered with a tea towel or something, in a warm place for about an hour until it’s doubled in size.

After that, gently knock the air out of it (press it back down into the bowl with a fist), knead it a little bit again and shape it into a loaf shape on a sheet of baking paper (so it doesn’t stick to the tray)

Put it on a tray to prove again for another 30mins - 1hr (depending on how warm the environment is) and then heat the oven to 200°C

After it’s risen decently again, put it in the oven for about 30mins (may need more) until it’s golden brown and sounds hollow when you tap the base.

Place on a wire rack to cool off a bit before you tuck in

Hope that makes sense and that I wrote it down right :)!! It’s the way my mum taught me.

#bread #food #baking #bread recipe #non monster post #anon ask

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bookwormscififan · 13 days

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Hybrids and Humans, Chapter 1

Don't Forget to Lock the Doors

Read on AO3!

A/N: I may have been inadvertently convinced by @iamvegorott to start a fox Mad AU...

Everyone knew the stories. A genetics lab in a remote part of the country had a mishap with some experiments, flooding the surrounding town with a pungent grey mist that had some… strange effects on the citizens.

The policy against hats in schools was abolished when students began turning up with augmentations to their appearance, initially just animal ears among their hair, then devolving into tails and claws. Panic consumed the town, families breaking apart from differences in breed, and eventually a nation-wide quarantine was placed over the state to keep people away from these new hybrids.

That was over fifty years ago. The children affected had since grown up and had their own children, and slowly the segregation of the town fell through. The hybrids could live their lives, crossing state lines and being themselves, on the condition none of them ever experimented with genetic sciences again.

Mare whistled as he washed his hands, using the back of his wrist to nudge his glasses further up his nose. The afternoon sun shone through the kitchen window, casting everything in a soft orange glow, and Mare smiled as he thought about the fresh batch of bread he’d baked for himself and his brother.

Phantom enjoyed texture in his meals, preferring Mare’s poppyseed sourdough loaves over the traditional wholemeal bread, so Mare always made sure to bake him a loaf of sourdough. When Phantom got home from his outing, he’d probably make Mare some sweets as a token of gratitude, and the thought made Mare smile more.

Phantom wouldn’t be home for a few more days. He was out on a tour to find somewhere new for them to live, having grown tired of their small house at the edge of town facing the forest.

“Don’t forget to lock up,” Phantom had reminded Mare as he left, giving a pointed look at the back door, silently warning Mare of the hybrids that had been rumoured to live in the forest. The dangerous ones that people said were unafraid of letting their animal instincts take control.

Drying his hands, Mare calmly walked through the house to lock up, flicking the latch on the back door with a roll of his eyes. He was sure he could handle a rabid stranger showing up at his door, what with his certain “gifts”.

He was woken in the middle of the night by something scratching at the back door, the sound of nails against the wood making him sit upright. A cold chill had set in when night fell, causing Mare to stuff blankets and towels into every small gap in the walls and windows to keep the warmth inside, and curiosity got the better of him at the scratching on the door.

Climbing out of bed and tugging a blanket around his shoulders, Mare slowly crept down the stairs to the back door, peeping through the window to gauge what was there, but the dark covered everything. All he could see was a dark shape picking around the doorknob as if trying to dislodge it.

“It could just be a person,” Mare told himself as he wrapped his fingers around the doorknob, turning it and slowly opening the door.

A dark blur dashed past him before he’d gotten the door fully open, making a beeline for the smouldering fire and curling up close to it in attempts to get warm. After a couple blinks, Mare closed the door and turned around, gingerly heading toward the figure by the fire.

“Hello,” he ventured, making the shape out to seem human. Wrapped in a thick cloak, it was difficult to tell anything concrete, but the hands splayed out before the embers gave him a good clue. “It’s usually more polite to ask to be let inside before running in—”

“Sorry.” The voice was faint, weak, but certainly sounded human – not that Mare knew if the hybrids could speak – and the soft tone in the voice made Mare want to wrap his arms around this intruder and never let go.

“Well, I don’t really mind, honestly. I could rekindle this fire so you have more warmth, and you can stay the night,” Mare suggested, slowly moving to give his blanket to his guest. “My name is Mare, by the way. My twin isn’t here at the moment. He’s house hunting.”

The figure turned to look at Mare, hood falling from his head as he lifted it, and Mare started at the sight of two fuzzy fox ears sitting among the mop of brown hair. In the dim light of the dying fire, Mare could make out a pale face sprinkled with freckles and glossy eyes that seemed to reflect the orange of the embers.

“They call me Mad.”

Mare had never imagined coming face to face with one of the fabled hybrid humans before, but now he had a fox hybrid in his house, looking at him with grateful eyes, and he felt like his heart was going to pound out of his chest.

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

@brokentimewatch @dungeon-dragons-dragons @rattyboyisemo

#writing #fanfiction #nwtb fanfiction #madmare #fox Mad AU #I am not complaining because honestly Mad with little fox ears is a great visual #i wish my drawing skills were good enough to draw how Mad looks at the end there

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nitewrighter · 1 year

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Since the new John Wick movie is coming out could we have a continuation of the Gency Assassin AU? *Slides a homemade loaf of wholemeal bread over as an offering*

...And there were TWO BEDS.

Previous Chapters: 1, 2

---

It wasn't clear how old the Hanamura Continental was, exactly. The exterior architecture certainly took notes from the Meiji Era, but the interior seemed to be a carefully constructed time warp through several different centuries. The front entrance had all the grace and theatrics and classically familiar elements of entering a grand Edo period fantasy, though now vaunted to spectacle with higher ceilings and a near cathedral-like path to the main desk, the desk itself had those same Meiji sensibilities as the exterior of the hotel, with the concierge backlit by a glowing yellow screen. Beyond that the lounge hurled itself into the 20th century excess, and beyond that, Genji knew, there was a courtyard that cultivated many of the traditional Japanese gardening techniques and turned them into a twisting labyrinth of geometric futurism, which spiraled off into three buildings that made up the continental's main bodies of suites.

Despite all the grandeur, or perhaps because of all the grandeur, Genji felt more than a bit embarrassed at bringing Mercy through its doors. Here she was working in that cramped little office in a grim heap of brick of a building, thanklessly patching up assassins and enforcers and killers who all languished in the luxurious leather chairs of these hotels. She showed no reaction to the rich dark wood, to the scent of Yamazaki whisky on the air, save for the same hard mask she had assumed since arriving in Hanamura. She had barely slept on the flight, her head lolling forward, or onto his shoulder for a few minutes at a time before rousing herself with a short sharp intake of breath. She was used to blood—she was born into this life, same as him, even if she served it from the margins---but excommunicado was another thing entirely. She clearly resented the fact that she was only being used as a tool, the same as all those damnable gold coins, to pull him back into whatever politick the High Table was pulling, and he probably would have been more insulted on her behalf as well if he wasn't currently dreading the eyes of every hotel guest on them as they walked through the lobby.

They both approached the concierge's desk and a woman with her black hair in a tight bun glanced up at Genji from behind delicate gold-wireframe glasses. Her eyes flicked up at him, first with a familiar, yet diplomatic warmth, then they sharply flicked to Mercy, then darted right back to him with a clear 'Are you sure this is wise' skepticism that, given her stoicism, read very clearly as 'This is the dumbest thing you could possibly do and when your actions get us all killed please know that I will haunt you in this life and the next.'

"Welcome to the Hanamura Continental, Mr. Shimada," she said, splaying her hands gracefully on the desk in front of her.

"It's good to see you again, Asa, you look well," said Genji.

Her jaw only tightened as her lips pressed together in a not-really smile. "I'm afraid your... companion does not have the same membership plan with us as you do," she said.

"But at the very least, no business can be conducted on hotel grounds, is that true?" Genji asked.

"You are correct," said Asa.

"Well, seeing as that's settled, I would like to speak to management," said Genji.

Her gaze seemed to sharpen even more, but her mouth quirked slightly at the audacity of the request.

"I see," said Asa, "It has been quite some time, hasn't it?"

"And if you don't have family, what do you have?" Genji threw the words out in what was a clear attempt to diffuse the situation but he may as well have thrown them at a wall.

"I'll see if he's available," she said, picking up the phone at the desk.

She turned her shoulder to him, covered her mouth in a gesture that seemed demure but was clearly meant to keep him from reading her lips, and spoke inaudibly into the phone. Genji wasn't even sure if she was speaking loudly enough for the sound to even go through.

Mercy touched his arm and he started slightly. She gave a glance over her shoulder at a woman and two men in suits at a small coffee table across the lobby. The woman was slouched on a couch, whisky gripped at the rim of the glass, clawlike in perfect red manicured nails that matched perfect red lipstick. Her white hair stood out starkly in the low warm lights of the hotel. Genji had more or less shrugged off how much everyone was staring at him since he didn't want Asa to smell the fear on him, but he picked up immediately on what Mercy was indicating--those suits indicated higher rollers. Her bounty was going up, enough to attract the attention of those who held out for bigger challenges and bigger prizes.

"If you'll follow me, sir," Asa spoke up and Genji glanced back at her immediately. She moved out from behind the desk.

"She comes too," said Genji, indicating Mercy with a hand.

Asa gave him a side-eye that seemed capable of reducing a man to nothing but a smoldering pile of cinders, but he met her gaze with a completely straight face, not stony or emotionless, but level, unrelenting. It frightened Mercy, not knowing what he was capable of, because she certainly knew that, but being reminded of just how vulnerable he permitted himself to be with her.

"...fine," Asa said crisply, before turning her shoulder and beginning to walk.

They crossed through the lounge, Mercy keeping her eyes straight forward and ignoring the sensation of being in a forest at night where you can feel eyes peering out at you from all the dark between trees. They walked out into the cold night air of the courtyard, then took a path that wound into the largest of the three builidngs. From here, they entered an elevator, and Asa drew a keycard from an interior pocket of her jacket and entered it into a card slot below the elevator buttons. The elevator doors closed and the elevator rose, steadily.

Asa gave a glance over her shoulder to Mercy.

"...I don't doubt your being declared excommunicado was unjust," she said, turning away from Mercy, "But you understand, we have our own people to protect. Our own standards to uphold."

"I understand," Mercy said.

"How far are you willing to take this?" Asa kept her eyes fixed on the elevator doors.

Genji opened his mouth.

"Not you," said Asa, "Her. How far is she willing to take this?"

"As far as it takes to get him free again," Mercy said.

To her credit, Asa didn't turn around for another one of her withering looks, but her shoulders visibly stiffened. "You're taking the long way, then," she said, as the elevator doors opened. She gestured through the doors and they exited out, back out into the cool night air, into a rooftop garden.

A man with his graying hair tied half-back and a neatly trimmed beard sat languidly in a low-backed chair. He regarded them not with the contempt Asa had, but rather a steady exhaustion. Asa took her place just behind him at his right hand, her hands clasped together in front of herself primly.

"Brother," said Hanzo.

"We'd like to thank you for your hospitality," Genji bowed and Mercy quickly followed the gesture.

"You realize by bringing her here, you could render the hotel, and by extension, everything our father built, condemned," Hanzo said, not even looking at Mercy.

Everything that the High Table didn't take from him already, Genji thought, but held his tongue. "I am aware. Which is why I humbly request your support in opening a dialogue with the High Table on Angela's behalf."

Asa couldn't resist a short at this, but Hanzo remained unfazed.

"You got out," he said, his eyes not breaking from Genji's.

"I did," said Genji.

"And did it occur to you that this is precisely the course of action to make you play right into their hands? To not only bring you back into this life, but make you completely beholden to them because of the threat of consequences of your current actions?"

"That's what I said," Mercy huffed and Hanzo finally glanced toward her.

"And am I to believe you have done nothing to warrant the High Table's attention?"

Mercy's lips thinned as she stared Hanzo down.

"I'm a doctor," her voice was steady, "I'm beholden to more than just a bunch of Marquises throwing gold coins around."

Genji perked up at this and his head swung over at Angela.

"...so you have been flouting their authority," Hanzo's eyes narrowed.

"I wouldn't call saving lives flouting authority."

"It is when our business is lives. Our currency is lives."

Mercy leaned forward, putting both her hands on the table between them. "Respectfully speaking, manager, I operated with as much discretion and flexibility as anyone in our business operates with. We both know that this isn't about me, so I hardly see the point in needling me about whose arterial bleeding I stitched up in the minutes before a contract went into effect, or whoever the Bratva put on my operating table and told me not to ask questions."

Hanzo's jaw visibly tightened and he looked past her to look at Genji. Genji's posture had visibly tensed to rail-stiffness behind her, eyes wide and face pale, before that short look from Hanzo prompted him to furrow his brow and fold his arms in an attempt to assume a more confident position in support of Mercy. He looked back at Mercy. She drew herself upright from the table, but a cold steadiness in her gaze told him that this was a matter of dignity and how much the High Table could take from a person just as much as it was a matter of life and death.

"Genji," he said, his eyes not focused on either of them, "Pursuing this not only means undoing all of your efforts to leave this life, it could mean losing everything. Things aren't fair here. Things have never been fair here. People like her die all the time as the High Table moves its pieces around. Knowing that, are you still willing to go forward?"

Genji looked at Mercy then. She didn't meet his eyes at first, but he stared long enough for her to finally turn her head to him. There was no pleading in her gaze, but there was a pinching at her mouth--regret for him? Regret at being the one thing that could drag him back into all this?

"I am," he replied.

Hanzo exhaled a long breath. "I'll be making a call, then. I suggest you both get some rest, while you can."

"Is my penthouse here still--?" Genji started.

"Don't push me," said Hanzo.

-----

"...they reopened," Genji said awkwardly, a towel around his waist. Blood ran pink with the shower water on his skin. It was one of the smaller wounds at his ribs. Mercy glanced up from a slip of paper, wet hair hanging limply around her face. The paper lamp beside her cast her in a yellow-ivory light. She was in a dark blue yukata herself--the hotel room came stocked with two. The standard hotel room. With two beds.

"Ach--" Mercy stood up and stepped over, bending to look at it, "Only you can fight your way through a subway with those stitches only for them to finally give up un a shower."

"What can I say? I'm lucky."

"Still, it's a lot better than before," she murmured, "I'll pull out the broken stitches, from there, just some gauze and tape should work."

She dug through her bag and Genji sat on the edge of the bed.

"The room service prices here are obscene, by the way," said Mercy, as Genji picked up the slip of paper she had been looking at. A menu.

"I'd say the yuzu crab is worth it. Besides, It's not like most of the guests here really pay for the services, anyway."

"...they pay for room service with lives?" Mercy glanced up from her bag.

Genji felt his ears burning. "No, just.. there are perks with seniority."

Which is bought with lives, he thought, but just awkwardly sat there, watching the pink down his side now slowly stain into his towel.

"Plus, there's a continental breakfast," he added with a dumb grin.

Mercy glanced up from her bag to give him an exhausted look.

"Too soon. Right." Genji clasped his hands together in his lap.

The bed squeaked slightly as she sat down next to him, pliers in hand and gauze and tape in the other. "Arm," she said, and he lifted his arm and drew in a sharp breath on the side with the reopened wound.

"...he shouldn't have talked about you like that," said Genji.

"I've learned to be careful about which things I take personally," said Mercy.

"I think you managed to scare him a little--ah!" Genji gritted his teeth as she pulled out a broken stitch.

"How much did he help you in getting out?" asked Mercy.

"Actually not that much. His being the manager of the Continental is more of a product of the High Table eating our family's empire than anything."

"Oh, there's an empire now," Mercy's eyebrows raised.

"There was an empire--ow!" Genji winced again as she pulled out another broken stitch, "But things caught up with us. Triad. Bratva. You know how it is."

"I do," said Mercy.

A pause passed between them, only punctuated by a short grunt from Genji as she pulled out the last broken stitch.

"Are you hungry?" Genji asked, glancing at the menu, as she was laying gauze over the wound.

"Not really. I probably should be, at this point, but..." she shrugged as she taped it down.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, each trying to gauge a lonely yet utterly blank and exhausted face.

"We make it out of this alive, I'm getting you the yuzu crab here," said Genji.

"We make it out of this alive, we'll find yuzu crab somewhere else," said Mercy.

Genji blinked and then smiled. "Right..."

She cleared her throat. "We should get some rest," she said, then stood up to go to the bathroom to wash her hands.

"Yes--" said Genji, before adding, "Thank you, for the--" he gestured at the gauze.

"It's probably bad that I don't even think about it anymore, huh?" said Mercy, with a slight smile.

"Probably," admitted Genji.

---

The room was dark.

Genji had his sheets pulled up to his chin.

He watched the shape of Mercy under the blankets of the other bed, steadily rising and falling with her breath. Her back was to him, her head just a faintly moonlit burst of silvery blonde. The arm's length gap between the beds seemed an unfathomable chasm. He hadn't even brought up the subject, and why would he? Two beds basically eliminated discussion altogether. They had slept together before, certainly, and it occurred to Genji that he had never really kept track of how many times they had done that. It was remarkable the sort of things this life trained you to keep track of and not keep track of. Genji had no idea how many he had killed for the High Table, but he could tell how many times he had fired a gun and how many shots he had left at any given time, regardless of the adrenaline rushing through his system. He felt a bit foolish dwelling on the thought--they had enough to worry about--Hanzo opening a dialogue with the High Table wasn't going to solve their problems, in all likelihood they were playing right into the High Table's hands, the fact that they had broken so many rules just to survive all this and come here would likely shackle them to this life forever and--and--

Genji stared at the ceiling. Exhaustion should be overtaking him. He knew this, his body knew this. Maybe it was the tension of being in Hanamura itself, the tension of being utterly dependent on Hanzo in this moment. He heard a creak and glanced up sharply to see Mercy sitting up in her own bed, sliding across the mattress, sitting on the edge, bare legs in the moonlight. He said nothing, but propped himself up on his elbows, staring at her. His bed creaked as Mercy slid under his comforter silently, nestling herself in the crook of his arm.

"I'm scared," was all she said, her own arm slowly snaking across his chest, careful of his injuries.

"Me too," he said quietly, adjusting his arm around her and leaning his cheek on her forehead.

But all the same he was able to close his eyes, now.

#Gency #John Wick AU

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