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daydream-believin · 3 years

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A Nice Rock For You, My Love (Please Accept)

Summary: Douxie would like to give the reader a special present.

Warnings: Swearing, stabbing, blood, swords and a knife.

Word Count: 3092 -ten pages 12 point times new roman, baby!

A/N: even i couldn’t predict where the hell this was headed. have fun with this. i sure did ;)

Douxie placed his newest rock onto the window ceil in his bedroom. He’d display it for a while, but add it to the collection jar with the others once it was replaced. Every morning he’s wake up, see the shiny stone on his window ceil, and think of his wonderful significant other.

Y/n was an odd duck, but an endearing one at that. They spent most of their time out in the local forest. Douxie wasn’t sure what they did out there for so long each day, but that didn’t matter as long as they’d come back to see him in the evenings. They’d return to civilization every night scruffy, smelly, and with twigs stuck in their hair, but he thought they looked lovely. Enchanting even. A little dirt never did hurt anyone.

He was going to have to get a new jar soon. Every week or so, Y/n would present him with a new one. A token of their affection for the wizard. He kept every single one. He kept one in the pocket of his favourite jacket. Y/n had found that particular one in the flat of a creek bed. They were drawn in by the bright blue color, reminding them of their beloved wizard’s most recent dye job. After fishing it out, it turned out to be a piece of beach glass, but it was very smooth and rounded. Douxie was using it as a worry stone.

Of course, rocks weren’t the only thing Y/n had brought him. Any small thing not tied down the forest could offer was up for grabs to the local cryptid. Sometimes they’d leave him feathers from a bird they swore they got permission from to take. Sometimes they’d give him sticks they carved intricate designs into. Sometimes bones. A lot of times bones. Not enough bones for visitors in his home to question though. They just assumed he was really goth. One time, Y/n even straight up gifted him a jar of mud. Well, it supposed to be soil from the picnicking spot they often spent their dates, some water from the nearby stream, with a few hand-plucked flower heads added to the top. Romantic, right? Unfortunately, it was accidentally shaken up between the time Y/N made it and the time they presented it to Doux. Still, it was proudly displayed on his shelf.

As tokens of affection began to collect, Doux decided he should return the favor. He’d find the perfect gift for his dear Y/n. One to show them just how much he cared, just how far his affection for them reached. Something to make that toothy smile light up their pretty face. Something to seal a promise to them, that he’d be by their side until the end of time.

So here he was, in this jewelry store, trying to find that perfect shiny rock for his significant other. It wasn’t going too well, to be honest. Everything was too fancy, and quite frankly, too expensive. It was like the whole store was polished and perfect. All those rings were beautiful, yes, but they looked like they belonged on the finger of a middle-class suburban spouse, not his wonderfully scruffy partner. His darling sasquatch. Too impersonal for his taste.

He’d decided that the only way to match Y/n’s energy was to find the stone himself. Luckily, he did live in Arcadia. Right below his feet were a system of caves that spanned at least a hundred miles. Surely the local trolls wouldn’t mind. Okay, so they did, but that wasn’t going to stop him.

After some exploring some of the tunnels for a while and getting a wee bit lost in the maze, he eventually came across a patch of purpley clusters growing from the cave wall. Amethysts, he guessed? Maybe fluorite. Either way, it was marvelous. The color was even close to that of Y/n’s magic. They put off a nice good energy too. This would be perfect. He just needed to find a small enough piece, or chip off a bit, and his quest would be complete. He magicked himself up a knife and set to work. It took him several tries, but eventually he wound up with a nice rock. It wasn’t perfect, even kind of lopsided for a ring, but it was a really good purple rock. Raw too. Uncut and unpolished, like them.

He brought it over to his work buddy Annie’s place. She had been really into jewelry making this year. Douxie had seen some of her work. It was top notch. She’d make him a nice personalized ring and set the stone into it. And he’d have the peace of mind knowing that this gift would be an excellent piece of craftsmanship. Hopefully Y/n wouldn’t lose it in the river. Thankfully, he had measured their ring size during their nap yesterday. So it would be nice and snug. Not drop-in-the-riverable at all… He’d enchant it.

Now all there was to do was wait. He had to give it to them at just the right moment for maximum romantic impact here. He’d watched a thousand proposal videos on youtube to get some semblance of an idea of what he was supposed to be doing. To be honest, a lot of them seemed kind of over the top and forced. While Doux was a showman, he didn’t want to go that route. This moment was going to be special. Intimate. Full of love.

He’d set up a lovely date for the occasion. A moonlight picnic in their favourite spot. Romantic, with candles. And roses. And champagne. He’d bring his acoustic too, to play for them. A classic serenade for his love. He also dressed up the trees around with some twinkly magical lights. He was thinking of making them a little show with magic lights too, to narrate their love story. After it was all over, they’d head over to the clearing to go star gazing. And they’d fall asleep under the stars in each other’s arms as a betrothed couple. Okay, so maybe he was going over the top after all. Just a tad. He couldn’t help it.

Once he got it all set up, he asked Archie to watch over it while he went to go get his darling. He even acquired a blindfold so he could get that maximum surprise effect. But he didn’t take into account the fact that nature isn’t exactly flat, and he had to help them carefully navigate the forest floor. At a certain point, he just decided to just pick Y/n up bridal style and carry them, eliciting a giggle from them. It was faster and easier for both parties. Also more romantic. A win-win. Y/n noticed his heart was beating pretty fast as they leaned against his chest. He was getting antsy as the spot came into view.

He was pleased and relieved to see that nothing had gone amiss so far. Everything was intact. Archie was just lazily snoozing on the blanket. Douxie cleared his throat to catch Arch’s attention and silently shooed him away with a head jerk. The dragon-cat nodded and took off towards town. Douxie placed Y/n down onto the blanket, oh so gently, taking their blindfold off to reveal everything. Y/n was, to Douxie’s dismay, immediately aware that something was up. This was quite the set up before them. They reacted nervously, which disheartened him slightly, but he couldn’t back out now. He wouldn’t back out now. He won’t.

He handed Y/n the bouquet of roses, and they flushed. That wonderful pink color of their cheeks somehow gave him enough courage to help him make it through his entire prepared speech without stuttering. What a feat. Despite their earlier wariness, Y/n was captivated. They hung off his every word. Douxie came to the conclusion that he must be using every drop of luck he had right now. Now for the best part, or the part that could embarrass him the most, depending on whether or not his luck continued. Time to woo his beloved with a special song he wrote just for them. Time to bear his soul. His fingers danced over the strings with practiced skill. The most beautiful melody Y/n had ever heard. They had stars in their eyes. He was halfway through his serenade when the heavens opened up.

Douxie almost instantly cast a magic shield over them. It was beautiful, in a way. The raindrops bucketing down, hitting the transparent glowing shield. It made a private percussion symphony just for them. Rain. Douxie saving the day. It was so cliché, they laughed together. Those freckles on his face danced adorably as he shook with laughter. So, in the spirit of clichés, Y/n decided to repay him for all his chivalry with a kiss. It caught him off guard at first, eyes wide, but he quickly melted into it.

As the kiss deepened, he pulled his fingers through their hair. They let out a moan into his mouth. He couldn’t help the lovesick grin that spread across his face. He turned his attention towards their neck. They tipped their head to give him better access, letting their hands travel down his back. He smelled smokey, he must have had some spell backfire on him today. How endearing. As Doux kissed right under their jaw, they opened their eyes just a half-lid. And then promptly snapped them open all the way. They briskly pulled back, eliciting a whine from Douxie.

“Uhhh, Doux,” He turned around to see what had frightened them.

“Oh fuzzbuckets,” he blinked at the sight, “is that a wolf?” Douxie exclaimed in disbelief.

“No, no, not a wolf. It can’t be a wolf. There’s exactly one singular wolf pack in Cali and its definitely not in fucking Arcadia Oaks.”

The wolf stepped forward. It was smaller than a normal wolf. A wolf-dog maybe. It snarled at them, spit dripping from its sharp teeth. They dared not move, and risk provoking it. Still as statues, Y/n and Douxie watched as it howled a warning to them. Or at least they thought it was a warning.

Suddenly, a very tall figure appeared through the trees. Black cloak billowing in the dark storm, it was if cooked up from some horror novel. Well, a children’s horror novel. It probably could have been much, much scarier. Especially to a couple of wizards that also frequently wore black and walked through the dark with their own less-than-domestic pets. But nevertheless, the sight raised the hackles on the backs of their necks. The wolf-dog ran to its master’s side. The figure patted his familiar’s scruffy head, then strode towards the picnic.

Douxie and Y/n swiftly sprang to their feet. Doux stepped in front of Y/n, to their annoyance. They could hold their own and Douxie knew it, but he couldn’t help those protective instincts. As the figure came closer, he dramatically tossed back his hood. Lightning struck at the very moment his bearded face was revealed to them. Completely by coincidence, honest.

“Eoin?” Douxie exclaimed in surprise. That expression of surprise then twisted into one of disgust. “Oh bleeding balroths, it’s fucking Eoin.” He half-shouted, half-grumbled.

“Aye, Hisirdoux! My old pal! How’ve you been, bruv?” Eoin flourished his cloak and smirked at the two. He eyed up Y/n. “And what a lovely partner you’ve got here, might I add.” Y/n shifted to be a bit more behind Doux.

“What do you want, my friend?” Douxie frustratedly asked. Y/n was getting the impression that, despite the terms of endearment here, these two were not friends.

“Why, don’t you already know, little Douxie? I’m here to settle something I should have long ago.” He said in a now less-than-friendly tone of voice.

“Don’t you have anything better to do?” Douxie was exasperated. Eoin just started coming closer. “Alright, mate,” Douxie raised his hands, flicking through his cuff, getting ready for what he knew was about to transpire without any more delay. His adversary shot up his hands to stop him.

“Oh! No, no, no! Friend, we’ll settle this like men. The old-fashioned way.”

Eoin summoned two rapiers out of thin air. Both some sort of gleaming black metal and glowing jewels. He kept the one with the red gems in his right hand, and tossed Douxie the one with the blue gems with his left. Color coordination, one supposes. Douxie tested the blade with a few swings and parries. His eyes looked down at the rapier and then to Eoin. They sort of bowed to each other.

They fenced back and forth deftly. It was like a dance. A tango. Y/n was impressed at how light footed Douxie actually was. Maybe he planned this? Was this a part of the show or something? It would be an excellent way to prove how capable he was of defending them from evil or whatever. But they got the feeling that this was undeniably real and not planned by, if not for the rancid aura hanging in the air, the absolutely murderous looks in the two men’s eyes.

The wolf-dog came towards Y/n. They readied a spell for defense, but the dog just, sort of sat next to them? It looked like it was also watching the fight intently. It would woof at the two whenever its master got the upper hand, almost as if cheering him on. Strange. A good boy, Y/n supposed. They’d reach down to pet it but they didn’t fancy losing their hand.

Eventually, Douxie came out on top. The duel had been nasty, but it now looked as if it was all but through. Douxie had Eoin knocked onto his back in the mud at the base of one of the massive old oak trees Arcadia was known for. He held his blade to Eoin’s throat, and they locked eyes. Douxie was huffing for air. But to Eoin’s surprise, He started apologizing. An entire speech. Confusion flashed on Eoin’s face. Hisirdoux had always felt guilty about his transgressions as a lad, about the people he trampled in order to survive before Merlin gave him a home. So he’d spare his old enemy. He was terribly sorry he’d begun this feud in the first place.

“And what say you, old buddy,” Douxie grinned hopefully with a glimmer in his hazel eyes. Douxie held out his hand in an offer of actual friendship. He stared into Eoin’s eyes. Eoin stared into his. Eoin’s shaky hand began to reach up to take Douxie’s. They clasped their hands together. Brothers. And for a moment, Douxie had really thought they had made up this time, looking into Eoin’s feeble smile. That is, until Eoin yanked Douxie down towards himself on the ground. Right into his ready, hungry blade.

To the soundtrack of Y/n’s screams, Eoin stood up, casually tossing Douxie’s limp body off his sword. The wind whipped his cloak as he stormed off, into the storm. The wolf-dog followed his master, howling in victory. Y/n was crossing the woods to cling to Doux in an instant.

He coughed up some blood, and intensely stared into Y/n’s eyes. He weakly took their hand, and caressed their cheek. Then remembered to reach into his pocket and pull out that special ring. He slipped it onto their slick, wet finger. Oh, it appeared that their hands were covered in blood. His blood. Neat.

“I- I wanted to a-” he coughed up some more blood, “to ask you if-”

“Yes! Yes, of course,” they sounded panicked, “please, save your breath, my love.” They pleaded. He feebly leaned in to kiss them, but then his world went black. His body fell like a ragdoll into Y/n’s arms.

Try as they might, they weren’t a healer. Purple light shone like a beacon in the black stormy night. They performed as many healing, even vaguely healing-ish fixit spells as they knew. Unfortunately, this was a stab wound from a magic blade. They couldn’t take him to the hospital, even if they had any trust in modern medicine. Hot tears streamed down their face. But the word hopeless is not devoid of hope. Hope sparked in their heart as they remembered something, somewhere, important.

They had to get him out of here, and fast. He was bleeding out. There was so, so much blood. It had positively soaked through Y/n’s already wet clothes before they were even half way to their destination. The smell of the rain mixing with all the blood was sickening. It was hard to find their way in this darkness. They slipped on the mud and tripped over rocks. Y/n was starting to slip into a panic attack. They couldn’t even go very fast, he was so heavy in their arms. And Y/n was frightened of hurting him even more by accident. Y/n was very, very frightened in general.

Time moved like molasses. In what could have been years for Y/n, the cave they were carrying Douxie to finally came within sight. Their heart was threatening to pound right out of their chest. They mustered up the last of their strength and broke out into a sprint. Bolting through the curtain doors of the cave and knocking around the strings of bones that hung with them, Y/n dropped to their knees.

“Please! Save him! I beg of thee.” They pleaded to the three old women sitting around the hearth.

***

Douxie was awoke to the sound of shuffling and unintelligible whispers. He could smell a strong mix of herbs in the air. He felt the soft back of a cold hand rest on his forehead, so he slowly opened his eyes. He was met with the red tear-streaked face of his beloved. Y/n gasped. they excitedly called to whoever else was in the room with them that he was now awake. He did not recognize these women. He did not recognize where he was. He supposed that didn’t matter.

Y/n pulled him into a gentle hug, as if he were made of glass. A handsome glass sculpture that would shatter if they let go of him. They just lied there, holding onto each other for dear life, for what must have been an hour. Breathing in each other’s scents, they had still refused to let go, but Douxie started to cough again. They reluctantly pulled apart, and y/n started their interrogation about any pain he might be experiencing. He was alright, a little sore, but fine. Nothing time won’t fix. And time he was glad to still have with them.

***

bonus A/N: i swear this was supposed to be normal, just a sappy proposal fic. but once i set everything up i was overcome with the urge to stab him. so i created a character specifically to stab him. idk im not sorry. at first i had eoin like, cheat the duel with magic, but i figured doux would be his own downfall with that bleeding heart of his we all love so much. happy november y’all.

#douxie x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #hisirdoux x reader #douxie imagine #tales of arcadia x reader #hisirdoux casperan imagine #hisirdoux casperan #douxie #toa douxie #my writing

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katehuntington · 4 years

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Title: Changes - part two Word count: ±3000 words Summary “Changes”: Huntress Zoë Sullivan (OFC) crosses paths and swords with the Winchesters, when the brothers stumble on a case she’s already working. When complications arise, they are forced to work as a team. Summary part two: Four years after the demon attack, a young woman is playing a cat and mouse game with another supernatural creature. Only this time around, she’s the hunter. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures. Demon possession, supernatural creatures/entities. Smut, swearing, alcohol use/addiction. Kidnapping, mentions of torture and murder, illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Music: About A Girl - Nirvana Author’s note: I couldn’t be more excited to share Supernatural: The Sullivan Series with you. @coffee-obsessed-writer, @soupornatural & @mrswhozeewhatsis, who edited the early drafts, and my girls @girl-with-a-fandom-fettish & @winchest09 who are deciphering the recent version; thank you for helping me with this story and for taking it to a higher level. Everyone who encouraged me to go for it, you are awesome!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist 01x01 “Changes” Masterlist

Rochester, Minnesota November 24th, 2005

Rain falls during a chilly night in November. Thunder rumbles in the distance, as heavy showers dim flashes of lightning that jump from one cloud to the other. Several miles outside of the city in the wide-open spaces, the world seems deserted. The atmosphere is threatening as nature shows her power. Straight roads cross the farmlands, not a living soul using them. No one is on their way home or driving away from it. Then again, in this weather, who would want to be out on the road?

In the distance, a light appears and steadily approaches. A bright shimmer reflects in the water on the asphalt, the sound of an engine building as the vehicle gets closer. It’s not an ordinary engine, not even close to the sound that modern cars produce these days. Actually, it’s not even a car. A black Harley Davidson cuts through the night, roaring like a lion. The classic motorbike leaves a spray in its wake, the water catapulted from the back tire. The polished paint job shines proudly, catching even the smallest glint of light. Raindrops try to cling to waxed metal, failing miserably. It’s obvious the owner of this beauty takes good care of her. It’s the type of bike you would expect an old rocker to ride. The kind that listens to Metallica and is a member of a biker gang. A tough guy with a beard and big sideburns, who rides from roadhouse to roadhouse, consuming nothing but steak and beer. Nevertheless, this lucky Harley is ridden by a young woman.

The rider seems to be in a hurry; despite the slippery roads; she’s speeding down 75th street NW at ninety miles an hour. This woman and her Harley have reason to haste. The biker tries to focus on the road ahead, yet glances in her side mirror frequently, checking if she’s being followed. The sharp pain in her abdomen keeps her awake. She mutters to herself, biting down the pain. How could you be so fucking stupid? It’s your job to know what you’re dealing with, and yet you were caught off guard!

The suburb of Rochester appears in the south; she’s almost there. The rider bends over her bike, clamping one arm around her waist and applying pressure. “Fucking hell,” she curses. She refuses to look down at her injury and keeps herself together. Hopefully, it’s not too bad, she doesn’t have time to get stuck in the ER. It’s during moments like these she regrets falling in love with her ‘94 Harley Davidson Road King, because a faster bike like a modern Kawasaki sports bike would be much more convenient right now.

She follows the road, which is shadowed by trees on both sides, until she passes through a small town, called Douglas. Again, she checks her mirrors, but there’s nothing on her tail. In front of her, several cars and trucks are driving up route 52. A sigh of relief escapes her mouth; back in the civilized world. After turning right just before the highway, she speeds up again on the road running parallel to it. Finally, the motel appears in the distance, a building with a large neon number ‘6’ on the roof. The female biker parks her Harley in front of the motel and turns the ignition. Not nearly as graceful as usual, she gets off her bike and heads toward the entrance of the motel. With her right hand on her bleeding wound, she stumbles across the parking lot as she takes off her helmet.

A flash of lightning cracks the sky and reflects on the cars parked in front. For a split second, she thinks she sees a shadow standing in the rain. Quickly, she turns towards it, but it’s gone, yet her hand goes for the gun tucked behind her waistband, instinctively. On high alert, she scans her surroundings, her intuition telling her she’s not alone. Is she getting paranoid? He wouldn’t come out here and follow her by car, would he? That would be insane, he’d be too exposed. Her hand slips from the grip of the weapon and she makes a run for it. After hastily entering the motel, she closes the door behind her. It’s warm in the lobby, country music playing in the background, a huge contrast to the chilling weather outside. Standing in the bleak light instead of mysterious shadows makes her feel a bit more at ease.

The old man behind the counter looks up from his paper, peaking over his reading glasses. An empty soda bottle decorates his desk along with some paper wrappers which once held a Wendy’s cheeseburger. She stares at the wrappers for a moment. Fuck, she would kill for a burger right now. “You’re behind on your payment, Mrs. Johnson,” the old man remarks. She throws a Mastercard on the desk while closing her coat around her body, hiding her injury and keeping the hand she used to staunch the bleeding firmly against her side. The motel manager thankfully doesn’t seem to pick up on anything out of the ordinary and takes the card without thanking her. “I’m afraid I’ll have to charge you the extra night, too. It’s way past check out.” “No worries, book two more. I’ll be sticking around for a few more days,” she returns. “Business taking longer than expected, huh?” he assumes, while working the computer. “Something like that, yeah,” she answers shortly, not willing to elaborate. “Those two nights were the last slots. It’s busy this weekend.” The man behind the desk hits the enter button. “You’re in luck.” She frowns at the comment. Right, luck. Looks like luck got me fucking shot. Thankfully he doesn’t have any further questions, she’s not in the mood for a chit-chat with the fossil.

The restless woman scans the parking lot outside for the third time, slightly out of breath, her face tense. Every once in awhile the motel manager glances over his screen, observing his client. Her black leather biker jacket is soaked through, but it doesn’t seem to bother her. Brown hair falls down her shoulders, the tips escaped her helmet drenched from the rain. Her dark eyes seem worried, makeup slightly faded. A young woman, who - according to the information he got from her when she checked in - married early, apparently. How old could she be? Twenty four, twenty-five, maybe? She doesn’t really seem like the marrying type, and he has seen many folks come and go. The poor girl looks pale, too, as if she’s ill or carrying a heavy weight upon her shoulders. A lot of shady business has happened in his motel, so he knows the signs. Maybe it’s drug related, maybe she’s fleeing from an abusive relationship. Who knows? He doesn’t bother to ask anymore. It would put him out of business if he would. Besides, she doesn’t seem like the person anyone would want to mess with. He does make a mental note to keep an eye on her and make sure his motel doesn’t turn into a crime scene. “Here ya go.” He hands her back her credit card. “You know the way.”

The mystery woman nods, picks up her helmet from the desk, and turns down the hallway. While entering room number 82, she takes off her jacket together with her tartan wind scarf and strides to the bathroom. Looking at her reflection in the mirror, her gaze drops to her abdomen, where a bloodstain has darkened her grey shirt. She lifts it up, the fabric sticking to the punctured skin. Fuck, that feels anything but pleasant. She reveals the bullet wound underneath, several inches to the left of her belly button. “Shit, shit, shit.” Carefully she takes off her shirt, her breasts only covered with a bra. Still staring at her reflection, she ponders on her next move. Maybe paying a visit to the hospital isn’t such a bad idea after all. That bullet could have ripped through a number of organs. The small intestine, descending colon, she remembers clearly from the books and lectures. The inferior mesenteric artery branches out there too. “Would’ve been more blood if it was an artery,” she mutters to no one but her own lonesome mind.

The fact that the bullet bounced off the wall before it hit her, could mean that it didn’t sink too deep into her skin. She decides to give it a try and fish it out herself; if she can’t solve the problem, a doctor’s visit is always an option. The young woman grabs a clean towel and wipes away the crimson around the wound as she moves back to the bedroom. She takes a small briefcase from under the bed, putting it down on the table in the corner of the room. A sigh falls from her lips when she sits down on the chair, then opens the lid, revealing a wide range of surgical instruments and medical supplies. Gauze, suture thread, sterilizers, tape, syringes, catheters, and several small bottles with different substances ranging from morphine to epinephrine; enough gear to do minor surgery. She swallows apprehensively; this is going to get nasty. “Hell, I’m not doing this alone.” Next to her bed, a bottle of whiskey beckons her. With a moan, the injured woman gets up, grabs the Johnny Walker and the glass next to it. She turns on the radio on the cabinet, twisting the volume button all the way, and walks back to the table, halting to face the mirror inside the briefcase. Filling up the glass with alcohol, she grabs gloves, forceps, and other supplies she is going to need. In the background, the first tones of About A Girl by Nirvana comes through the small speaker. With the bottle of Johnny’s Black Label on standby, she clears her throat while putting on the blue latex gloves. Here goes nothing.

There is a sharp increase in pain as the forceps slowly enter her body. With her eyes focused on the reflection in the mirror, her jaws clamp together as she tries to reach the bullet. She groans, fighting the intense agony that almost seizes her attempt, struggling to contain herself and steady her breathing. Not wanting to draw any attention is the only thing preventing her from screaming at the top of her lungs. Finally, the forceps touch something solid. With tears burning in her eyes, she succeeds in getting a hold of it, then carefully pulls back and drops the bullet into the glass. Quickly, she grabs the whiskey and takes large swigs, wincing at the afterburn. “Fuck, that hurts,” she hisses, placing the bottle back on the table with a loud bang.

The worst part is done, but it’s not quite finished yet. Shaky hands reach for the disinfectant, but unfortunately, the bottle of chlorhexidine is empty. Stupid, she should have stocked up immediately after she used it all last time. Oh well, whiskey will have to do then. And so she takes the Jack and pours the last bit of whiskey over the wound. The alcohol needs only a second before taking effect. But when the stinging pain does come, she’s unable to tone down the growl leaving her throat. But you know what really pisses her off? Now she’s out of whiskey, too.

Frustrated, the young woman clenches her fist, waiting for the pain to fade until it’s bearable. After several minutes, she has finally calmed down enough to proceed. She takes the thread and stitch scissors and finishes the job. The pain from the stitching needle piercing her skin isn’t too bad; it almost feels like a tickle compared to the forceps. After ripping a sterile wound pad out of its package with her teeth and soaking it in betadine, she places it over the wound and tapes it to her skin. All done. Unfortunately, she will live to see another day.

With a sigh, she strolls over to the bathroom while pulling her latex gloves off her hands. Again, the woman - who basically just performed surgery on herself - looks in the mirror. “Well hello, gorgeous,” she mutters sarcastically, registering the bags under her eyes, the run-down mascara and messy hair. She looks like a train wreck and that’s an understatement. But considering recent events, she's lucky to still be standing. After opening the faucet, she bends over the sink. The water feels refreshing on her skin as she washes her face. With her hands on the edge of the sink, she closes her eyes. Time for a moment to stop, debrief, and take a breath.

The fucking night she had.

What the hell happened out there? Where did this go wrong? She found a pattern, located the next victim. At least, she thought she did. Burdened, the brunette turns around and slowly walks back to the main room. The interior of the motel is rather boring, but the bed is comfortable enough and there’s a television. Normally she insists on more luxurious hotels, but with two big events happening in the city, this was all she could find.

By the bed, she halts. A puzzle of newspaper articles, pictures, books, and blueprints lay spread out over the mattress as some sort of mind map. An outsider would think this so-called Mrs. Johnson might be a special agent. That, or a psychotic killer, but neither is true. In fact, her name isn’t even Mrs. Johnson.

Biting her lip, she narrows her brown eyes and tries to find some sort of link, an explanation for what happened tonight. Terry Cliffer, the guy she expected to be the next target, turned out to be the bad guy. The bastard who shot her certainly looked an awful lot like Cliffer. Somehow the suspect was on to her and made a change of plans, but what was the trigger? She picks up two articles, both from the local paper, the Post-Bulletin. One is about a murderer with an ironclad alibi, the other a tiny report of a strange robbery. Both incidents took place during the same night, both suspects were caught on surveillance cameras, both claimed to be elsewhere at the time of the crime, and neither fit the profile of a killer or a thief. Two separate mysteries for the local police, one crystal clear case for a hunter. Until now, that is.

She mutters unintelligibly, annoyed with the fact that she’s one step behind. There’s another question poking at her subconscious, maybe one of even bigger importance: how the hell did it shift so fast? She picks up a book from her bed and rereads the passage she labeled ‘Shapeshifting’. ‘Shapeshifting is a common theme in mythology and folklore. In its broadest sense, it is a metamorphosis (change in the physical form or shape) of a person. Shapeshifting involves physical changes such as alterations of age, gender, race, general appearance, or changes between human and animal form.’ Still standing up, she leafs through the book, trying to find what she’s looking for. “Forms of shapeshifting, powers, punitive changes, needed items, yadda yadda yadda. Damn it, where is it!?”

Throwing the book back on the bed, she sits down, wincing, and pulls her MacBook closer on the table. Focused, she fires up the hard drive and opens her archives. After a bit of searching, the screen finally shows the information she’s been looking for. “Shifting process: The shifting process takes several hours, but can be hastened by the shapeshifter itself, by tearing off its own flesh - Oh, that’s just gross.” She shivers, disgusted, staring and rereading the passage just to be sure. It might be gross, but this is what’s happening. Something disturbed the monster she’s hunting, but did she mess up this job or did someone else blow her cover?

She has to go back to the roots of this case for everything to make sense. At least three people are connected to each other. Three people who don’t work together, who don’t live close by, but there’s one thing they have in common: they’ve all been seen at 110th Ave NW just outside Rochester this month. Traffic cams confirmed this, so the shifter must be hiding somewhere along that road. But where? She opens a satellite picture of the area on her Apple computer and observes the houses alongside the road. The estates are spread out and have long driveways. It would take months to figure out where the shifter’s den is, and the creature will be long gone by then. Yesterday, she thought she had a lead. She discovered the thing uses the sewer system to travel. More than fifty percent of the houses out there aren’t connected to the sewer system, but have their own septic tanks, so she could scratch those off the list. Only nine of the remaining houses are empty. The problem is, she already checked those homes and ended up with nothing.

“C’mon, what does your gut tell you?” she mumbles to herself. One house, deep in the forest, captures her eye. It’s not connected to the sewer system, but on the last drive by, she saw a ‘for sale’ sign by the side of the road. Good chance it’s empty. It wouldn’t make any sense for the shapeshifter to hide out in the woods, miles from the sewer, but she has a feeling something’s going on in that place. Her intuition is the only thing she’s going on, since there are no leads left to investigate. Why is a voice in the back of her mind telling her to go there when it makes absolutely no sense? “This is fucking insane,” she states out loud as she gets up to put on a new top. Insane, maybe. But she is not going to sit on her ass and watch this monster get away with more abductions. What concerns her, is the people of which it stole their identities, are now missing. They could be dead for all she knows, but they could also be held some place, and in that case, every second counts. This stops tonight; she has been hunting this fucker for way too long. Determined, she gathers her stuff and leaves the room, heading back to the hunting fields.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to reblog my work or buy me coffee (Link in bio at the top of the page)

Read chapter three here!

#Supernatural: the Sullivan Series #Supernatural series #Dean Winchester x OFC #Sam Winchester x OFC #Supernatural OFC #SPN OFC #Supernatural #SPN #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #Dean Winchester fanfiction #Sam Winchester fanfiction #Kate Huntington #The Sullivan Series #STSS #1x01 Changes

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searchingwardrobes · 5 years

Text

Name

Happy Birthday, @lenfaz ! I have a confession to make, I almost chickened out posting this. You see, you and I have never really interacted. I’ve just read almost all your fics and subscribe to you on Ao3. So I feel like a fangirl giving this to you. Anyway, I hope you like it. I loved Sea Squad so much, and I tried to put a little bit of that Jones Brothers/adopted family crew vibe to this. And I know from following your blog that you love Liam and Frozen Jewel, so I kept Liam alive in this and gave him a happy ending! Anyway, hope your day has been great!

This fic also solidifies that I have an addiction. An addiction to Lieutenant Duckling and historical war aus. They say the first step is to admit you have a problem . . . Is there a support group?

Summary: Every time Killian saw the beautiful blonde named Emma, she had a different last name. Maybe her whole life she’s been trying to get back to where she started. Inspired by the Goo Goo Dolls song.

Rating: T

Also on Ao3

Words: 4,000

Tagging: @snowbellewells @kmomof4 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @winterbaby89 @jennjenn615 @teamhook @bethacaciakay @kday426 @snidgetsafan @delirious-latenight-laughs @let-it-raines @shireness-says @distant-rose @optomisticgirl @wellhellotragic @welllpthisishappening

And now we’re grown up orphans that never knew their names. We don’t belong to no one that’s a shame.

Her name was Emma Smith. His name was Killian Jones. Their parents apparently cared enough to give them the first, but not the second. Hers was knitted in the corner of a baby blanket, his was on a note pinned to the front of his sleeper that merely said: “His name is Killian. Please take care of him.” Both were left where their parents most likely thought they would be safe: Emma on a bench outside of a hospital, Killian on the front steps of a church. “Baby Smith” and “Baby Jones” were easy labels for those who found them.

Neither would remember the first time they met; sharing a crib in the Catholic orphanage. If they had been born in any other decade, they would have been quickly adopted. But this was 1932, and the nation was in the throes of a Great Depression. There were separate orphanages for boys and girls, so they didn’t share their crib for long. Killian Jones was sent to the state-run boys’ home, and by the time he saw Emma Smith again, she would have a different name.

********************************************************

He was eight years old, and though times were still rough, they were slowly but surely getting better. So much better that people were able to give once again to the less fortunate. There was slightly more food than before, slightly warmer blankets. Yet the Depression had taken its toll, and now there were twice as many orphans.

Still, the Catholic church down the street had enough donations that they could throw a modest Christmas party for the city’s orphans. The boys were spit and polished as much as they could be with what little they had and were marched the several blocks to the church. They were herded into the sanctuary under the strict gaze of their caretakers, and on the stage in front of them were the residents of the girl’s orphanage. As a gift to their guests, they did a concert of Christmas carols.

Killian barely heard the words to the song: all he could focus on was the little blonde girl in the front, her hair glowing in the lights from the flickering candles. She opened her mouth along with the others, words spilling forth, but her eyes were dull. From boredom or cynicism, he couldn’t say, but something about them was so familiar.

In the fellowship hall, the nuns served refreshments and handed out candy and trinkets to the children. There was no Santa – orphans knew better than anyone there was no such person. Killian found the little blonde girl sitting alone, nursing a peppermint stick. He shuffled his feet nervously, then finally blurted out:

“Hi, I’m Killian. Killian Jones.”

She raised both eyebrows. “Emma. Emma Miller.”

He felt himself go hot all the way to the tips of his ears, and he had no idea what to say next.

“Want a peppermint stick?” she asked, holding out a second one clutched in her other fist.

He smiled, taking the proffered sweet and sitting in the chair next to her. Neither remembered sharing a crib as newborns, but they both had the strangest feeling they had known each other a long time. Killian didn’t know that Emma acquired her new name when the Millers adopted her. He didn’t know how they had a baby of their own and sent her back to the orphanage at age three, unable to feed two young mouths. Neither did Emma tell him. As children often do, they spoke of more immediate things and giggled as they used their peppermint sticks as miniature swords.

It would be five more years before they saw one another again.

*****************************************************

Orphanages weren’t pleasant places to grow up. The common opinion was that such children needed strict discipline and a heavy hand. Mercy and grace were rare; tenderness and affection completely absent. Killian lasted until the age of eleven before he just had to get away. Boys of thirteen were cast out anyway to find work. Why wait for the inevitable?

The streets of Boston weren’t kind to a boy of eleven, however, and his freedom came at a high price and an often empty belly. There were street gangs too, and Killian was small for his age. He tried to go unseen, but it was only a matter of time before he crossed the wrong group of street kids. They had him surrounded in an alley behind an Italian restaurant. He had only been searching for food scraps; he hadn’t known it was anyone’s “territory.”

He fought back at first, flinging trash and swinging the lid of the garbage can, but eventually all he could do was duck and cover his head. Maybe if he curled into a small enough ball, they would lose interest. As the kicks and punches rained down on him, he realized how wrong he had been.

Suddenly, there was a shout and one large boy was pulled away from him, then another. The rest of the boys turned to face the new threat, and all Killian could do was scramble behind the largest trash can. He peeked around the side of it to watch three boys take on his attackers. One had sandy colored, close cropped hair and looked about his age. Another had light brown curls and was broad and strong, raining down punches with a righteous indignation in his eyes. Killian guessed he had to be at least fifteen, maybe older. The third was armed with a slingshot. The other boys couldn’t get close enough for hand to hand combat without getting pelted. He was probably somewhere in the middle of the other two age wise, perhaps thirteen.

It wasn’t long before the gang were sent running. Whoever these three were, they were tough in a fight. The question was, were they rescuing Killian or wanting him for themselves? And if the second, what for? For that reason, Killian made himself as small as possible behind the trash cans.

“It’s okay, you can come out,” one boy called to him.

“We won’t hurt you,” a second assured.

Hesitantly, Killian came out from hiding. He tasted blood on his lip, and his temple throbbed. He was sure he looked pitiful. Nevertheless, the oldest of the three boys smiled in a way that put him at ease.

“What’s your name, kid?” he asked him.

“Killian. Killian Jones.”

The teenager’s grin broadened. “No kidding. My name is Jones too – Liam Jones.”

It turned out Liam had gotten his last name the same way Killian had – from being an abandoned nobody. He was going on sixteen, and the unofficial big brother of the group. The other eleven-year-old was David, and the thirteen-year-old with the slingshot was Robin. They weren’t a gang, just friends who looked out for each other because they were alone on the streets. They adopted Killian, called him “little brother” (David liked to point out he was almost twelve at every opportunity), and for the first time in his life, he was part of a family.

****************************************************

The orphaned kids of the depression were now orphaned teenagers – juvenile delinquents, according to the adults. The streets were filled with them. The ones who were old enough had joined up for the war, most of them never to return. The rest plagued the city and were easy prey to adult crime bosses. Girls were less common on the streets, but they were there. They were even more vulnerable to exploitation than the boys.

Liam said to stay away from girls; they were nothing but trouble. David had a soft spot for one particular girl with dark hair who was just as good with a slingshot as Robin. She’d run away from her stepmother after her father died. Killian was thirteen now, David nearing fourteen, Robin was fifteen, and Liam himself was almost eighteen. Liam’s “no girls” rule was quickly becoming a lost cause.

Killian saw her again for the first time in five years warming herself around a fire in a trash can behind an old canning factory. Many street children and even homeless adults had taken to socializing here, and even though there was a code of sorts, young girls were still vulnerable here.

A gray hat was pushed down onto Emma’s head, but the gold in her hair still shone bright by the flickering light. She held her hands, clad in threadbare gloves, up to the warmth. He approached her slowly, as if she were an apparition that might disappear.

“Emma?”

Her head snapped up, eyes wide. He must not have looked threatening (he was still rather small at thirteen, he hated to admit) because her face quickly relaxed. She tilted her head, studying him closely. He patted his chest.

“Killian Jones. The Christmas party?”

A smile slowly filled her face. “Of course. I wouldn’t forget a name like Killian.”

“Neither have I forgotten yours.”

She lifted one shoulder dismissively. “It isn’t Miller anymore, though. It’s Emma Swan now.”

“I like it,” he told her, “it suits you.”

She ducked her head, a blush staining her cheeks. “Well, the Millers threw me away, so why would I want their name?”

“May I ask why you picked Swan?”

She chewed at her lower lip. “You’ll think it’s stupid.”

“Never.”

She let out a long sigh. “The story of the ugly duckling.”

“Ahh, I see. He was really a swan all along.”

She shrugged again.

“Like I said,” he told her, leaning closer, “I like it.”

Liam had said “no girls,” but Mary Margaret was already a constant fixture in their group, so Emma was welcomed, albeit a bit reluctantly on Liam’s part. They found an old tenement apartment, condemned by the city, to crash in. Emma was a master thief and contributed to the group’s provisions so well that she eventually won even Liam over. And when Liam brought Elsa home, shivering, her lips almost blue, the “no girls” rule was officially dead.

Elsa was different, it turned out, a runaway but with a family who loved her and never stopped looking for her. It was her sister Anna who found her crashing in the remains of the tenement and begged her to come home. No one was surprised when Elsa caved. Anna had an innocence about her that was difficult to resist. And in that moment, everything changed.

Liam was eighteen now and in love with Elsa. A girl who actually came from a decent home with a decent family. Liam had to prove himself worthy of her; it was time for him to makes something of himself. Couldn’t the rest of them understand that?

“So what will you do?” Killian asked, his jaw clenching to hold back the tears. At some point, Liam had become the bar he strove for. They may have shared a last name by chance, but in every other way Liam was his big brother. His idol.

“I’m joining the Navy.”

“Then so will I,” Robin vowed, surging to his feet.

“Me too,” David added, chin tilted in defiance.

A feeling of pride and belonging swelled in Killian’s chest. “A band of brothers. Forever.”

Mary Margaret stood by with unshed tears shining in her eyes. But Emma . . .

“You are all assholes, you know that?” she screamed, her hands fisted at her sides.

Then she ran.

Killian found her down by the docks, looking out at sea. He stood beside her wordlessly, slipping his hand in hers.

“The ocean is big,” she said.

He nodded.

“I’ll never see you again.”

“You could join too,” Killian said, his voice rising as he warmed up to the idea, “girls can, you know.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not until they’re twenty, and besides, girls can only be nurses or secretaries. That’s not me.”

He hung his head. He knew she was right – he couldn’t see her doing either of those things and being happy.

“You’re still going, aren’t you?”

The sea wind had blown hair in her face again, and Killian reached out to tuck it behind her ear. “When I turn eighteen, yes.”

Honestly, at fourteen, it seemed a lifetime away. He had a lifetime to be here with Emma, so he traced her jaw with his fingertips and leaned in close. It was his first kiss and hers too. Their lips pressed together awkwardly; their noses bumped; they giggled and tried again. It was perfect.

*****************************************************

Four years, it turned out, wasn’t a lifetime. It was, however, long enough for Killian Jones to fall completely, hopelessly in love with Emma Swan. He and David were heading to basic training, and Emma and Mary Margaret were there to say goodbye. Mary Margaret already had an engagement ring on her finger. David had proposed the day he enlisted, just as Robin had before him with his girlfriend Marian and Liam with Elsa before that.

Emma, on the other hand, had warned Killian weeks before, “If you propose to me just because you’re joining the Navy, I swear to God, I will punch you in the face.”

Now they stood in a crowded bus station, and Killian wished he had a more private location to say what was on his heart. He couldn’t stop kissing her, couldn’t stop threading his fingers through her hair. He reached into the front of his shirt and pulled out the ring he wore on a chain around his neck.

“Whoah, whoah, whoah,” Emma protested, holding up a hand, her eyes wide.

“Calm down, I’m not proposing,” he assured her with a teasing glint to his eyes. He may have imagined it, but Emma actually looked slightly disappointed. He pressed the garnet ring into her palm and closed her fingers over it. “This ring was sewn into my baby blanket when I was left on the church steps. I want you to have it. I did as you asked by not proposing, but . . . “ he took a deep breath before looking deeply into her eyes, “I love you Emma. I vow to find my way home to you, always. Will you wait for me?”

The color drained from her face, and a sadness filled her eyes. “I’m sorry, Killian,” she whispered, pushing the ring back into his hand, “I can’t.”

“What?” he felt suddenly unsteady.

She shook her head rapidly, golden strands of hair brushing her cheeks, “I can't lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

Not knowing how to respond, he surged forward and kissed her with all the feeling that threatened to consume him. She kissed him back with equal fervor, and he knew it was only her fear holding her back. He pressed the ring back into her palm.

“I still want you to keep it.”

Killian understood Emma better than anyone, so when he left her at the bus station that day, he told himself that her love for him would be enough. She was just too scared to admit it. He would keep his vow, and when he got home, the two of them would have a future together. When letters didn’t come during basic training, he still held onto hope and his love for Emma.

Then June 25th, 1950 came. War was declared on Korea. Killian had been sending Emma letters religiously, and he sent her one to let her know he was shipping out. Still he got nothing in response. It didn’t matter to him, though, he would keep his vow anyway.

***************************************************

It was 1953 and Killian Jones was a young man of twenty. He was war torn, minus a left hand, but he hadn’t lost his tenacity. A man who isn’t willing to fight for what he wants deserves what he gets. Growing up in an orphanage during the depression, living on the streets as a teen, and serving in the military had all taught him that. His band of brothers had all made it through alive: Liam, Robin, and David were all home and settling down with their young wives. How many others could say that? Now all he had to do was find the woman he loved and show her he had kept his vow. He didn’t even worry about his disability; it would just show Emma how much he had fought to get home to her.

Neither Mary Margaret or Elsa knew where she was; Emma had withdrawn from them shortly after the men left. That didn’t stop Killian, though. He returned to their old haunts in the city, asking everyone if they had seen her recently, showing off a well-worn photograph that had survived a war.

Finally, his searching had brought him here, to a modest apartment complex in Eastie. He straightened his shoulders and knocked.

Of all the times he had imagined seeing Emma again, he had never pictured her with a six-month- old baby on her hip. Yet there the child was, big brown eyes staring at Killian as he rested his chubby cheek on his mother’s shoulder.

“Swan!” he still couldn’t help blurting out.

“It’s Cassidy now,” she told him carefully, “Emma Cassidy.”

The new last name was like a physical blow. His gaze flickered to her left hand. There was no ring.

“Umm,” she said nervously, her free hand running through her hair. It still shimmered like gold, her eyes were still that clear shade of green. She was still breathtaking, perhaps even more so. She was a woman now.

“Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure, yeah,” she agreed, ushering him in. She shut the door behind them, then set the baby down in a high chair beside the kitchen table. The apartment was small, the living room and kitchen one space. She handed the baby a zwieback cracker, which he gummed happily. “He’s teething,” Emma explained as she straightened, hands fluttering nervously, “so I hope he doesn’t fuss.”

Killian swallowed as they stood there awkwardly staring at one another. Finally, he just blurted it out, “You got married?”

Emma shuffled her feet and stared at the floor. “For only about two seconds, but yeah.”

“So you’re not anymore?”

She merely shook her head.

“Emma, why?” he asked brokenly.

“I never promised you anything.” She tilted her head in defiance as she said it, yet the tremor in her chin and the moisture in her eyes sent the opposite message.

“Did you love him?”

Emma rubbed her palms on her house dress and bit her lower lip. Finally, she deflated and sighed. “What’s the point in lying to you? You could always see right through me.”

She collapsed into the kitchen chair, her head dropping to her hand. Killian’s heart broke a little at the sight, and part of him longed to go to her and just take her in his arms.

“I ignored your letters because I was afraid, but part of me still hoped we could pick back up where we left off when you got home. Then the war started . . . “ she lifted her head then to look at him, pleading with her eyes for him to understand. “My fear turned to absolute terror. I guess I thought if I could let you go in my heart, it wouldn’t tear me apart if . . . if . . . you never came home again.”

Killian’s jaw ticked, anger welling up inside. “So you what? Started sleeping around?”

She didn’t even attempt to argue with him or defend herself. “Yes. Neal, Henry’s father, was the only one who kept coming back around. The one-night stands weren’t doing the trick, so when Neal swore he loved me, I thought maybe he was the answer.” She paused, tracing the pattern on the plastic floral placemat in front of her. Killian gave her time. “When Henry came, he told me he wasn’t cut out for fatherhood, and just . . . left us. And here we are.”

She looked up at him and shrugged. She was right, he knew her so well. The shrugs, the nonchalant choice of words, all of it attempted to mask the pain he saw shining in her eyes.

“What did you mean the one-night stands weren’t doing the trick?”

Emma blinked. “Ummm . . . making me forget you.”

“And your . . . “ he closed his eyes, almost choking on the next word, “husband . . . did he do the trick?”

A single tear tracked down Emma’s face. “No.”

Silence descended between them, broken when Henry started banging on his high chair tray. He babbled “mama” in a fussy, demanding tone, and Emma hurried to get him another zwieback cracker. Once the baby was satisfied, she turned to Killian with a dejected air.

“I know it’s too late,” she told him sadly.

Killian crossed the room in long, easy strides. Her eyes widened in surprise when he grasped her upper arms. Her eyes flickered to his stump, and he realized how right he had been. She had only just now noticed. She took it in her hands, pressing her eyes closed as tears flowed freely.

“Killian,” she breathed, “what happened?”

“I survived,” he told her simply, “because I had a vow to keep.”

She gasped as she fixed her gaze on him. “You must hate me.”

He shook his head. “Never. Let me ask you one question Emma, and I want you to be completely honest. Whatever your answer, I’ll honor it. Do you still love me?”

She reached out a trembling hand to trace his jaw. “Yes,” she whispered, “I never stopped.”

Killian pressed his forehead to hers. “Neither did I. No matter where life has taken me, it always seems to lead me right back to you.”

When he claimed her lips with his, she kissed him back with abandon, her entire body trembling at his touch.

“You found me,” she said over and over against his lips, and he tasted the salt of her tears.

Emma Smith. Emma Miller. Emma Swan. Emma Cassidy. Killian had loved her even before he knew what a soul mate was. Yet nothing compared to the name she took on a beautiful spring day in 1954 – Emma Jones. It was as if it were always meant to be hers.

#cs ff #lieutenant duckling #cs historical au #orphans #fandom birthday playlist #for lenfaz #on her birthday #name

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konigsfaerie · 5 years

Link

All you want for Christmas is to spend the holidays with The Doctor.

You sighed, putting the last Christmas ornament on the green tree in front of you. No matter how glum you were this holiday, you had to admit: the tree really was beautiful this year. Your dad picked out a lovely one. It reached the ceiling with different colored lights wrapped all around it, some gold tinsel, and some silver, blue, red and green ornaments on it. The Christmas baubles stood out most of all, but the ones you loved most were the five different colored hummingbirds in remembrance of your grandmother. And of course the blue and red the shone the most. There was a picture of your mother in the center, with the words “love” “remember” and “mother” all around in silver cursive.

Your father put his Christmas record on the gramophone you got him last year. He had loved his records, and knowing that you could get him anything his heart desired, you picked music. It’s something both of you had always bonded over, especially since your mother’s passing. He could never afford such an extravagant purchase, and you knew he’d never treat himself to such a luxury. Not when he loved seeing the smile on your face when you opened something spectacular. It’s not that the gifts he’d give you were horribly expensive. They were just thoughtful, always perfect. Last year, it was a golden locket with your favorite picture of your mother. You had only taken the necklace off to shower all year.

But this Christmas was different. You had been traveling with The Doctor for two years now, and that was part of the reason you could get your father that gramophone. It was a genuine antique, taken from Frank Sinatra’s private collection. The Doctor had said he was a close friend, and you ended up having something called mulled wine in his home. It seemed to be a completely pleasant affair in your opinion, a change from the constant adventures you’d been having all year that usually ended with just barely escaping with both of your lives. Sinatra detailed a time where The Doctor saved his life from very robotic creatures. “Cybermen,” The Doctor mouthed with a wink. Sinatra mentioned that he owed him his life. In fact, you couldn’t think of any friend of The Doctor’s that he hasn’t saved one time or another.

Of course The Doctor would never think of it that way. The Doctor saves people because he enjoys it, because he genuinely loves helping. Not because he wants people to owe him a favor. Nevertheless, you eyed the multiple record players all lined up just around the fireplace. Each more beautiful than the next. They were clean, polished. You could tell he really cherished them. And then you thought about your dad, who absolutely adored Sinatra almost as much as your mother. He bought himself a cheap record player a few years ago, but he could always be found scrolling on eBay, looking at vintage gramophones and records.

You went from a small town life of going to the diner every Sunday night, eating a sandwich and sharing a piece of pie with your father, serving coffee at your local Starbucks just to save to move out, to going on impossible adventures with the best man you know. And of course when you have nothing else to do, you get lost in a good book. Usually fantasy. Amazing adventures, sword fights and worlds of magic you could only dream of. But when you met The Doctor, all of those dreams came true. Every time you looked out into the stars and saw something beautiful, you couldn’t help but whisper, “magic” under your breath. To which The Doctor always replied, “Magic is just science that we don’t understand yet.”

As you watched your father spread out the ladder and walk up each rung, you couldn’t help but wish The Doctor was here with you. You knew that The Doctor didn’t do holidays or family, but the thought of him drinking your dad’s jingle juice, eating your warm chocolate chip cookies and being his normal grumpy self warmed your heart. He had never met your father and you were almost certain your father thought he was entirely made up. It didn’t sit well with you knowing that you were warm inside your house stuffing your face with cookies, listening to a Christmas Sinatra album with your father, about to exchange presents when The Doctor was alone in the tardis, probably tinkering with some device or reading something in his library.

You handed the Christmas angel to your father. It was a beautiful but clear angel who holds out a bright and shining star. He smiled at you and put it atop the tree. “Thank you darlin’,” he said as he climbed down from the ladder and gave you a tight hug. “Is something wrong? You don’t seem your normal cheery Christmas self.”

Christmas was your favorite time of year by far. Just four years ago, your mother, her sister, grandmother and father would all be gathered by the fireplace, you drinking cranberry juice or hot chocolate, them drinking your father’s jingle juice or perhaps some hot buttered rum that your mother would mix up. It really was a family affair. Your family had never been large, but always close. Since your mother passed, one side of the family had grown apart from each other. Christmas never used to be lonely. The reality is that lately you had been lonely whenever The Doctor was too far away. You depended on him, and you hoped a small part of him depended on you.

“I just -- I just wish The Doctor was here. That’s all.” You gave your best fake smile, hoping it would fool your dad. But it never did. He could always tell when you were bluffing.

The two had never met, but you always talked about him. The only explanation you could think of was that you traveled together. Paris, London, Africa, any country that you had ever wanted to go to. Each culture more interesting than the next. Some of those stories you told him were even real. Actually, most of them were. You just left out the stories of meeting Jane Austen, Marsha P. Johnson and Frank Sinatra. God, he would go crazy if he knew that you met Sinatra. Sometimes you thought of the adventures you could have if The Doctor agreed to bring him on just once. You never asked though, because you were deathly afraid of rejection. Especially from him.

“I wish he would come around. It’s not right that I’ve never met him. I’m your father and I’ve never met the man you travel with almost 24/7.” You let out a large sigh as you knew he was happy for you. You never liked living in such a small town and wanted to travel badly. Your father would take you out of state every now and then because it was all he could afford, but he knew deep down that you just wanted to experience cultures that weren’t your own. Although he was happy about that aspect, you knew he didn’t completely approve of him, probably because he looked a lot older than you. If he only knew how much.

You sat down on the couch, tapping your cranberry-painted nails on the coffee table. “He just doesn’t like holidays.. That’s all. Sort of a rough time I imagine.” He’s mentioned to you that he had a whole family back on Gallifrey. So you couldn’t completely blame him for not wanting to be around this time of year. Or wanting to meet your dad. Still, it hurt that the person most important to you wasn’t here.

“I see. Well. I’m gonna check on dinner.”

You walked into the kitchen, grabbing a few warm cookies you made, piling on the jammie dodgers you made specially for him, and pouring some tea into a tumbler. “I’m just gonna step outside for a moment,” you muttered quickly, turning around so he wouldn’t see what was in your hands. You rushed out the door, walking just two streets down. The tardis was inconspicuously parked just a few blocks down from your favorite diner. You opened the tardis doors, seeing The Doctor using a screwdriver -- an actual screwdriver, not just a sonic one on something that looked like a cyberman head. “HA! And it works!” The Doctor proclaimed. “Genius,” he muttered.

“Uh, what is that Doctor?”

“Don’t you get it? It’s a Cyberman coffee pot! We can drink coffee out of a Cyberman now!”

“Riiight.” You stopped to think. This is what he was doing on Christmas? Christmas was supposed to be filled with family, alcohol and presents. Not screwdrivers and dead Cyberman heads. “Anyway, I brought you some food and tea.”

“Shouldn’t you be with your dad?” He got up off of the tardis floor, taking the plate of cookies and tea, setting the tea down on the console and munching on a jammie dodger.

“Yeah, he’s just cooking dinner.. so I came to see if you had eaten.” You looked down at your feet, something you always did when you lied. Plus, if you looked him in the eye, he’d probably see everything. See that you desperately wanted him to come to your house for dinner, to meet your dad, and more than anything you just wanted a hug from him because you hadn’t seen him in over two days. Which was far too long for your standards. You constantly traveled with him, breaking only to let the tardis rest and recharge.

“Thank you. Jammie dodgers are my favorite.” He gave you a small smile and still not having the courage to look at him, you turned on your feet.

“I know,” is all you said and immediately you exited the tardis. You started walking back to your house, kicking a rock out of the way. It was a mistake to see him, even if only to give him some of the cookies you made. Because now you really were sad. A tear fell down your cheek and immediately wiping it away, you felt stupid. It wasn’t personal at all. It’s not because he didn’t want to spend time with you. In fact, he would have wanted to go on some weird planet called Raxacoricofallapatorius.

When you got home, you shut the door behind you and leaned on it for a while, trying to gather yourself. “Something wrong?” The Doctor’s voice sounded.

You turned around as quick as you could, almost getting dizzy from it. “W-What are you doing here, Doctor?”

The Doctor was showing my father a few properly ancient records from his collection, and of course my father was eating it up. “You invited me over for Christmas, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but you said you didn’t do Christmas.” You were trying your hardest not to smile, not to give him the pleasure, but it was the hardest thing you had to do all week.

“I changed my mind. It was probably the jammie dodgers.” He gave you a small smirk, following your father into the dining room.

Dinner was a success. They talked music, arts, and literature they both loved. They got along great, and you could even tell he wasn’t faking being nice. Being nice doesn’t come easy to The Doctor. It’s a private rule of his that he has to offend at least two people in every room he enters. You let the two talk uninterrupted, only stopping to laugh and make a comment or two about adventures they’d had.

As your father finished up the dishes, you both sat next to each other on the couch. You had given him a glass of your mother’s famous hot buttered rum with a single cinnamon stick in it. You sipped on some more jingle juice, plopping a cranberry into your mouth. As your father walked into the room, The Doctor handed you a small gift wrapped in blue paper with stars all on it. It looked like what you see every night you open the tardis doors. “I got you something.”

“Really?” You beam, unraveling the paper to find a little brown box. You open it, finding a black jewelry gift box with gold trim. You slowly open it, savoring this perfect moment. Your eyes focus on a beautiful necklace, a blue tardis with small diamonds encrusted all over. It was perfect. “It’s beautiful.. I love it.” You turn to him, a bright small on my face. “Thank you so much, Doctor.”

He gives a smile back. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. Here, let me put it on you.” He opens the clasp, moving your blown out hair to the side of your shoulder. The Doctor wraps the necklace around your neck, closing the clasp and letting it fall on your chest. The necklace falls slightly lower than the one that your father got you last year. It was the most perfect gift you’ve ever gotten. The necklaces represented everything you loved. Your mother, your father, the tardis and The Doctor.

“This is the best Christmas ever.” You gave him another smile as your father sat down and eyed the necklace. You guessed he didn’t know what to make of it.

“Is that a police box?”

“Yes,” The Doctor replied, giving a little smirk. “Just an inside joke.”

“Well, it’s beautiful.” Your father reached around the couch and handed you a gift wrapped in red gift wrap with green Christmas trees all on it.

You started unwrapping. One of your favorite parts about Christmas was giving gifts, but you never could wait to see the perfect gift your father gives you. It’s always so thoughtful. As you unwrap, your father explains. “I know you think scrapbooking is corny, but you can put all the pictures from your camera on it. When you’re old like me, you’re going to want to remember all of the impossible adventures you have.”

“Thank you, dad. It’s absolutely perfect as usual.” You leaned over to give him a big kiss on the cheek. It was perfect. Usually you were always too busy running with The Doctor to stop and document what you did, what you accomplished.

As you finished the night up, you couldn’t help but think about your father’s comment. The Doctor would continue living his life while you aged. While you got old. While his age might change, while his face might change, he’d never become truly old and decrepit. But you would some day. Would he really want to tote an old woman around with him?

It was already midnight, and your father had already said goodnight. We had desert, a few more cocktails, and had even played some card games. It was an amazing night, and it was all thanks to The Doctor. “Come on, I’ll show you the guest room.” Part of you thought that he would just go back to the tardis, but he followed you down the hall.

He grabbed your arm, stopping you in the hallway. “Did you have a good Christmas?”

You nodded, a smile spreading on your face. “Yeah. I really did.” You bit your lip, looking at your feet again.

“But?”

“But… I just.. I just wonder what happens when I’m old and you still look young.”

He gave a chuckle. “I don’t think I look young.”

“Not this time,” you corrected. “But there’s nothing wrong with you. You can run and fight and you barely need sleep. And if you ever really do get hurt, you can regenerate.”

He stared at you for a minute, trying to sum up all of your feelings. “I think you view our friendship differently than I do.”

You nodded, staring at your feet again. You braced yourself for the hurt feelings, for the tears.

“I travel with you not because you run fast or because you fight hard. I don’t love you because of what you can do. I can’t lie.. your strength and curiosity made me want to travel with you. But the reason I love to travel with you is because you’re a person I can be proud of to have in my life. No matter how old you get, no matter what happens to either of us..” He stops himself, taking a breath. “I’d travel with you forever if I could.”

You smiled at your feet, looking up. “I know you hate them, but-”

He didn’t let you finish as he wrapped both arms around your torso, hugging you tightly. “Merry Christmas.”

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