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organabanana · 3 years

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you're not saved until you leave this place | harley/ivy

Chapters: 1/1

Fandom: DCU (Comics)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence

Relationships: Pamela Isley & Harleen Quinzel

Characters: Pamela Isley, Harleen Quinzel

Additional Tags: Past Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Abusive Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel, Mild Blood

Series: Part 1 of the 2021 Writing Challenge series

Summary: Harley Quinn - she's not Harleen Quinzel anymore - has just been saved by Poison Ivy. The problem is Poison Ivy doesn't think Harley can really be saved. I just finished reading Harleen by Stjepan Sejic and I'm feeling A Certain Way. Reading it first is encouraged (and recommended because it's amazing) but not necessary to know what's going on.

Notes: This is not meant to be particularly true to any canonical storyline beyond using Harleen (the comic) as a starting point. I took the liberty of taking bits and pieces from different storylines because I could.Written for the prompt "I should be in pain . . . . . why am I not in pain?” for week 4 of the 2021 writing challenge made by @butterbee-writes.

[ao3 link]

Harley regains her consciousness slowly, as if she was struggling to emerge from an ocean of molasses. What a strange image, an ocean of molasses. That’s what it feels like, though. Thick and sticky and dark. As her senses begin to work once again, though, Harley realizes wherever she is smells nothing like molasses at all. It smells both fresh and damp somehow. Like she imagines a rainforest might smell like. Green and thick with life. And then there’s something else. Lighter. Floral, even. Jasmine, maybe?

“Doctor Quinzel.”

The woman’s voice doesn’t immediately ring a bell, but it feels familiar somehow. Under different circumstances, she’s sure she could figure it out. But Harley’s tired of fighting the not-really-molasses threatening to swallow her brain whole. She can’t play detective right now.

“Doctor Quinz—“

“It’s Harley,” she interrupts, her voice hoarse like she’s using it for the first time after a night of hard liquor. This doesn’t feel like a hangover, though. And she doesn’t feel like Doctor Quinzel anymore.

“Open your eyes.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” This may not be a hangover, but her head still feels like it’s balancing precariously on the edge of the kind of headache that drives people to insanity.

Heh.

Like she needs a headache for that.

“Your eyes might be damaged. I don’t have all day.”

The woman’s tone is hard to read. Somewhere between annoyed and caring, somehow. Like she wishes she didn’t care, but she does anyway. Harley can sympathize.

“Damaged by what?” Harley asks, already opening her eyes and struggling to focus. All she sees is varying shades of green. “What happened?”

The woman doesn’t speak. Harley sees a blurred light among the greens and feels that flowery smell grow stronger when the woman leans closer to her face. It reminds her of her time as Arkham’s psychiatrist, asking questions and being ignored. And that’s when it clicks. Arkham. Of course.

“Ms. Isley?”

“Ivy.”

Under different circumstances, Harley might have taken offense at the sharp tone of Pamela Isley’s correction. But she’s not exactly in a position to pick a fight with a supervillain, and - if she’s being perfectly honest - this may be the third or fourth time Ivy’s corrected her since they first met. No wonder she’s annoyed.

“What happened?”

“Your eyes are fine. Your vision may be blurry for a while. I assume your glasses are still in the acid. What’s left of them, anyway.”

“Acid? What aci—“

Harley’s eyes widen even if she still can’t quite see. The acid. The vat of acid, and Jay’s hands around Harley’s wrists, and his smile… and then the searing pain. She brings her hands up with some effort, and even with her limited vision she can see they look bleached white. And yet…

“I should be in pain… Why am I not in pain?” She should also be in some major emotional distress, given the circumstances, but she’s more or less given up on her own mental stability these days.

“My abilities aren’t limited to toxins, Harley. You’re enjoying a very good, very potent, all-natural anesthetic.”

“You saved me?” Harley wonders, briefly, whether she has any right to sound this surprised when this is the second time Pamela Isley has done just that. Save her. “Thank you.”

“Like I told you last time, don’t thank me yet,” Ivy says, and there’s a certain emotion in her tone (Dr. Quinzel might have been able to define it, but she’s not around anymore) that makes her sound nearly human, “you’re only truly saved—“

“If I leave Arkham. I remember.” Those words haunted Harley’s nightmares for weeks. “But I left. This isn’t Arkham, is it?”

There’s a moment of silence that stretches for longer than it should, somehow. Like Ivy’s having to really think to figure out whether they are in Arkham or they aren’t.

“This isn’t Arkham,” Ivy finally says, “but you haven’t left.”

“What do you mean, I haven’t le—“

“I really don’t have all day, Harley.” That emotion — that near humanity — is completely gone from Ivy’s voice now. “Do you have a place to stay while you recover?”

“Yeah. I can- I can stay at Jay’s.” What does it say about her, that she doesn’t even hesitate to name the man who threw her in a vat of acid as her emergency contact of sorts?

If she was still working, she’d write a thesis on herself.

Pamela Isley doesn’t say anything else, and for a moment Harley wonders if she’s been alone all this time and her admittedly off-kilter brain simply hallucinated a beautiful, jasmine-scented supervillain for her to talk to. It wouldn’t surprise her. Nothing does anymore.

With some effort, Harley sits up and notices where she’s been laying all this time. It’s not a bed — not a normal one, anyway — but it’s soft and comfortable. It’s somehow both cool and cozy, and… alive, somehow. Like moss, but not quite. Which fits, because Pamela Isley happens to be human, almost, but not quite.

Harley doesn’t necessarily mean that in a bad way.

“What did you mean?” Harley says, looking at the blurry outline of Ms. Isley’s — Ivy’s — back. Her eyes are getting used to the light, and she’s pretty sure the current lack of focus is mostly due to her glasses being gone. “When you said I haven’t left?”

“You shouldn’t get up yet. You’ll faint, and pheromones won’t fix a cracked skull.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Do you want to call him to come pick you up?” Ivy pauses for a second, like she’s reconsidering her own words. “Does he even have a phone?”

“I—“

Harley clamps her mouth shut. She doesn’t know if Jay has a phone. She knows the exact location of every scar on his body. She knows exactly what to say and do to make him smile. She knows she can help him — fix him doesn’t sound nearly as good — and she knows she belongs with him. In his world. But she doesn’t know if he has a phone.

The giggles come before she can stop them. It’s not funny, but she’s laughing. She can’t stop. It feels almost like… like in a different life she’d be sobbing instead, but all she can do is laugh.

And it’s cathartic. Like a good, loud, heart-shattering crying session. Like a night of binge-drinking to quiet her thoughts. The laughter grows louder, shriller and more unhinged as she thinks about Dr. Harleen Quinzel no longer existing. Not just because Harley says so, but because she melted along with her glasses when Mr. Jay shoved Harley into that vat. She thinks about a job and a life she’ll never go back to. About the fact that she doesn’t know if Jay has a phone, but she knows the exact sound a skull makes when a mallet cracks it open.

It’s not funny, but she’s laughing. And when she stops, she feels different somehow. Like she’s laughed whatever was left of Harleen Quinzel away.

“Are you done?”

Pamela Isley isn’t laughing. She’s not even smiling. She’s just staring, in silence, like she either doesn’t know or doesn’t care that being in silence is a recipe for thinking. And thinking… well. There’s nothing fun about that. Can you blame her for trying to entertain herself somehow?

“So. Pam.”

“What did you just call me?”

Pamela Isley is suddenly dangerously close. It may not be jasmine after all. It’s something… earthier. She’s so close Harley doesn’t need her glasses to see the dangerous glint in bright green eyes.

Harley could push it. She tilts her head to one side, smiling faintly as she ponders what would happen if she said it again. Would Pamela Isley kill her, if Harley called her Pam again? And, more importantly, would that be so bad, all things considered?

“Sorry,” she finally says, making sure the mocking tone is audible in her voice, “I figured saving my life twice would’ve kinda put us on a first name basis.”

“Not quite.”

“Right. Well, Ms. Isley—”

“It’s Ivy!”

Pamela Isley — Poison Ivy — raises her voice. Harley swears the plants around them grow, like they’re getting ready to attack her the second Ivy orders them to.

Except she doesn’t.

Does this count as saving Harley’s life a third time? Choosing not to off her when she could’ve?

“Why do you keep saving me?”

“Excuse me?” Ivy takes one step back, and it’s like the greenery deflates just so. Like it’s all lost steam all of a sudden.

“You heard me,” Harley shrugs, carefully standing up and noticing the oversized t-shirt she’s wearing for the first time, “why do you keep doing it? Not too super-villainy of you, if you ask me.”

The more time she spends with her eyes open, the better she seems to see. Can acid burn somehow fix someone’s vision? She’ll have to tell Mr. Jay about the potential untapped marked in back-alley lasik surgery.

“I wouldn’t call myself a super-villain.”

“Your file at Arkham sure would.”

“Would it? And what does his file say?”

Harley stops staring at an exotic-looking flower to glare at Ivy instead. His file is wrong. His file is the result of a series of biased psychiatrists with questionable methods. They didn’t know him like she does. Nobody does. She’s the only one who understands.

He needs her. She can help.

“And what will yours say, Harley Quinzel?”

“I don’t have a—“

“Oh,” Ivy lets out a chuckle and it kind of feels like Harley figures being hit with her mallet might, “but you will.”

Harley licks her lips. Will she? Will she have a file at Arkham? Have a shrink sit across from her, on the other side of a bulletproof glass, and ask her what went wrong and when? Will she have to talk about Jay’s smile and his scars and the way he pressed her up against the padded wall of the interrogation room?

Will they call her call her a sociopath, too?

Probably. They’ll be wrong, though. She does feel remorse when she kills. It’s just she’d rather feel that than the absence of him.

“So don’t thank me, Harley. I never saved you.”

~*~

Harley doesn’t remember what she used to look like anymore. Harleen Quinzel may as well have never existed. It’s been three years since she fell into that vat of acid — it sounds better than saying someone threw her in, doesn’t it? — and so much has happened in her life that she can’t remember anything from before she was Harley Quinn anymore.

She’s been in Arkham… a number of times. Let’s leave it at that. She’s still with Jay. Mostly. On and off. Mostly on, though, other than that nine-month break she took for personal reasons when she went to stay with her sister Delia.

Mostly, though. Mostly, they’re on. And they’re so good when they are. Mostly. Mostly good.

You wouldn’t get it. Only she gets it. Only she gets him.

“Hey, Red?”

Ivy doesn’t even look up from whatever science-y stuff she’s working on, and Harley doesn’t really mind. They’re best pals. They don’t need eye contact to communicate.

“Why d’ya hate him?” Jay finds her new accent cute, like her higher-pitched voice and her red-and-black leotard.

“Huh?” Harley can feel Ivy’s frown even if she’s currently looking at the back of her head. “Who are we talking about?”

“Mistah Jay.”

She can feel the sour expression on Ivy’s face without seeing it, too.

“I don’t remember having said I hate him.”

“Ya don’t need to. I can just tell, y’know.”

“Can you.” Sometimes Ivy does that thing when she asks a question but her tone isn’t really question-y. Kinda cute, if you ask Harley. Over the years she’s grown to see many of the things about Ivy most people find intimidating are actually pretty dang cute.

“Yeah,” Harley stands up from her favorite moss-covered pouf (Ivy took offense last time Harley called it a beanbag chair) and sits on the edge of Ivy’s desk instead, “kinda like how ya don’t have to say it for me to know ya love me, Red.”

Ivy doesn’t smile, but her skin does. It turns this vibrant green and Harley knows it means Ivy’s smiling on the inside. It’s a whole thing. Just trust her, all right? She knows her Red.

“So. Why d’ya hate him?”

Ivy looks up from whatever botanical gibberish she’s been writing and stares into Harley’s eyes like she’s trying to read her mind.

Good thing her Puddin’s right when he says it’s mostly empty space in there, right?

Heh.

“You should’ve paid more attention when you worked at Arkham, Harley.”

Ivy stands up and leaves Harley there, dumbfounded and confused, because what does that even mean? She doesn’t even remember those months. She didn’t even think Ivy remembered. Had they ever even interacted back then? All she remembers are her… sessions, with Jay.

“Hey, wait! Come on, don’t be mean!”

Ivy rolls her eyes at Harley like she’s being overly dramatic (she isn’t), and starts collecting samples from this pots and plants.

“Why won’t you just tell me? Come on, it’s been forever, I don’t rem—“

The happy sound of a circus fanfare comes from outside Ivy’s lair, and Harley knows exactly what it means.

“Saved by the… honk, Red.” Harley winks, grabbing her mallet and putting on her hat. She can drop the subject for now. There’ll be more times. “I’ll bring ya somethin’ pretty from the heist, yeah?”

“Be safe.”

Harley’s already skipping towards the exit, but she turns around just to blow Ivy a kiss. “See? I knew ya loved me, Red.”

Ivy doesn’t just smile with her skin this time.

~*~

Harley watches the trial from the couch in the apartment she shares with Ivy and their (Ivy will deny it, but Harley knows she loves them) hyenas. It’s a happy little life. After so many years of super-villainy, switching sides has been kind of weird.

Well.

They haven’t switched completely. Just ask Batman. But they’re cool with the Batfolk now. Mostly. They promise to keep casualties to a minimum (she vaguely remembers Batman insisting on zero, but that’s a ballpark number, she’s sure) and help them catch the really bad guys, and in exchange they’re mostly free to do as they please.

It’s kind of weird, watching a trial on TV. A real trial, she means. But she figures when the person being judged is famous enough — and hated enough — it makes sense. And Gotham doesn’t hate anyone as much as they hate Jay.

He doesn’t look scared or nervous at all. Maybe he figures he’ll get out again whenever he pleases. But Bats said that’s not happening this time. Not with all the evidence Harley provided. Having bested it a dozen times herself, Harley can’t say she trusts Arkham’s security system that much. But it doesn’t really matter. She doesn’t really care.

“Ugh, commercial break. Can ya believe it?” Harley scritches Lou’s ear and nudges Bud off the couch so she can stand up. “They can call it a recess all they like, we all know the judge needed to pee.”

She chuckles to herself on the way to the kitchen for a glass of water, and on her way back her gaze lands on the carton box Bats gave her when they made their deal. The one full to the brim with everything that used to be in her and Ivy’s files at Arkham.

And she’s about to flop back onto the couch when a little tape recorder catches her attention instead. Her old tape recorder, from about two lifetimes ago, when she still wore a white coat and was called Dr. Quinzel.

“Let’s see who’s in this tape,” she says out loud as she presses the rewind button, and the two hyenas sit at her feet like they’re waiting for the best kind of treat, “maybe it’ll be Uncle Swamp Thing!”

But when the tape begins to play, the voice that fills the room is Ivy’s instead.

“Oh, jackpot!” Harley grins, muting the television to put her full focus on the preserved moment from over ten years ago. She kinda knows how the trial ends, anyway. Bats spoilered her.

“I do appreciate it, you know… the fact that you’re using a recorder instead of paper.”

Ivy sounds so different. Harley wishes she could remember the conversation, but all she has from those months are snippets of moments with him.

“Others before you had different methods. One of my previous doctors, he brought a potted plant.”

“Well, that’s nice of him, right boys? Mama loves a plant.”

“Watered it with bleach in front of me.”

Harley gasps, both at the cruelty of what she’s hearing and the fact that she suddenly has the answer to the question she asked so many times over the years. Why did Ivy hate Jay so much?

Harley looks at her bleached skin and can’t help but grin. She’s the one thing Pam loves as much as she loves her plants.

“…Doctor, your hormones are elevated. Every time you smile, you blush. Usually, I have to kiss a person to elicit such a response…”

If she could still blush, she would. She feels her cheeks burn anyway, because back then it wasn’t her girlfriend making her hormones get elevated (or whatever the Ivy from the past just said) but now… well. Now she elevates them plenty.

But more than that, she realizes, suddenly, exactly what Ivy meant when she insisted Harley could not be saved until she left Arkham. How could she really leave when Jay still owned most of her heart?

“They didn’t have double decker poptarts, Peanut. Are you sure they even exist?” Ivy interrupts Harley’s moment of reflection by walking into the apartment carrying several grocery bags and sending the boys into a flurry of excitement. “The lady at the register looked at me like I’d just asked for dragon eggs, so— wait. What are you listening to? Is that me?”

Harley nods, even if she knows Ivy can’t see her while she’s bent over leaving all the grocery bags on the counter.

“What is it? Is that from— oh.”

“Mhmm,” Harley grins, stopping the recording for now. She has the real life version of Ivy right here, so she doesn’t need the past at all. “Ya liked me already back then, huh, Pammy?”

Ivy rolls her eyes, but Harley knows. She knows she did.

“Where’d you get the tape?”

“Bats brought all that over,” Harley points in the general direction of the box, “said we can have it since we’re no longer the baddies.”

Ivy looks in the box and seems genuinely surprised when her gaze returns to Harley once again. “Our files?”

“Mhmm. All of it. Gone.”

It’s only when she tells Ivy that it fully registers for Harley, too. Their files are gone. No more Arkham.

Somewhere in her peripheral vision, she can see the trial’s back on the air. He’s going back in, and she… she wouldn’t say she doesn’t care at all. But she’s not going in with him. Her heart’s not his anymore.

She’s left.

“Pammy?”

Pam doesn’t look up from her hands as they rummage through the contents of the box, but she doesn’t need to. Harley knows she’s listening.

“Thank you.”

“Why?” Ivy looks at Harley then, frowning slightly in confusion. “I wasn’t the one who negotiated with Wayne.”

“No, I know.” Harley smiles and walks over, just to be closer. To smell the jasmine on her girlfriend’s skin. “But you saved me. A couple times. So thank you.”

And for the very first time, Harley’s pretty sure she’s figured something out before her (very smart, super quick-on-her-feet) girlfriend. Because Ivy looks at the box again, and at the muted TV where the trial is still happening, and then at Harley… and she smiles.

“You’re welcome, Harls.��

#fic #harlivy #harley x ivy #fanfic #2021 writing challenge

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sweetbertram · 7 years

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What time is it? Time for more heartwrenching lesbian mom AU!

@crucialandinert @joycecarolnotes

Donald’s first day home with his new family.

----

Gin heads up the stairs and knocks on Donald’s door to announce their presence. “Can I come in?” they ask.

“Yes,” Donald says, and Gin pushes open the door.

“How are you feeling, sweetheart?” they ask. Donald is sitting up in bed, a book propped on his knees, Iago curled up beside him. For the first time, Gin sees a faint flush of color in his cheeks and it warms their heart to see him so cozy and happy.

“I’m okay,” he says. The tray has been moved to his desk, the dishes bearing only faint traces of food.

“What are you reading?” Gin asks, picking up the tray to bring it downstairs.

“Harry Potter, it was on the shelf over there.” Donald blinks up at them. “Is – is that okay? Toni said I could read any of the books there but…” He trails off.

“It’s okay, honey,” Gin says. “We got those books just for you, of course you’re allowed to read them.”

Donald’s eyes widen even further and he looks like he’s about to cry. “J-just for me?” he repeats, his voice full of wonder. “Thank you so much, that was so kind of you, no one’s bought me books in years.”

Gin sets the tray back down and places a hand gently on his back, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades. “You’re very welcome, darling. Do you want a cup of tea? I’ve got the kettle on downstairs, I can bring you a cup in a minute or two.”

“Yes, please,” Donald says. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

“Of course not, baby. I’ll be back soon,” Gin says, picking up the tray and leaving the room.

True to their word they return a few minutes later with a dark blue porcelain mug full of chamomile tea and another nutrient shake bottle.

“The tea’s got lavender in it,” they tell Donald, setting it down on his nightstand, “and I’ve added some honey. It should help you relax a little. It’s hot, be careful. And you don’t have to drink the shake right away but make sure you do drink it, okay? You need to get some extra calories into your system.”

Donald nods. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“You’re welcome sweetheart. If you need anything else I’ll be downstairs, probably in the kitchen or my office, okay?” Gin adjusts the blanket over Donald’s thin frame as he picks up his book, and gives Iago a scratch behind the ears before they leave the room, softly shutting the door behind them.

When Donald’s sure they’re gone he lies on the bed and sobs, pressing his face into a pillow to muffle the sound. After years of crying himself to sleep he’s gotten good at crying silently, but these aren’t his usual tears – he’s not sad or afraid or lonely, he’s relieved. Relieved to finally be somewhere where he’s safe and comfortable and where he might actually have a chance to recover.

He remembers Toni’s hand stroking his hair, soft and gentle and barely touching him, and how he wasn’t at all scared that she’d suddenly grab it and pull the way his aunt had. He wraps Gin’s blanket around himself and remembers how good, how safe their hugs made him feel in the hospital. He cries and cries until he feels like he’s cried himself out and used up all his tears for a lifetime.

When he’s calmed down and his breathing has evened out again, he sits up and reaches for the mug of tea. It’s still warm, and he can feel it warming him from inside as he takes tiny sips, savoring the delicate floral tea.

I’m safe here, he thinks to himself. It’s a new feeling, a little strange, but…nice. As he drinks the tea, he looks around the room, taking it all in. There’s a poster on the wall, with pictures of different local birds, and his battered duffel bag is on the floor next to the dresser.

Suddenly Donald realizes something that nearly makes him drop his mug of tea. He places it back on the nightstand and gets out of bed, walking over to the bag. He unzips it and runs his fingers along the inside, searching for the tear in the lining. When he finds it, he sticks his hand in and digs around until his fingers close around a thin strip of paper, a printout from a Philadelphia photo booth. He pulls it out.

The pictures of him and his mother are still there, unharmed. He heaves a deep shuddering breath as his heart rate slows back to normal. For a few minutes, he looks at the pictures, seeing his much younger, happier face, and his mother, so full of life. Then, he puts it back where he found it, and returns to bed.

You’re safe here, he thinks, picking up his book. Everything will be okay.

----

A couple hours later, Gin knocks on his door again.

“Donald, honey, dinner will be ready soon,” they say. “Do you want me to bring you some food up here or would you rather eat with us downstairs?”

Donald has almost never been invited to join his foster family at the dinner table. “I’d…I guess I’d like to come downstairs,” he says softly. “If it’s not too much of a burden for you.”

“Sweetheart, we’d be happy to have you join us,” Gin answers. “Do you want me to help you down the stairs or will you be okay on your own?”

“I think I’ll be okay,” Donald says, getting out of bed. “Should I get dressed or…”

“Pajamas are fine,” Gin says. “Whatever you’re comfortable in.”

“Okay,” Donald says, and follows them down the stairs.

The kitchen, like the rest of the house, is beautiful, light wood cabinets and counters made of shiny black granite that looks like the night sky. When Gin and Donald walk in, Toni’s setting the table in a small breakfast nook, framed by a window that opens out into a wide green backyard.

“How are you feeling, Donald?” Toni asks.

“I’m okay,” Donald says softly. “Thank you so much for everything.”

“Of course, honey. We’re having salmon for dinner, with roasted potatoes and sautéed spinach, how does that sound?”

It sounds amazing, better than anything Donald’s eaten in years. He sits down in the chair Gin pulls out for him, and lets Toni fill his plate. When they’re all seated with food in front of them, Toni says, “Well, dig in!”

Donald eats slowly, tentatively, taking tiny bites. His stomach still isn’t used to so much food in a day, and he knows he’ll have a stomachache later. But as he eats the delicious garlicky spinach, he decides it’s probably worth it.

When they’ve finished their meal, Donald immediately stands up and moves to clear the plates. He does it unconsciously, a reflex from his old life. Gin stops him with a gentle hand on his wrist.

“It’s okay,” they say. “I’ll do it. Don’t worry about it. You’re here to rest and heal and recover. Sit, relax, it’s okay.” They take the plates from him and load them into the dishwasher.

“I want to be useful,” Donald says softly. “I need to earn my keep.”

“Donald, we’re not expecting anything like that,” Toni says. “You’re our son, you’re family. We love you. This is your home now, and you don’t need to earn your keep.”

Gin comes back and stands beside his chair, their hand on his upper back. “When you’ve healed up, if you genuinely want to help out around the house, we can talk about it. For now, you just need to rest and focus on getting better. Now, Toni and I always watch the news after dinner. Do you want to watch with us, or go back to bed?”

Donald takes a moment to think about it. He wants to spend more time with his new family, figure out why they care about him so much, but he’s already feeling sleepy as his starved body digests dinner.

�� “I think I’d like to go to bed,” he says softly.

“Okay,” Gin says. They go upstairs with him and tuck him in under his blanket.

“Sleep well, honey,” they say. “Toni and I are right down the hall if you have a nightmare, okay?”

Donald nods, but he knows he’ll be toughing out his nightmares alone. There’s no way he could burden his new family with that.

“Good night,” Gin says, kissing him tenderly on the forehead.

“Good night,” Donald answers as they leave the room. As soon as they shut the door, he takes his blanket and pillow and curls up on the floor. The bed is far too nice for him, and he doesn’t want to use it, in case they decide to send him away and foster another child.

His stomach is already starting to ache, unaccustomed to digesting so much food at once. He curls up on his side, arms wrapped around his torso, and tries to fall asleep.

#ari content #donald dunn #jared dunn #the sweetest purest au

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demondeanismybaby · 7 years

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I Just Need a Break Part 8

Pairing: Sam x reader, past Dean x reader

Word count: 2153

Warnings: Angst, a ton of it. TW:PTSD, vague mentions of past abuse but nothing graphic.

Summary: Trying to start a new life with Sam, it is like trying to start a car with no engine. The parts might look ok on the outside but inside everything is just wrong.

A/N: Wow, this is getting so long. Mostly this is set up for what happens in the next chapter. Read past parts here....

Part one Part two Part three Part four Part five Part six Part seven

After hours of driving, in what seemed like a fairly aimless fashion Sam pulled off onto a small gravel road. The car jostled up and down and you held onto the edge of the door. Pulling up you saw a small cabin. It wasn’t any spectacular but it looked quaint surrounded by trees with a little brick chimney peaking up from the sharply angled roof.

Sam turned to face you, “honey were home.”

You couldn’t control the words that sprang out next, “dude are you insane?”

His face faltered slightly, and you felt guilty. Thought the idea that Sam had found a place where the both of you were supposed to live like some nuclear family was worrisome. Sure, it was something out of fairy tale, the hero rescues the princess and they sail away into the sunset but you hadn’t spent most of your life hunting to know that most of the time even those ended badly. Recovering from the shock after your initial reaction you tried to reel it in.

“I’m sorry,” you smiled, “lets go check it out.”

Hopping out of the car, he walked quickly to your side to open it for you. He grabbed your hand and lead you up to the entryway of the place, the paint was flaking off slightly and you could picture when it was first painted being a deep blood red, but now it all looked a muted pastel color.

The door creaked a little as Sam jiggled the knob and used his should to force it open. He scooped you into his arms and you hit his chest lightheartedly, “What are you doing?”

Carrying you bridal style until he stepped over the threshold, he set you back down on your feet, “it’s tradition right?”

Rolling your eyes at him you added, “wrong tradition, you haven’t even proposed yet.” Your stomach dropped hastily, “I mean, not that you would it is just...” you stammered.

He, thankfully, ignored you to grab your hand again. Leading you into the tiny kitchen, then the living room, and finally the bedroom. It wasn’t anything fancy, but it did come with the basics. There was a bed, you didn’t want to imagine who slept in before you would, a couch and a small table. Plus a random assortment of other little things but it all meant you wouldn’t be sleeping on the wood floors.

“I like it.” You hugged yourself against his side, feeling that this might not be the worst situation you could imagine.

“Good,” he leaned his head on top of yours, “I think its going to be great.”

You were glad that Sam had managed to keep a stash of old stolen credit cards as you made your way through a small department store in the town a few miles away. You sat in the car and waited tensely for Sam to pick you out clothes enabling you to at least go out places and not have to wear his stuff, he was also going to grab food and other random necessities for your new place.

You tapped your finger restlessly against the window, looking out onto the empty parking lot. It was the middle of the day on a Thursday so not peak shopping hours, but being out in the open made you feel nervous. You let your mind wander back to all of the texts that you had seen on Sam’s phone from his brother. Assuming that he didn’t have a clue where you both were was not a huge comfort after what had happened.

At the squeal of metal you tensed your body, the sharp string of the door smacking against your funny bone made you yelp.

“What did you do?” It had only been Sam loading things into the car.

“Nothing, just a little jumpy still.”

He tucked your hair behind your ear. You pressed into his palm, feeling the warmth of his touch bringing you back to this crazy circumstance. You were sitting here playing house with the man you loved, you wished you could enjoy it more, making up your mind that you were going to do your best to make this work.

“Hey can I carry something,” you watch as Sam tried to balance all of the bags on his arms.

Using his foot, he kicked the backdoor closed on the car, “Nope, I got it.”

“I’ll go get the door,” you walked ahead of him doing your best to shove it open even though, clearly it liked to stick. Your pushed your weight into it and finally it swung open.

Sam started putting things down in the kitchen and put away all your new housewares. He paused, handing you a bag the plastic was starting to tear out at the bottom it was so full.

“Fashion show?” He glanced at you, his grin was innocent and you shook your head yes.

Wanting to get his attention however you started to tug his oversized shirt past your ears, you could feel static clinging to your hair, you dropped it on the floor. Letting yourself smirk as Sam eyed you with obvious interest, his tongue darted out across his bottom lip. It spurred you on to wiggle his pants off your hips. You had been forgoing wearing anything underneath the clothes so you were totally bare.

Bending, you exaggerated the movement as you got into the bag of clothes and slowly slipped on one of the tank tops he had picked out, it was snug, clinging to your body and revealing your peaked nipples. You picked through a few more items and found some denim shorts, and slipped them on. Doing a quick twirl you paused facing him, “so what do you think?”

He slid a hand along your clavicle, the tips of his fingers danced over your chest, and then he was stepping closer to you. The space between your bodies non existent. Instead of taking you right there like you were expecting he clasped his hands at the small of your back.

“Your not ready,” he leaned his face against yours.

You started to push away from him, angry tears forming, but he held tight. So you went slack against him. You knew he was right, it wasn’t only physical, you wanted to be with Sam to further erase what had been done to you. Waiting would be hard, trying to escape what had happened, but this would possibly secure your future with him.

You squirmed out of his grasp, he was peering at you his hair falling into his face and frowning, you ran your fingers through it to try and show it wasn’t out of anger you pulling away now.

“Your right, I know we should wait,” besides adding a light kiss against him there wasn’t anything to add. You grabbed the clothes that were scattered from you digging threw it and heaped them in your arms as best you could and carried it upstairs. If you felt the weight of Sam’s gaze on your back, you didn’t let it slow you down.

Night fell around the tiny home you were going to share with him, and you laid against the new sheets he had placed on the bed earlier. You copied the little floral design absently, not able to sleep but not awake enough to try setting up anymore of the house.

The bed sank down at Sam’s added weight, even though you mind had been going non-stop since the events earlier, you were calmed by the way he immediately spooned up against you. His intimacy making you feel quieted. You tried to shut down and let your mind go blank but after a few moments you started to squirm, you had a sinking feeling that as soon as you feel asleep the nightmares would start and it made your chest tighten.

Climbing out of bed you walked out of the bedroom and over to where Sam had set up the coffee maker. You pushed buttons and pulled out a filter and did what you needed to get some caffeine. After a while you could hear the steady drip, and you drummed against the counter impatient to get what you needed to stay awake. When you saw there was enough for a cup, you poured it into one of the mugs Sam had picked out, ‘worlds best dad’ it proclaimed, you shook you head.

“Coffee huh? Isn’t it little late,” you looked over the top of your mug to see him wiping a hand over his eyes and mouthing the words between a yawn.

You shook your head, miming a no, “I thought maybe I could start trying to find us a case or something nearby.”

He sat down, kicking up his feet onto the already scuffed table, watching you move around the kitchen and living room. Trying to balance the laptop, a local newspaper, and your coffee, you grimaced as you felt something wet dripping onto your foot and down the legs of your pj pants. Sam hopped up quickly, rushing over to help take your mug and bring it over to the table, then carefully sat back down.

“What?” You asked Sam, after you had seated yourself across from him, shuffling through the newsprint.

He looked at you guiltily, you had seen the strange expression on his face in your peripheral vision, it was the kind of thing that screamed ‘I’m worried’.

“So, maybe stop giving me the puppy dog face,” you were trying to keep a even expression but you knew your tone was giving it away as being more than a joke.

He pushed the laptop closed, the last thing you saw on the screen had been a headline about a man falling off the roof of a ten story building, and then you saw the shaggy hair framing the biggest frown imaginable.

“If I were making any face,” he said as you carefully avoided any eye contact, “then what it would be saying is that this is not like you.”

Debating what you next move should be, you knew you had two options, storm out which was what you wanted but would prove his point, or stay and continue having the worlds most pointless argument. Sam knew what was wrong, but couldn’t find a way to openly discuss it because everything came back to Dean. They were blood, and that was always going to be there, no matter how much he cared about you.

So you just sat, lips pressed together, and waited for him to unload all of his problems with all of yours.

“I know this can’t be easy for you, I saw what he did, ok?”

Picking up the laptop, you threw it on the ground, pieces scattered across the floor some slipping under the fridge and stove. Sam shielded his face from the plastic shards, but it just gave you an opportunity to keep smashing things, next was the little ceramic mug. The remains of your cold coffee spraying out, finally though as you heaved in breaths you felt him grab your arm as it was getting ready to throw your cell phone.

Yanking yourself away from him, you turned to level him with a harsh glare, “you saw what he did? That’s what we’re going to go with Sam?” The words were rushing out of you but even though you were pissed they were said in a whisper, “I go to sleep and I dream of it, I stay awake and it’s all I think about, and then you bring me out here in the middle of nowhere so we don’t ever have to face it.”

He actually recoiled at that, it was as if you had punched him, and in a way you wished you had. You knew you were angry but the truth was trying to pretend like you were here in this house with him because you were both so in love was wearing you down, this was nothing more than a hideout, and it was an insult to how you felt about Sam.

Calming yourself you went and grabbed the broom from the corner, it had come with the place and was so dirty you felt it defeated its purpose, then you started to sweep up piles and toss them into the garbage. Watching as the pieces tumbled in feeling that this was never going to end.

You felt his hand cusp the back of your neck, turning around and letting the broom clatter onto the floor, you wrapped yourself around him in a hug. Noticing that you were shaking slightly but you couldn’t be sure if it was residual anger or just absolute sadness.

“I don’t know how we can keep pretending that this is all happening because we finally found each other,” you pressed against him further.

“We aren’t pretending, things are more complicated, that’s all,” he said..

It was enough to have you knowing with certainty that he was going to play out the charade for a while longer.

Letting you go, he moved to finish cleaning up the mess you had made, and you bent down to help him. After a while the evidence of your outburst was gone and Sam went back into the room to lay down. You weren’t tired but you followed him anyway, and this time when you couldn’t sleep you laid there and listened to his breathing.

#sam x reader #sam x you #spn reader inserts #spn #spn angst #part 8 #tw: ptsd #My writing

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