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kylos-bens · 3 years

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Mistakes Like This ↠ Obi-Wan Kenobi (Obi-Wan x Reader)

Word Count: 2.7K

Warnings: ANGST!

A/N: Its been a while since I’ve written something but this Obi-Wan obsession came running back so here I am.

Masterlist

Chapter 2

gif credit: @ewan-mcgregor

The halls to the Jedi Library were too quiet as you strolled through them. You were recently assigned to teach a few Younglings as part of your rotation in the Jedi Temple. This week you had too much in your mind so you thought about assigning them a few readings and get on with it. After a nasty injury, a near-death experience, you were left back at the Jedi Temple to recuperate. You were alone for the most part of that and now you were just getting back to business by starting off slow by teaching Younglings. Which you never thought would actually be something that interested you but it did. You were just about to make a turn when you saw members of the Council gathered together. It was rare to see them out and about so you just slowed your pace and tried to listen in. Through the bodies, you spotted him.

Master Kenobi.

Your breath hitched and felt a twinge on the healing wound on your back. There was only a split second before you can move along and ignore that little crowd but it was too late. Your eyes already met. His furrowed eyebrows softened and those kind blue eyes lit up. The last time you saw them you were dipping in and out of consciousness laying on a snowy planet waiting for reinforcements. The only thing that kept you warm was his breath and hot tears. You were actually surprised that they didn’t turn into ice.

Immediately you just went on your way. The memories of that mission already being shoved into a deep pocket in your mind. You hurriedly make your way to the Jedi Library hoping to avoid distractions. Once inside you moved through the tall shelves and hid. Your breathing had not changed. It worried you that you would be too loud so you just bit into your arm and cried.

It has been too long. You haven’t seen him. Deep down you had guilt and embarrassment for what you confessed to him while you laid in his arms dying. The feelings that you had for him since your padawan days. His eyes were filled with tears and he kept telling you to not speak because you were straining yourself. He held you close to him telling you that they were coming. Death was approaching and your foolish self thought it was a good idea to just tell him all that. Now that you were capable of thinking correctly you realized he probably didn’t want to hear it. You’d pick death over having to face him again. He never forgets. You wiped your eyes and just took a deep breath. Foolish. You keep repeating that to yourself.

No one knows this but in the evenings while you were still recovering you would drag yourself out of the medical bay. You were already starting to feel fine and you could walk so no one really went after you. Your favorite place to sit was in the temple gardens. It wasn’t too far from where you were supposed to be so it didn’t make you lose your breath.

Sitting here now you admired the view of Coruscant. The dark velvety night sky was dotted with ships here and there, the skyscrapers like stalagmites looming over, and just the noises of the city calmed you. You pretended you weren’t a Jedi Knight but a simple citizen of Coruscant just trying to get by.

“Out of all people I was surprised to hear you didn’t miss me,” the voice broke your daydreaming. You didn’t respond and didn’t dare turn around. There was an icy silence and you could hear the soft crunch of grass underneath your former master’s boots.

“I guess I was just busy with my new duties,” you kept your eyes low and fiddled with a leaf. You did miss him but you had to lie to yourself. His presence made you nervous because this was the first time you were alone together again. You didn’t dare ask if Obi-Wan Kenobi came to visit you in the infirmary when you woke up from your induced coma. What would the nurses say? His demeanor was calm and you couldn’t help it, you gave him a quick glance. Those blue eyes were already watching you intently.

“And so I heard,” he motioned his arm to the spot beside you and you just give him a nod. Obi-Wan let out a soft breath as he sat next to you on the dewy grass. A distance that was fine for you but still you could smell him. His warm smell then filled you up and reminded you of the happier missions you went on with him. One particular memory was when the two of you shared a ride on a varactyl. You had no choice but didn’t complain because that was the first time you were so close to your master.

“How did you find me?” you asked, still keeping your focus on this damn leaf.

“I went to visit your quarters but you were missing,” he was looking at you. You felt that. “So I thought where would my young one go run off to?” When he said “young one” you felt goosebumps manifest throughout your body. He hasn’t called you that in ages. Once you became a Knight he respected your new title and called you by your name. While you, on the other hand, took sometime before you stopped calling him master. General was your usual name for him now. Even that was unfamiliar on your tongue these days. He noticed your silence. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” you replied.

“How is your wound?” he continued on. There was more silence and then started doing his signature move of stroking his beard. He took a breath and looked at you again. “I apologize that I was not there for your recovery the Council had me sent-”

“It’s fine,” you interrupted him. You were trying to keep your eyes clear of tears. There were the sounds of alarms in the distance and Obi-Wan sat there with you listening. You could swear your heart was beating so loudly. The thoughts in your head were trying to share themselves but you quelled them.

“You’re holding something back,” his voice was soft. He was doing this on purpose. You don’t answer him, just kept on playing with the leaf. His hand surprised you when he took the leaf out of it. “We can talk about it you know.” You looked at him this time. His hand is still in yours.

“We don’t have to,” you whispered.

“But it’s eating you up. I can see it in your eyes,” he matched the tone of your voice.

“It was a lapse in judgment,” you take your hand away and his own was still suspended between you two. He drops it finally at his side and runs his thumb over the leaf you were just holding. “I said stupid things because I thought I was dying yet here I am.” You said the last few words with a little disgust that Obi-Wan actually looked at you with concern. “I had enough time to think about what I said and with a clearer mind, I urge you to just forget about it.” There was more silence and it pained you. You just stared at his profile and felt a twinge in your heart. He was beautiful and even in the poorly lit garden, you can still see the details of his face. Even his hair flittered a little as a slight breeze moved through the both of you. You studied that face while you were in your briefings, eating meals, and training. Of course, you knew all about the details. As you laid in your med bay cushion you always thought about how his eyes would never look at you the same way. Obi-Wan turned his head and the lamp post gave them a sparkle.

“It is not simple for me to forget it,” he finally said. It was your turn to stare at him. “I thought you were dying in my arms. Deep within me, I felt your life force slipping away.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you were about to get up but he stopped you by gently holding your wrist.

“Please listen to what I have to say,” his voice was gentle to match his hold on you. “We’ve been parted for too long.” You sat back down and observed him carefully. The last thing he said was swirling in your mind. Obi-wan lowered his head towards you and you held your breath. “I thought about you every day.” This hits you like a wall and you thought that your lungs were being crushed. He’s just saying these things because you were his padawan. Of course, he worried about your health. You stayed still.

“Your duties didn’t keep you busy?” you used your own excuse on him.

“You don’t believe me,” he lets out a sigh. “If I could I would have stayed and watched over you.”

“We can’t,” you start. “We can’t-”

“Let me show you,” Obi-Wan holds your hand in his and guides it near his face. You were confused but then you realized what he meant. “You were vulnerable when you expressed your feelings to me. Let me do the same.” He closed his eyes and you stared at him with your hand a few centimeters away from his temple. “It is difficult for me to say in words what I mean.” Is Master Kenobi unable to find the right words? This is definitely different and your heart was trying to break through your chest “Remember what I taught you” You hesitated and was staring at his serene face. It wasn’t long till you closed your own.

It was hazy but you can decipher the figures in his memories. You were surprised at how efficient you were at finding them. He really tore down his defenses. You tried to get a closer look. The memory felt soft to your touch and the warmth surrounded you. The figures were no other than the both of you sitting by a warm fire. It must have been a mission the two of you were on. You couldn’t recall but Obi sure does. Watching yourself make something out of the wiring and spare parts looked funny. That wasn’t your forte and this definitely was before you were knighted. Your master looked on at you with a small smile on his face. With his beard, you couldn’t tell but now that you stand there in his memories you could.

“Master I do believe that I can make something out of this,” your own voice caused you to turn your attention to yourself.

“I think you could,” he averted his eyes when your past self looked at him. You remember after you told him that you spent the entire mission trying to figure something out to make. Towards the end of your mission, you were just frustrated and just took a piece of what you believe was a droid and wrapped it in a leather string. It was childish, and you thought it would be a good joke after a successful trade deal, so you made two. One for you and one for your master. You knew it would just be lost somewhere in your travels so at the end when you were on your way back to Coruscant you gave him one and showed him yours. You guys made a joke about it and you felt so proud of yourself that you are finally at this level of comfort with him. After that, you never really saw those bracelets again. Even you lost it.

The memory wavers and a new one was presented to you. Now it was just Obi-Wan. Your heart drops slightly because this memory feels recent. He looked tired and this definitely was not his quarters in the Jedi temple. It was small and looked almost like it was in one of the flagships. His outer robes were not on and he sat down on his cot. Covering his face with his hands and sighing. It could not have been the memory after your injury.

He makes a slow movement and slides his hand into the robes he removed on the bed. He withdraws a worn metal object with a brown strap. It couldn’t be.

It was the ugly bracelet you made for him.

The metal was worn and it looked like it was rubbed on for too long. Obi-Wan looked at it in his hand and brought it to his lips. Placing a light kiss on the metal and bringing it to his forehead. The sensation probably cooled him. He was starting to murmur something. You inched closer and you can almost touch him. It was your name. Then he ran his thumb over the metal. “Please heal my darling. I need you to see once more.” You backed away and watched him. The memory once again wavers and you’re trying to grasp something. The dark surrounded you and then you heard your own laugh. The sound of your humming. Your breath as you parried another lightsaber by the sound of it. Memories were faint but they flashed in front of you. They were of you from Obi-Wan’s view. The images went by of your eyes, your hair fluttering as you perfect a move that he taught you, and the way your lips formed into a smile when he praised your new learned skill.

It was overwhelming you had to remove yourself. This was way more than what you shared with him. You were back in the cool evening. The garden was now dark. It was just two bodies almost pressed together. You can hear his breathing and it was so close to you. Your eyes still lowered but you managed to look up and face him. Your wrist still in his and your fingers grazing the beard on his face. He was always already looking at you. Examining your facial expression and you can tell he was waiting for you to say something about what you saw. You couldn't, your tongue was frozen. “I didn’t know the feeling. It was foreign to me and I tried my best to hide it and not let those feelings split us up from each other.” You knew there were consequences to breaking the oath. “But when I held you in my arms that night all I wanted to do was tell you. I couldn’t because I knew you were strong and I was just trying to keep you alive.”

“Obi,” you felt a tear release itself from your eyes and down one cheek.

“Even if that meant that we couldn’t be together in a way we want to,” he searched your eyes and noticed the tear so he used his thumb to wipe it off your cheek. It lingered there and he placed it at the crook of your neck. “I just needed you to close” His forehead touched yours. Never in your life would you be this close to him. Your noses were touching and his hand gently stroked your neck.

“Knowing you I know this would not be a secret,” you whispered. “Because nothing should happen between us.” He moves his hand down to your shoulder and you stayed still as it continued on to your back where your wound was. His touch was reverent and you were staring at him.

“I have realized the moment I saw you again that I would be willing to break that expectation of me,” his lips were close to yours and you were aching to just meet them. His beard is already tickling your skin. Your hand on his face was quivering and he placed his own on it. “Darling, please.” It came out as a hushed whisper and your mind was running with thoughts.

Even if that meant that we couldn’t be together in a way we want to.

This was repeating in your head. The warm breath of your master on your lips was such an intoxicating feeling. You feel him running his fingers over your shoulder blade. Obi-Wan’s lips were just too make contact with yours when you jolted back. He released you and his eyes were saddened. Your heart at your throat as you moved away from him.

“We shouldn’t,” was the last thing you said before darting back inside the temple.

Next Chapter

#obi wan kenobi #obi-wan kenobi #obi-wan x you #obi-wan x reader #star wars #clone wars #GOD I AM BACK TO BEING A SIMP #star wars fanfiction #star wars one shot #reader insert #obi wan fanfiction #Mistakes Like This (Obi-Wan Kenobi Fic)

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sennextheassasinkingoflight · 3 years

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The Bard, The Flowers, And An Hourglass

Rated T and up for graphic descriptions of injuries' Geraskier/Gerlion featuring a cameo by Regis Cross posted to Ao3

Jaskier hated it. He absolutely without a doubt loathed when the witcher took a dangerous contract and refused to let him come along. Never mind that he hadn't even told him where he would be and therefore where to look if he didnt come back. Normally Jaskier would just trust that Geralt was not going to get himself killed and he would play his lute, sing, dance and be merry until the witcher returned. Not tonight. Tonight could not be any more cliche in his mind.

He stood in the darkened room he was renting and stared out the dirty window waiting for the witchers return. The skin around his nails ached from being picked at and torn while he stared out the window into a dark and writhing tempest. The sky rent open with lightning and the wind ushered to and fro by thunder. The clouds in the sky swirled forebodingly and ominous moving as restless as Jaskier soul. The witcher had seemed concerned about this contract. Something had to be off about it, of that Jaskier was certain. He had informed Jaskier that he would be gone for a minimum of 4 days. It was the fifth night and there was no sign of the witcher.

Jaskier had spent the last three nights playing music. That was his profession after all, no sense in squandering opportunity. He had played the fourth evening as well, though not as late. When Geralt hadn't returned, he'd walked to the town gate and waited in the dark, cloak pulled tight against the sting of spring air. He hadn't slept since against his better judgment and failed attempts.

He couldn't recall all of the details, only that Geralt would have to pass through a very old swamp on the edge of a lake, likely filled with drowners, echinops (if the rumors he'd heard were true) and a variety of other things he didn't want to think of. Of course Geralt could have gone around it, since his contract was to take out an Archgriffin that was pestering a number of farms at the base of the mountain range and near the edge of the swamp. Instead the Witcher was, Jaskier was very certain, being foolish and going straight through it instead of around like all of the normal sane people. Jaskier could hear the excuse clearly in his head, "I need to know how bad the swamp is. Might need to bring the others next spring." Of course Geralt would. How dare he just do the task at hand and move on. For all his airs he really was a good man, better than the people gave him credit for and better than most deserved.

So now, Jaskier is staring out the window of his room in the middle of the night as the first of the spring storms rage, waiting for the bastard to come back. With a sigh and worried eyes, Jaskier pushes away from the window and paces the length of the drafty room instead. The fire roaring in the hearth doing nothing to stave off the chill of rain and night, or the dispare growing every hour in his gut. It sends chills down his spine, so he tries to focus on anything but his missing friend. Maybe he got laid up by the weather, that was certainly a possibility. Still, that it was going to take him 4 days to complete the contract had seemed odd, and he had hoped that it would be significantly less time. Instead it had been the opposite.

The distractions he attempts to conjure don't last long. His mind is fixated on the witcher, not uncommon these days, he thinks. He returns to his vigil and watches the darkness on the edge of town. It's nearing 2 in the morning and he knows he really needs to sleep. He can feel it in his body. He's too tightly wound to try though so he remains at his self appointed post. He blinks bleary eyes and squints at movement caught on the edge of darkness. He turns his head to follow the shape more fully.

"That looks like Roach” His mind supplies as the shape takes the form of a horse and single rider, a silhouette against the black of night. “Oh no." He tears across the room, down the hall and takes the steps two at a time. He pulls the inn door open and darts into the downpour without a second thought. He sprints through the mud slipping and sliding all the way. By the time he reaches the witcher and his stead, his fears begin to come true. Geralt is injured, badly and barely astride Roach. Panicked he does everything he can to keep Geralt in the saddle until they reach the stable. There is nothing but the deafening roar of wind and thunder in his ears, the hammering of his heart in his chest as the rain stings his face. Inside the stable Geralt falls uselessly from Roaches saddle and the stablehand, woken by Jaskiers shouts, jumps to action tending to the mare. He can see that her rider is badly injured, blood oozes from a tear in his armor, and he can’t even stand upright. Jaskeir ducks under Geralt's arm and uses his own around the witchers back to support him. It’s everything he has to get the man to their room, he's practically dragging him along by the time they reach the top of the stairs. Geralt's legs have gone limp and he’s barely standing. Huffing with exertion, Jaskier barely manages to get the white haired man to the chair and starts undoing his armor with dexterous fingers and practiced ease, before he slumps unconscious. This is the epitome of not good. Jaskier will have to go for a healer, but first he will do what he can to stop the bleeding. The armor comes away quickly followed by Geralt's undershirt and the flickering light of hastily lit candles is not enough to tend to the mottled, torn, and bloodied flesh of his friend. Jaskier pushes down the horror in his throat and investigates the wounds as well as he can. The gash is long, it stretches from right hip bone up and over Geralt's left shoulder, diagonally across his chest, and stops just under his shoulder blade. There are large chunks of skin and muscle torn away and flapping loosely now that armor and shirt have been removed. And Jaskier is certain he can see Geralt's ribs; and is that what a stomach looks like? He swallows against the nausea that assaults him at the sight and sets to cleaning the wound. He bites his tongue and clenches his teeth to keep from vomiting as he works. The wound will be bandaged and he will administer a dose of Swallow and then go for a healer. This is the only thing Jaskier can do for his friend now.

Geralt opens his eyes and groans with the pain, which is a good sign. Quickly Jaskier pushes the vial of Swallow, the most important potion, the only potion Geralt had actively taken the time to show him and explain about, to the witcher's lips and he drinks understandingly. His eyes are hazy and Jaskier knows that he needs to get him to the bed now or he will be lying on the floor to recover, so he resumes his position under Geralt's shoulder and tugs until the larger man pushes himself to his feet and stubbles in the direction Jaskier leads him. It's everything he can do to keep his injured partner upright so he can bandage the wound and as soon as he is done he heads back out into the onslaught of rain and wind. There isn’t time to consider that donning his cloak would have been wise. Instead he rushes in the direction of the town's healer. It had not taken him many weeks of traveling with the witcher to learn that the first thing he should do upon arriving in a new town was inquire as to where the healer lived. And this time, like so many times before it had become a piece of information he wished he didn’t need. As he ran through the muddied streets he slipped and fell into the water and mud, dirtying his stockings and doublet. He was completely drenched, shivering and covered in filth by the time he made it to the house. Knocking loudly and insistently his teeth rattled in the cold and his knees knocked together. After what felt an eternity the man opened the door. One look at the bard and he knew the witcher was injured. Jaskier was invited to stand in the entryway while the physician dressed quickly and haphazardly and gathered his supplies. “How bad is the injury?” He asked, calm and composed in the face of emergency. “It stretches from the back of his shoulder across his chest to his right hip bone. I- I can see his ribs in places and I think his stomach. I did my best to clean and bandage it before I came but I’m not a healer.” He stutters out between involuntary shivers.

Regis, it turns out is rather spry despite his looks and old age and they make it to the inn rather quickly. Despite the speed of their travel the doctor too is soaked and shivering when they arrive. It doesn’t stop him from following quickly and silently on Jaskies heels as he takes the stairs two at a time and jogs down the hall to their room. Jaskier steps to the side and stays out of the way as the physician moves towards his patient. Only, in the shadowy and flickering light of the room it almost seems like a predator advancing on prey, and in a way he supposes that is exactly the nature of physician and patient. When Regis asks him to bring the other chair over to the bedside to act as a makeshift table he does so without hesitating. It’s easy to follow the orders of someone so calm.

Regis is the epitome of calm under pressure. He doesn’t flinch away from the carnage of Geralt's torso, doesn’t blink at the vast quantities of blood loss. The physician doesn’t so much as sweat as he works. Finally, Jaskier thinks to inform him that he gave the witcher a vial of swallow, that he knows that another needs to be administered in 4 hours. Geralt had been clear with him about this. It was important when they were on the road miles from help. The witcher hadn’t wanted to disclose the information at all. He had wanted the bard to leave him be and go away, but when it was clear that that wasn’t going to happen and he had been injured a little too seriously one to many times, he accepted that he had help and gave up the information begrudgingly. Regis only hums at him, sideburns twitching with the motion. Jaskier can’t keep up with anything that the man is doing, he moves almost inhumanly fast. But now, as he finishes cleaning the wound his face draws grimm and he looks to the distressed bard. Jaskier swallows, he knows this look. He has seen it before on physicians and healers when someone is near death. He runs a shaky hand through dripping hair and pushes it out of his face, waiting. The action does nothing to calm his nerves. “There is an ingredient I need if I am to save his life. But I do not have it, nor is it found in this town.” Jaskeir blinks dumbly at the man, opens his mouth to say something and closes it. “In fact, I do not believe they keep it in our sister town.” “What is it? What do you need?” Desperation colors his words dripping with despair as he looks wildly between the healer and the witcher. “There is a cliff just under an hour's ride from here, at the top of the cliff is a field. In the field grows orange lilies. I need three of them, root and all. It is the only way I can think to ensure he survives. He may as it is, being a witcher, but the chances are slim. This wound is deep and I fear infection has already settled in, his heart is weak.” “I’ll go. I can get them. I’ll leave now.” He says already moving around the room, gathering what he might need. “The road will take you through the edge of the swamp. Then you must climb the cliff face, there is no path to the top. And Bard,” He turns to meet Regis eyes, they flicker in the candle light and it sends a shiver of fear down his spine. His feet stay planted to the ground where he is and he waits, unmoving, for Regis to finish. “He doesn’t have long, no more than three hours. And the magic in the lilies will only last for one, once they have been uprooted.” He stares at the man, this harbinger of death. He is no physician, he is Charon waiting to usher the dead to the afterlife. Still, this is the best chance he has at saving his friend, the man he loves. With a firm nod he gathers his knife and cloak and a bag to put the flowers in and turns back to Regis. “Three hours?” The physician gives a nod, and as if summoned by magic, produces an hourglass. It was larger than a normal one and Jaskier suspectes it is magic. With a grim smile Regis turns it and the time begins. The physician set back to work and Jaskier raced to Roaches side. +++++ “Roach my dear, I am so sorry about this, but I need your help. You and I both know that Geralt is right and Pegasus is slow as molasses. You’ll help me won’t you? To save Geralt.” His voice is harsh with worry. He knows that Geralt speaks to her often and he has no idea if she even understands but she is amenable to him as she stomps, almost impatiently and whinnies. He moves quickly to saddle her and she's ready to move as soon as he climbs into the saddle.

The rain drops stings like bolts of fire as they pelt against his exposed skin. He squints against the wind and the thousands of ice spears. It’s everything he can to keep hold of Roaches reigns, his fingers have long since gone numb. The road is dark before him and Roach gallops onward into the void before them, following the road as it turns and bends and finally dips into the swamp. He doesn't have time to be concerned with wolves or other creatures of the night. He doesn’t have time to fear what he does not know, or the possibility that he may need to fight the creatures of the swamp. He leans forward over the mare's chestnut mane and ignores the pain in his joints from the cold, or the whipping around of his clothes and hair as the wind sends shutters through the trees. Blowing over those too old and rotten to stand strong against the gales. Branches fly around him and he knows that he is insane. That this entire quest is insane and yet he can’t bear the thought of Geralt dead. Of not having at least tried to save him by gathering the lilies. There is no room for fear or thought as he focuses on trying to remain alive and press on towards the cliff. Steam rises off Roach in puffs of mists. Her nostrils flare and blow steam as she snorts at the shadows surrounding them. The woods are alive and foreboding caging them in on both sides; he doesn't know the road but he knows to keep going. He prays to the gods that he makes it, that Geralt makes it. And presses onwards ignoring the feeling of being watched, of being stalked. Roach seems to know what is happening and carries him quickly out of the grasp of enemies he cannot see. Though he can feel the brush of claws, the breath of a monster too close to his flesh.

Finally the cliffs come into sight and Jaskeir could whoop with glee. He stumbles as he dismounts and barely manages to steady himself by placing a hand on Roaches shoulder. He aches muscles tight from the ride and the constant shivering. He adjusts the now soaked satchel over his shoulder and the dagger he had brought with him in its sheath. Hesitantly he assesses the cliffside and shudders. Slowly he wraps his arms around himself to brace against the cold and his fear. There is no way he can scale the cliffside, none at all. He doesn’t know what he was thinking. Sure he had to try, but now he was here in the dark and the cold and the wind swirling around him and he knows with numb fingers and toes he can’t even attempt to climb the cliffside. It's sheer and steep and flowing with waterfalls and rivulets of ice cold water. Looking at it he isn't even certain he has the strength to climb it.

He steps forwards towards the cliff and stretches out a shaking hand. “Get a grip Jaskier. If you don’t do this… if you don’t do this, Geralt will die. You have to try. You have too.”

Slowly he steps forward and stretches up, taking hold of the moss covered rocks and sharp edges and pulling himself up. He pushes up with his feet and they to find footholds. Craning his head backwards he tries to look for the next handhold and fails, the rain stinging his eyes. Instead he closes them and reaches blindly. He looks down and gets an idea of where he can put his feet to support his weight, but knows he can’t let himself think about how far he could fall. He swallows down his nervousness, fingers convulsing around the rock ledge in his hand. As he climbs he recites tales he had heard ages ago to himself. He needs to keep his mind focused but his heart hammers in his chest and his breathing comes out in ragged puffs as he pulls himself further up the cliffside. He’s halfway up when his worst fear seems as though it will come true. He loses his grip with his right hand and left foot simultaneously. He screams and scrambles to find purchase anywhere among the rough and jagged edges. He feels stone slice into the palm of his left hand as he manages to catch his right foot on an outcropping of stone.

He pulls himself as close to the solid formation of the cliff, irregular edges digging into his chest and hips. He rests his forehead against the stone and gulps down lungfuls of air. Rainwater drips down his neck, trails down his spine and shivers again. When he has settled himself enough he begins climbing again. He tucks his chin to his chest and grits his teeth against the exhaustion and the pain. The ends of his fingers are beginning to come raw as the calluses of many years playing are pulled away from the skin. His muscles twitch with every heave and pull against gravity as he lifts himself inch by inch up the side of the cliff. Finally he pulls himself over the edge and onto a bed of soaking wet grass.

With his eyes closed he breathes deeply forcing his heart rate to steady. He can’t feel the rain as it falls against his skin or the brush of grass. He can’t feel the wind whipping around him slicing into his skin. It takes every ounce of his consciousness not to fall asleep where he is and to sit up instead. He casts his gaze around the clearing, skin buzzing with electricity as he crawls towards the blossoms whisking in the wind, twisting, twirling and fluttering to and fro. When he reaches the nearest one he pulls the knife out and sets to work cutting the flower from the ground and shoves it into the satchel. He repeats the process twice more and makes his way back to the cliff edge.

Fear causes him to hesitate with his legs over the edge. The ground is very far away and he can barely make Roach out among the trees below him. He bandages his palm as best he can and turns onto his stomach. He doesn’t have a choice now. He must climb back down the cliff and he knows that the trip down will be far more difficult than the climb up. His feet slip at the initial contact of sole against stone and it takes a moment for him to regain his composure and try again. The rain slick rocks and hurricane like wind around him distract him from the slowly lightening sky. Looking down he tries to move quickly finding holes for his feet and ledges for his hands. He slips several times as the burning in his fingers and toes and calves increases. Still he pushes himself to climb faster. He doesn’t know how long he has been gone, but he knows he has been gone too long already.

Roach snorts below him and he turns his head over his shoulder to see her, but can’t make out what has her distraught as she stomps around and circles. He hadn’t tied her up, she was too well trained to go wandering far. Turning his head back to the stones he seeks out another foothold and misses, the ache in his shoulders is too much and he falls. Spots color his vision as he looks up at the cliffside, the coppery taste of blood sits on his tongue and his side aches. The throbbing in his arm catches his attention and he manages with a hoarse groan to look at it. White bone, covered in blood sticks through the sleeve of his doublet. The darkness consumes him. When he comes too Roach is nuzzling his forehead and prodding at his chest. He raises an arm to bat her away or pet her and yelps. It comes back to him in a rush, Geralt, the climb, the fall, and the time constraint. Looking at the sky he notes that it is still dark, It’s a good sign, but he has lost time. Agony threatens to rip him apart as he forces himself to his feet. He cradles his arm close to his chest and struggles to mount Roach. They need to fly, speed is the only thing that will save Geralt now, and that's all that matters to Jaskier. All this time and he had never told the man how much he meant to him. That he loves him. Choking back tears of heartbreak and physical pain, he nudges Roach into a trot and then a gallop. It is excruciating, every jostle, every movement in time with her steps sends ripples of pain from his arm to his brain. He bites down on his lower lip until he draws blood to keep from crying out. The swamp seems more dangerous now than it had before and he isn't sure why. The tempest has begun to die down and he can see that the road is clear. The shadows surrounding it are still, eerily so and he flicks his eyes hither and there attempting to scan for danger. He knows that anything predatory can likely smell his blood and fear and so he tries to calm himself. It’s no use his stomach is in knots, he’s exhausted, his best friend is dying and he might be too late to save him. All he can do is lean forward on Roach and pray for a miracle. A felled tree on the road threatens to bar their way but Jaskier nudges Roach on and she jumps it with ease. He screams, his arm, his ribs, his head and all of his muscles protest the movements and nothing but adrenaline is keeping him going. Nothing but the knowledge that if he does not get there that Geralt will die, and he likely will too. He nearly slips from her saddle as the pain keeps him from focusing on the necessity of riding. Finally the town begins to come into view and Roach seems instinctively to go faster. The poor girl is at her breaking point; he's certain, as cold and wet as he is, exhausted from carrying Geralt and himself and still despite her heaving breaths and frothing mouth she carries on dutifully. Absently he thinks to make sure she is given extra oats and to sneak her some sugar cubes or an apple or two when Geralt isn't looking.

He slips from her saddle much the same way Geralt had and when the stable hand sees him he cuts off his ranting and stares. Jaskier moves past him and knows that he will attend to Roach, he will pay the man well tomorrow. There are more important issues to be dealt with now. He pushes himself along the wall, vision swimming and crawls up the stairs and down the hall. At their door he pushes himself to his feet and unlatches the door. Regis looms before him just on the other side. The man's eyes flash over him and he steps back to let the bard in. “How is he?” Jaskeir manages strained and hoarse and stuttered by exhaustion as he removes the satchel and hands it to the physician. He looks at the hourglass and lets out a heavy sigh, there is still sand in the top. He had made it. “Alive yet. Change and sit by the fire. I’ll tend you next.” Moving on instinct Jaskier does as he is told. He feels compelled to obey this man and so he struggles out of his soiled clothing and pulls on a long night shirt and sits in front of the fire. He could sleep if not for the pain and the fear still echoing in every fibre of his being. Regis is grinding the flowers, adding water and other ingredients. The movement makes Jaskiers head swim and he leans over on the floor, stretches out on his back and takes deep breaths. When he wakes the sun is high in the sky and Regis is sitting at the table calm and collected and dressed differently than he had been. There is a pillow beneath his head and a mountain of blankets over him. Taking a moment to gather himself Jaskier sits up using his unbound arm. His head is no longer swimming and he takes that as a good sign. “Geralt?” He tries and fails but Regis looks at him knowingly. He doesn’t have a voice, he can feel the constriction in his throat. He has a cold. He sniffles and stares at the grey haired man.

“The Witcher will be fine, and so will you. You made it in time. Though you seem to have done some substantial damage to yourself in the process.” Ancient eyes bore into him as they pointedly look to his arm and chest and then back up. Jaskier feels the need to join him at the table so slowly he finds his feet and wobbles unsteadily to the empty chair across from him. He braces on its back and manages to find his way into it without collapsing too much. Leaning forward he rests his weight on his good arm, and holds the other protectively to his chest. “Fell on my way back down the cliff.” “I can tell.” The physician lips quirk up on the corners. “You have several broken ribs and your side and back are bruised heavily. You're lucky not to have fallen further or you would be unable to walk.” The man pours him a glass of water and he takes it gratefully. Sitting back he sips at it thoughtfully and lets his gaze slide past him to Geralt. “He may stay unconscious a few days, I recommend poppy milk and bed rest until he is completely healed. Perhaps more of that potion of his.” Nodding slowly he manages to croak, “There wasn’t much time left in the hourglass.” “No. But there was enough.” That isn’t as reassuring as he would have liked it to be. His throat constricts with an ache and tears threaten to spill down his face. It has been a very long couple of days and he wants nothing more than to curl up beside the witcher and sleep. But there are things he must do today. He must speak to the stable hand and thank him, and to the innkeeper as well. “The stablehand and the innkeeper came to check on you both this morning. He seemed overly concerned about you, and he thought that the innkeeper should make sure he didn’t have two dead patrons in his establishment. He thought you were a ghost when you came in soaked through, pale, and with a bone sticking out of your body. They’ve agreed not to bother you until tomorrow at my insistence.” “Thank you, Regis. Uhm…” “Yes?” Blue eyes drift to his broken arm, his strumming arm. “How long until I can play again? I will be able to play again, right? And how long do you think Geralt will be,” he coughs hard and his eyes water as his ribs move freely despite the bandages around his waist, “ Unconscious?” He wheezes out. “Give your arm six to eight weeks. It will take time for the bone to heal properly. You should also wear it in a sling. I’ve treated several witchers before and each healed differently. It could be a couple days or it could be over a week. He was badly injured. The lillies and Swallow will do their jobs. I had best be going, I have other patients to see but I’ll be back to check in tomorrow morning. If he starts to wake, give him two drops of this.” The physician waves a vial of white liquid in front of him and he nods, “Take some too if you need. A drop only.” And with that the physician leaves. Mustering enough energy, Jaskier stands and makes his way to the bed on shaky legs, he sits beside the witcher and runs fingers through milk white strands. He doesn’t have the energy to cry so he lays down and sleeps instead. ++++++++ It’s three days before the witcher wakes and when he does he is on high alert. Regis has gone for the day and Jaskier is sitting at the table picking at lunch and trying to compose song lyrics. It’s much harder without his instrument. Looking up at the rustle of fabric Jaksier locks eyes with Geralt as he sits up and reaches for a sword that isn’t by the bed. “Geralt!” He yelps and the witcher blinks at him. “Jaskier” rasps the older and still badly injured man, “How did I get back here. Who has been here? It smells like…. A vampire?” Geralt's gasps and reaches for his chest. And then looks back to the bard taking him in. “What happened to you? And why am I not dead.” “A vampire, Geralt. I think you’ve hit your head. The only other person to be here is Regis, the town physician. Roach brought you back unconscious and injured four days ago. You’ve been unconscious since. You were nearly dead, Geralt,” He chokes and breathes in deeply through his nose, fights back the aching that the words leave in his chest. “I had to go and get an ingredient he needed to save you. Orange lilies but they only grew at the top of a cliff and I fell on the way back down. I’m alright though, just a broken arm and some banged up ribs. You on the other hand. Dear gods what happened, I could see your ribs, and your organs.”

The walk to the bed isn't a long one and he makes it much more steadily than he had the first few days. Regis had come back with some herbs for his cold and it had cleared up miraculously fast. In part, Regis said, to the herbs, and in part to the amount that Jaskier was sleeping. It was a lot, even he acknowledged that, but it felt good and he was content to lay beside Geralt and hear his heart beat steady and rhythmically in his chest. Very much alive and not dead.

“God, I was worried you’d die. You can't ever do that to me again Geralt. Do you understand? I don’t think I could handle it if you died like that. Bleeding out in my arms. I can’t. Geralt… Geralt why are you looking at me like that?” “You could have died saving me.” “Yes but I didn’t.” He can’t help the sweet smile that graces his lips, it's small and sad but he wants to convey everything he can in it. “You could have, and I don’t think I could handle that too well now.” “And why is that. Am I finally worthy of being considered your friend?” He doesn’t mean for it to be a jab, or to cause pain, but it does and he can see it in Geralt's golden irises, pupils shrunk to avoid the light, it’s so utterly enthralling he can’t tear his gaze away until calloused fingers brush his cheek. “Youre so much more than that to me.” Geralt whispers, agonizingly soft in the midday light of the room and Jaskiers heart beat picks up, hammering in his chest. He wonders if the witcher can hear it, rattling around in there like it has far more room than it actually does. But then Geralt continues and he could shout for the joy that fills his being. “And I wonder, if I am to you.”

Every pretense went out the window. Every reason he believed he couldn’t have this, that it would never exist, that it wasn't a good idea went with it, because in that moment, in that room, sitting beside one another all that mattered was the truth and so he spoke, truely and clearly. “You are. I would have died happily to save you because I love you, Geralt.” Any further words are hushed by uncertain, dry chapped lips, against his own. It’s not the best kiss he has ever shared, but it is the most important.

#The Witcher #Geralt of Rivia #Jaskier/Dandelion #Gerlion #Geraskier #Regis #Angst with a happy ending #First kiss #Love Confessions #Fanfiction #Ao3

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starkeristheendgame · 4 years

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hey!! im really sorry to bother but i really love your writing & saw that you were taking prompts!! i was wondering if you could do one where tony has a sort of kink for calling peter ‘kid’ in a way, if your comfortable of course! sorry if my English isn’t the best!

I’m so sorry that this got buried to the bottom of my inbox! I hope you’re still around and that you get to see this, and I’m so sorry again that it drowned! I hope you enjoy it and I can only apologise if you hate it 😂

Also; please, please don’t ever apologise for your verbal or lingual ability. Learning another language is hard, and English is noted as one of (if not the most) hardest languages to learn. Being bi/multi-lingual is something to be insanely proud of!

I hope you don’t mind, but all of my prompts recently have been in canon universe, so this is a neighbours AU with no powers. In which Tony is a rich ex-businessman who just wants to tinker on old cars in his (not) retirement and Peter is the high school kid that won’t leave him alone.

TW: ‘Kid’ kink (the term) | Underage character | Underage (SS&C) sex | Daddy kink

Someone had bought the house next to his over the half-term. Peter knew this because the sale sign went down and the garden was immediately de-turfed and a notice was posted through everyone’s door on Wayforest Road that ‘minor construction’ would begun within the next two weeks, from 8am to 5pm daily, save for Saturdays and Sundays.

Peter wanted to laugh in - and then punch - the face of whoever decided to term it minor. Abruptly on the following Monday, almost a full half-hour before his alarm was due to go off, Peter was awoken by deep, loud voices and the clanging of scaffolding poles as the workmen arrived.

Groaning did nothing. Neither did flopping about pathetically on his bed like a beached fish. Burrowing under his duvet and his pillow was also a lost cause; he’d left his window open to keep his room cool in the night.

Seething, Peter flung himself from bed, turned off his alarm, and hopped in the shower. The workmen were gone when he came back, but the house was now a big, ugly grey thing besides his own, and he paused on the sidewalk to eye it mulishly. “If you’re another crabby old man; I’m not helping you walk your groceries up to your porch” he announced loudly to the empty house, and scuttled away to the safety of his own home after being eyed balefully and judgmentally by Mrs. Witkin’s cat.

At the dinner table, the new house and its new occupants were all Aunt May seemed to want to talk about, despite the way Peter’s face resembled less of his usual ‘ :) ‘ and more of a ‘ -.- ‘ as she went on, guessing the features of their new neighbour animatedly around mouthfuls of mashed potato.

Tuesday morning found him jolting awake to a shout of “Jim! Jim! For fuck’s sake, Jim, get tha’ fuckin’ plank!” In a thick, overly loud Irish accent.

By Friday, Peter was ready to forgo just a punch to the face, and was willing to commit all out, planned murder. At somewhere around seven-am every morning that week, the workmen had woken him up with their clanging and their shouting and their existing. Friday evening he stomped around the corner with a glower, fingers tight around his backpack straps. Not even Mrs. Witkin’s mean old cat could deter him from scowling at the house the entire way to his door.

Town rumours be damned; that cat was just old and judgemental, like half the residents there. It was no trapped old lady or cursed young Prince.

Hopefully.

Peter crossed himself on his porch quickly just in case. It could never hurt to be a little superstitious. Especially not after the day that Mr. Herald proclaimed himself immortal and was then promptly wiped out by the tree in his yard collapsing.

By the following Monday, Peter caved and stayed at Ned’s for the night, for the first time in his entire life thankful to hear the music of his alarm and not a series of clangs or yells. It was even good enough that Ned’s snoring didn’t disturb him as much as it usually did. He felt chipper, refreshed. Right up until he turned the corner and found his street lined with vans, the workmen a little late finishing.

The next two months were cesspit of noise and strange men and sleepless days off. Apparently the person who had bought the house must’ve only liked the area and nothing about the house at all, because by week three, all that remained of it was the bare skeleton, gutted and stripped and ugly. But Peter was willing to concede that his new neighbour had good taste.

By the end of the second month the house had been entirely re-built, and Peter was convinced that his new neighbour was some very famous or important person looking for a secret hideaway, or a mob boss. There was no other logical explanation. What had once been a decent but generic detached property with a neglected garden was now a mini-mansion of sorts, all soft creams and light earth tones, with a stonewall front and staggered steps that led onto a half-gravel and half-grass front yard.

Large paned windows were already lined with thick curtains and plants and a sweeping gravel-scape led to a large garage, that seemed to be the most work of the renovation. It was huge, probably taking up over half of what used to be side garden and dead grass. No fence bordered the property, but the difference between Peter’s space and the new person’s space was immaculate and definitive.

“Huh” he mused aloud, blinking. Suddenly, he was less irritated at all those lost half-hours and more curious about who was going to be living there. They had money, for sure. Inheritance? Insurance claim payout? Illegal happenings? Aunt May’s two joking theories were suddenly looking less of a joke and more genuine possibilities.

As it would happen, Peter wouldn’t actually find out for another three or so months. The man moved in on a Saturday, quietly and with a small fleet of sleek SUV vehicles and fancy moving vans. Peter enjoyed a lazy morning, napping until the start of the afternoon and basking in the summer warmth, stretching in front of his bedroom window and looking down in time to see the last of the delivery and moving people packing down their vehicles.

Peter eyed all the bodies curiously, but it soon became clear none of them were his new neighbour, because they all stood around, flipping through paperwork, and then promptly left. Peter lingered under the pretence of dusting at his window ledge, but the street was quiet and empty.

Aunt May was anything but quiet when he finally dragged himself downstairs in search of food. “Peter! Morning, honey. Did you see the vans outside? Very fancy. Big enough for bodies, too, though” May hummed, flipping through the book she was currently reading.

Thirty Ways To Revive Your Youth.

Peter grimaced, and begun to rummage through the cupboards. “Not to question your intelligence, but. Why would a mob boss carry around his victims? Like a few teeth or knuckles ought to serve as good souvenirs. I don’t think carting around whole bodies is practical” Peter pointed out, settling on fruity oatmeal. Aunt May paused in her reading, nose twitching to adjust her glasses as she considered it.

“Hm. Point. Unless they bought the house because they run out of burial room, and these are fairly recent bodies they need the new soil for” she pointed out, and Peter pointed his spoon at her as he passed.

“Point” he agreed.

And so the weeks passed, but the mystery remained. No matter what time Peter tired to linger, or how early he awoke, his neighbour never seemed to be around. Here and there he would catch a figure roaming past the windows, kinda like a ghost, but never a clear view or a face. It was vastly disappointing, but his interest didn’t wane over the months that spanned between his rueful lack of sleep and now.

Now being a hazy Saturday morning, warm but not overly stuffy. Peter was coming back from a morning at Ned’s wherein they’d been steadily chewing away at the LEGO Galactic Supership. He was halfway down the street when a large trailer vehicle begun to drift down the street steadily, heading straight in Peter’s direction.

He paused on the sidewalk, watching it with interest. It was a transportation vehicle, and as it drew closer Peter could see there was a car on the back of it, heavily clamped down and chained to make sure it wouldn’t roll off. The vehicle passed him by some, and he got a clear view of the other car. It looked old, a little broken, rusted. Huge, though. Bigger than all the cars he’d seen before.

It pulled up right outside his neighbours house. Sensing an opportunity, and genuinely curious, Peter lingered, taking a few steps across the sidewalk to eye the car. It was a glossy red, though it had sun fade and was patchy. The chrome was glossy in places and dull, rusted in others. One headlight was missing.

The door of the cab opened, and Peter turned on his heel to see the driver getting out. The friendly greeting died on his lips as toned, thick thighs slid from the cab, followed by trim hips and a long, solid torso only half-hidden under a tank-shirt and overshirt. Broad shoulders prefaced the hottest man that Peter had ever laid eyes on.

He had a shaped jaw that was cut by stubble in a unique style that Peter had never seen anyone wearing before. He had sharp cheeks and dark, deep eyes with long lashes, tanned but not exactly browned and dark, dark hair with the barest flecks of grey at the roots, at his temples.

The man seemed surprised to find him there, pausing mid-way through pushing the door shut and peering around the street before looking back at him. One shaped brow lifted, and Peter stumbled to remember his manners, thrusting out a hand.

“Hi, Mister. Sorry - I was looking at the car. Is it for the new house?” He asked, forcing himself not to blush under the intense gaze. After a brief pause, the man took his hand, palm large and slightly rough, grip firm. He was even more attractive up close, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark lips and the strong scent of motor oil and grease.

“Would seem that way”.

And Ho-ly voice. Deep and with the softest of rumbles, soothing like a thunderstorm in the far distance. Peter clutched at his jacket when their hands dropped, coughing politely to hide whatever facial expression he’d pulled. The man strode past him and to the car, beginning to work on the many safety straps and chains.

“Did they…Is this theirs?” Peter asked after watching him quietly for several moments with a gesture towards the house besides them. Peter had discovered the house had a second parking bay on the other side, where a glossy black muscle car from the 60′s never seemed to move.

“Theirs’?” The man echoed, pausing in his movements to look up at Peter with curious amusement. It occurred to him then that it was likely some random car recovery guy had seen his new neighbour(s) before he had.

“Uh…Well. I’ve never actually seen them. So I don’t know if its one person, or a whole family, or…” Peter trailed off meekly, looking over his shoulder at the building. It looked as empty as it always did, no lights on and no figures moving behind the windows.

“Townsfolk say its some celebrity having a breakdown. Others say its some old widow using her husband’s life insurance. Even heard from someone that its a mafia lord, settling down in the middle of some quiet ass nowhere town” the recovery man grunted, hauling on a thick, heavy chain. Peter flushed.

Yeah. He was…Guilty of some pretty crazy guesses. But come on. Someone buys a house, spends upwards of hundreds of thousands doing it over, and then…Nothing. No new faces at the grocery store. Never seen, or even heard. Like a ghost.

“They’re not big fans of being…Seen. I guess? I mean, I know a guy with groceries comes around every Monday. Sometimes multiple times a week, but he always puts them in the garage and leaves. And this town is full of judgemental old people - Half of whom probably have mercury poisoning or something. There’s gonna be some pretty wild speculations going around” he pointed out, moving closer to look at what appeared to be a scratch in the paintwork.

The car gave a faint creak as the man released all of the holds on this side, snorting as he rounded the back of the vehicle and went to the other side with a loud, amused snort. Peter followed, and stifled a gasp at the sight of the other car. The man turned, eyeing him for a moment, before nodding.

“Got T-boned by an estate car. But she’s a tough old thing. Heavy metals and good steel; not like today’s cars. She came out better off” he mumbled as he worked on a thick strap, carefully taking apart the various clasps and buckles. Peter approached the car carefully, stretching up on his toes to brush his fingertips over the warped metal. He felt almost….Sad for the car.

He traced the flaking paint and the twisted, dented metal tenderly, and when he pulled away, the man was watching him again, movements slowed as he pulled the material through the metal. “Is this their car? What good is it now if its all broken up?” He asked curiously.

The man ducked his head, moving onto another thick chain. “Its just the one guy. I guess its a…Hobby. Of his. Bought her yesterday at a scrap lot”. He seemed uncomfortable saying it, but to Peter it was like gold trust. One guy. Huh. A big old house like that? That seemed rather lonely. Maybe it really was some rich old person retiring, enjoying a quiet place and a mechanics hobby.

Peter was going to ask more, but the car was freed with a grinding sound, and the man gestured him carefully back with his hand, holding it out in front of Peter to walk him back like a horse, to a safe distance. The man used two remotes to bring the car to the ground, Peter watching in fascination as rotors and rolling mechanisms moved it backwards and onto the tarmac of the road.

“How do you plan on moving it now?” Peter asked, and immediately regretted it as the man shed his over-shirt. Biceps. Shoulders. Forearms. His throat went dry and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

As it turns out, the plan was simply ‘push’. Peter scoffed, but was soon at a loss to anything but stare as the man leaned heavily against the trunk of the car, muscles bulging in the afternoon sun. Heavy or not, the car soon begun to roll, and after a moment Peter dropped his backpack and came up besides the straining man, leaning all his might against the metal.

It probably did fuck all, but the man gave him a wry grin all the same, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths as they moved the car across the flat ground and onto the side-drive space. Peter’s shoulder ached and his arms and thighs suddenly felt like jelly, but the man slapped him across the back.

“Good effort, kid” and then moved away, heading towards the front door. Peter gaped as the man simply grasped the doorhandle and pushed the door open, and floundered on the drive. “Wait! You’re just gonna walk into his house?” He called, and the man paused mid-step, looking back at him.

“Well. I ought to just ‘walk in’. Its my house”. And with a lewd, perfect wink he was gone. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself, flailing on the driveway with error logs flashing behind his eyes. That was his neighbour. His neighbour was some rich, late-thirty something hot-hot-hot guy who fixed broken classic cars.

“Oh my god” Peter muttered, stomping down the driveway to get his bags. Four months. He’d lived next to this Playgirl model for four months.

He decided against telling Aunt May. It felt selfish, but it also felt good to know he was the only person to have seen him. Even though he realised not long after reaching his room that he hadn’t even gotten his name. Peter waited by his window for hours, but saw neither hair nor hide of the man again. By morning, the transport truck was gone and the cherry red car was presumably inside the garage.

The damned guy was magic. There was no other explanation. Fuelled, Peter spent the Sunday morning in the kitchen, furiously baking with narrowed eyes and a plan. The muffins were done by mid-day, and Peter iced them carefully before boxing them, and stomping across the sidewalk to his neighbour’s house.

Peter knocked, and waited. Knocked again. Waited. “If you don’t answer the door then I’m just going to sit here” he announced loudly, knocking again before plopping down onto the porch just to prove a point. Several long minutes passed before his neighbour appeared around the corner, from the garage judging by the grease steaks up his arms, scowling.

“Kid. Here’s a life tip; if someone doesn’t answer the door, its because they don’t want company” the man huffed, but his eyes zeroed in on the box with intense curiosity, and Peter shrugged, smug.

“You came out, though” he pointed out, pushing himself to his feet. The man scoffed, but allowed him to follow, leading the way around the building where a small side-door was open.

“I came out about thirty years ago, kiddo. If that’s a congratulations cake, you’re a little late”. Peter tripped over the gravel, fighting his legs to remain upright and his stomach did a weird knot inside him. Oh. Not only was his neighbour hot, but he was at the least male inclined, too.

Very interesting.

“Actually, these are just welcome muffins. Chocolate and orange” Peter murmured, stepping inside the garage. It was bigger than it seemed, and the cherry red car stood in the centre, sanded down and clearly being worked on already.

“Peter, by the way. Peter Parker” he added after a pause, and almost offered his hand for a second time, but settled instead on thrusting the muffin box at the man. He raised a brow, but delved inside to pull one out, clearly eager at the prospect.

“Tony” he offered simply, and Peter tested it on his tongue, enjoying the shape. For now; he’d let the lack of a last name go. Good things in time, after-all. Choosing to invite himself to stay, Peter perched primly on top of the edge of the workbench, electing another raised brow, but Tony’s mouth was too full of muffin to object.

Tony begun to work as he ate, and Peter sat in content silence, watching as Tony and his bulging arm muscles took each wheel off the car and begun to strip it of all its chrome features. Peter checked his phone after a while and was surprised to find that around four hours had passed. May would be home from her sewing group about now. He ought to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” he announced, and jumped at the same time Tony did, the man smacking his arm off warped metal with a shout. Tony whirled on him, eyes wide, gaze flicking between him and the door, before he looked…Confused.

“You’re still here?” He asked, and Peter snorted as he dusted off his pants, heading for the door with a shake of his head. May came home shortly after he did, and Peter supposed he ought to let her know that he’d be visiting Tony again tomorrow.

“So he’s not a mafia boss? Or a celebrity?” She asked around a mouthful of roasted chicken, looking rather disappointed as Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“He just seems…Aloof? I don’t know. Maybe he’s some business tycoon or something. But he seems nice. I’m just going over to help him with this car he’s got. It’s real nice, too” Peter hummed, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Albeit a hot one, apparently. And you have school tomorrow, too. You shouldn’t be hanging around strangers. Unless…If he happens to be single…I’d be open to his number” May shrugged after a pause, and Peter blinked.

May was surprisingly easy to placate, and he assured her that if she wanted to, she could march right over to Tony and give him a Mother Hen Talk after dinner, but she decided against that, and in favour of a hot bath. School on Monday rolled around quicker than Peter could say ‘garage’ and he decided against telling Ned about Tony.

He wanted Tony all to himself. At least…For as long as he could. It was strange, but he found his heart thumping as he marched down Tony’s driveway and up to the garage door this time, knocking on it loudly. He’d brought lemonade and sandwiches this time.

The garage door opened, and Tony looked equally as startled to see Peter there as he had the day prior, gaze raking his body before frowning, and stepping aside with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, kid. I came here to get away from people” Tony announced pointedly, and Peter founded on him with an unimpressed gaze and an arched brow of his own.

“If you truly wanted to get away from people, you’d have moved out in the mountains or something. Now, get back to work. In an hour you can stop for supper. I brought chicken sandwiches” he ordered, taking his seat from the day before and pulling his calculus homework from his bag.

He kept his gaze down as Toy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times, before he went for his wrench, muttering to himself as he lay down on a wheeled bench and rolled under the car. Peter smiled quietly into his papers. A little over two hours later - he lost count, sue him - Peter pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the car, kicking Tony lightly in the ankle that stuck out.

“We can eat now” he announced, walking back over to his pack and taking out the tupperware he’d packed this morning. He could hear the sound of the wheels moving, and he turned, holding out the box. Tony looked perplexed, but approached and took it, still looking puzzled even as he bit into his own portion.

“Not that the pattern of snacks isn’t appreciated, kid, but…Why are you here?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and Peter actually had to think about it, flushing as his mind conjured up inappropriate responses like ‘I want to lick your arms’ and ‘You look like the hot mechanics in my pornos’.

He settled on a shrug, chewing slowly for more time. “You’re interesting. You’re my neighbour. You’re not a mafia boss or a broken down celebrity” he pointed out. Tony twitched on the last one, but gave a hum and moved away, scarfing down the last of his sandwich and returning to the car. This time, when Peter informed him he was leaving and would be back tomorrow again, Tony neither jumped nor looked surprised.

It became a pattern. Three out of seven days a week, Peter would sit in the garage with his homework or revision and Tony would work on the red car, which Peter came to learn was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. “Just like in Christine” Tony had huffed proudly, and had then been quickly appalled when Peter had simply stared blankly.

That night, Peter had watched the movie, and his next visit was spent talking animatedly about it with Tony, discussing their favourite parts and what it might be like if it was ever re-made. After a month, Aunt May picked her way across the gravel to finally meet the man her adopted son kept disappearing off to be with, and Peter had the unfortunate experience of watching them flirt together, Tony in a cheeky, smooth, outrageous manner and Aunt May like a school-girl. When he begun to gag in the corner, Tony threw an oil rag at him.

One day, a week before the summer holidays, Peter rounded the corner to find Tony stood on the porch, looking angry and tense and talking to a tall woman with red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Peter stopped and lingered, unsure of what to do. Besides him and May, he’d never seen anyone else talking to Tony. Even the grocery delivery guy simply put the bags in the garage and left.

After a while, the woman turned away, looking sullen and displeased, and slipped into a sleek black SUV, pulling off with a screech of her tires and the rev of her engine. By the time Peter reached the house, Tony was back inside, and he knocked quietly, leaning closer to the door.

Tony didn’t answer.

“Mr. Tony? I’m not sure what happened, but…If you’re not up for hanging out today, its cool. I brought soup, but I’ll leave yours on the porch. It might be hot, so…Be careful”. Peter stooped and left the thermos close to the door, before leaving. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day, longed to go see Tony, but everything in his gut told him to let him be for a time.

Whoever that man had been, he was clearly someone Tony didn’t like or want around.

Almost a whole week passed in which Tony didn’t answer the door, and by the Saturday, the first official day of the summer holidays, Peter was moping. Not to anyone that asked, but it was clear to even Ned that he’d been a little down lately, declining a celebratory LEGO fest in exchange for slinking up to his room.

No sooner had he toed off his shoes, the doorbell rung. Peter groaned, turning on his heel and abandoning his sweater on the staircase. It was probably another of Aunt May’s Amazon orders. Since she’d discovered the wonders of online shopping, Peter had learned their regular post-man was named Greg, he had two kids and a poodle, and was allergic to shrimp.

“What has she bought this ti- Tony?” Peter paused mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight on his doorstep. Tony looked rough, dark circles under his eyes, his face looking more lined than before, but he gave a weak smile up at Peter, still stiff and unsure.

“Hey, kiddo. Figured you might…I made spaghetti. And I still have your thermos. Was gonna work on the car a bit”.

Peter recognised it for the attempted invitation that it was, and didn’t bother to fight off his broad grin. “Lucky for you, I love spaghetti. I just gotta grab a sweater on” he beamed, practically flinging himself up the stairs. Tony’s spaghetti was amazing, with some kind of pink-ish sauce, little chunks of shrimp and prawns, all tangy and sweet.

He even let Peter help with the car. Or…Well. He let Peter hold the torch. And the wrench. But still.

He was still grinning when he skipped home that evening, and when he crawled into bed his dreams were filled with oil-stained arms and a low, rumbling voice. He gasped awake in the early hours, cock hard and leaning against his hip, Tony’s voice echoing in his skull.

He shouldn’t.

He bit his lip and reached down, whimpering as he wrapped a hand around himself. He was too hard to last more than a few minutes, stifling his yell of “Tony!” Into his pillow as he came. When he arrived at Tony’s house later in the day, he could barely look the man in the eyes, flustered and shy.

The holidays continued in a similar fashion. They hung out almost every day in the garage, often for an entire day. Peter felt guilty about abandoning Ned, but looking at Tony’s broad smile, listening to his quips, watching his abs flex under his shirts as he lifted things...It was worth it.

By the fourth week of his holidays, after numerous days of lounging together with takeout and Tony helping him with his homework, Peter piped up.

“Peter”.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Peter” he repeated, nudging Tony gently where they lay together on the floor of the garage, staring up at the underside of the car. It was almost complete. Something to do with the clutch, and then all it needed was new paint. “You keep calling me ‘kid’. So. Y’know. In case you’d forgotten” he hummed.

Besides him Tony stilled, only briefly, before relaxing and swatting at him. “You are a kid, though”.

“I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid” Peter huffed, rolling onto his side and kneeing Tony in the thigh. Tony let his head loll, looking across at him with dark, dark eyes, and Peter’s breath hitched. Tony was close enough to kiss. And god, Peter wanted to kiss him. Had spent the past few weeks staring at his body, his mouth when he talked, waking up at night hard and aching.

Peter let his gaze drop, to plush lips outlined by dark stubble, and then he pushed himself up, momentarily hovering over Tony as he got his legs beneath him. “And you’re an old man” he tried, teasing, tugging at a lock of hair at Tony’s temple.

For the briefest, briefest of moments, Tony’s gaze went even darker. Hungrier. Peter thought about it in the shower that night, two fingers stuffed inside himself with too-little prep, mewling against the shower tiles. Almost as if…

He begun to get bolder. Touched Tony more. Stood closer. Any excuse to be in his space. If Tony noticed he said nothing, only giving lingering, unreadable looks and only ever turning away with a poorly hidden smirk whenever Peter said anything just a little too obvious.

On the last week of his holidays, Peter was kneeling half over Tony, dabbing gingerly at a slice on his bicep while the man clutched an ice-pack to his knee. The cherry red car was out, and an old, 1957 Chrysler Saratoga was in. And apparently, angry.

“Kid, seriously. I’m fine” Tony huffed, swatting at him as he dabbed away another crust of blood, peering at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, but it had bled something fierce. Peter lifted his gaze, scowling at him.

“I’m not a kid!” He snarked, pressed a little too hard on the wound just because he could. Watched Tony flinch under his touch and instantly felt guilty. He pulled away the cloth and ducked down, pressed a kiss to the wound before he could ever think about it. Aunt May had always done it for him, kissing his ouchies better. He froze, lips against jagged skin.

“Kid” Tony rasped, looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. Peter jerked backwards, and huffed.

“Keep calling me kid, I’m gonna start calling you ‘old man’“ he scowled. He was about to say ‘Or worse, Dad’, but…That was a bumpy road and he wasn’t ready to loose whatever he had built with Tony. Not yet. The older man snorted back at him, eyes rolling, and reached out, fingers closing around his jaw gently to shake his head a little.

“Look at you. You are. That little baby face. And you’re so small, like a cat. All slender. Couldn’t even lift up the gearbox. All big eyes and too must trust. I could’ve been an old pervert or sex criminal and you just walked right up to me and wouldn’t leave” Tony murmured, voice half-gone and gaze fixed on where he held Peter’s jaw.

“Wouldn’t - Did not” Peter managed, though he was already getting hard, his breathing was already a little shorter. Sharper. Tony gave a deep breath, fingers flexing against his jaw.

“You’re just a kid. A little baby. All soft-cheeked and gentle. You’re a kid now and you’ll be a kid for a long time. Nothing like me”.

And. Huh.

Peter blinked, jaw still clasped in Tony’s grip, and he relaxed his body, inching a little closer. “What is it about that, then? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Its not. Its not bad. I’m just…I’m the bad one. Christ. Kid. You’re - You sit here doing homework. You don’t even have facial hair yet. I bet you haven’t even popped a stiffy before”. The words startled Tony as much as Peter, both visibly jolting, and Tony immediately looked like he wanted to die.

“Hey! Not true! Every night this holiday I’ve done more than ‘pop a stiffy’ over y-”. Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, watched the way Tony’s eyes widened. Fuck. They both jerked backwards, equally as taken aback by the revelation. There was no doubt as to what Peter had been about to say. Now way he could laugh it off or change it; though the subject was bad enough.

“I…”

“Kid…”

Peter huffed, leaning back on his haunches and dropping the cloth. “What, you got a kink for the word or something, Mister Tony?” Peter grumbled, but he could see Tony physically tense up opposite him, and he looked up, watched the almost shameful way that Tony turned his gaze away.

It hit him.

“You…Do” he huffed numbly.

“Its not…Christ. Peter. I’m not a…I’m not attracted to kids. I don’t know what it is. I just…Fuck. Maybe you should be calling me an old pervert. Fuck. I…Peter. You have to believe I don’t..I’ve never touched a kid. Never. My youngest partner was twenty when I was thirty. She was a hooker in Dubai and…Wait. You’re a fucking kid. I shouldn’t be talking about hookers and swearing and-”

Peter clamped a hand over Tony’s mouth, shaking his head. Jesus. He knew it was true, though. Tony was a recluse and laughably inept at anything social, but he wasn’t some scorned kiddie-toucher banished to a quaint little town.

“I know, Tony. I know. And I believe you. But if its not that, then…What is it?”. Tony only blinked at him slowly, for several beats, and it was then that Peter realised that his hand was on Tony’s mouth, and the man couldn’t speak. Though he could well have moved it himself. He let it drop, flushing.

“I don’t know” Tony croaked helplessly, and he looked so small, so lost. It was instinct that had Peter leaning forwards, gathering Tony in a tight embrace. The older man stiffened, but then relaxed, hand hesitantly falling to Peter’s side, featherlight like he was scared to touch him.

“Its…You’re so delicate. So…Untouched. Like a painting. Pretty. You shouldn’t be touched. Not yet. Not by me. But I want to”. It made Peter’s spine tingle and arch, letting out a surprised breath against the curve of Tony’s jaw. Tony made him sound like the Mona Lisa or something.

“I’m not a good person, Peter. I’m…All these months, you don’t even know my last name. Half the town thinks I’m a murderer or some kind of lunatic. But I’m worse than that”. Tony practically breathed it into his shoulder, head falling. Peter clutched at him, suddenly scared. Worse than those things?

“Tony Stark”.

Peter paused. Was silent for such a long time that Tony tensed against him again, before he begun to pet gently at Tony’s shoulders. “…Who? I mean, the name is vaguely familiar. But…Who?”

Tony pulled away, leaned back, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a ludicrous expression. “Stark. Tony Stark”.

Peter raised a brow. “Bond, James Bond?”

“What? No. The weapons company? Stark Industries?” Tony asked after a pause, like it was information Peter ought to know. After another pause of his mind being ridiculously blank, Peter sat upright, head tilting.

“Oh! Yeah. Stark Industries. But…What about it?”

Tony blinked at him, slowly, like there was a punchline he’d missed, and then he was reaching out, crushing Peter to his chest to the boy fell half over him with a yelp, squeezing him gently.

“You’re - Unbelievable. Never change, kid. I’m…I did bad things. I killed people. Carried on the family name despite spending my life trying to outrun it. I…I was betrayed. So I fixed it, and I left. And I was supposed to keep my hands off anything good. Anyone good. And here you are”.

“Okay. Firstly? You gotta stop calling me ‘kid’ now I know its a kink and you don’t intend to do anything about it. Secondly…I don’t know what you did. Or what happened. But I know what you’ve been since you got here. Who you’ve become. And I think you’re a good man” he breathed, adjusting so he was no longer straining, half-straddling Tony.

“You shouldn’t…” Tony didn’t finish the sentence, and there were a million things he could’ve said. But Peter chose to ignore them all, squirming his way closer until he really was sat in Tony’s lap. And this was more than they’d ever done.

More than the one-armed hugs and lingering touches, more than leaning shoulder-to-shoulder eating noodles. More than Peter listing against Tony’s side in the early morning hours, maths homework forgotten on the bench and Tony sitting still, so still, so as not to wake him.

“I’m old enough to know ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’, Mr. Stark. Besides. This is just…Hugging. Right? Innocent” he hummed, even as he deliberately shifted on Tony’s lap, a little heavier than he ought to, spread his legs wider around Tony’s hips.

“Ki- Peter” Tony huffed against him, fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. It wasn’t until Peter shifted again that he realised; Tony was hard. Well. Getting there, but hard enough for Peter to recognise it. To feel it, digging into the round meat of his asscheek.

“I don’t touch kids” Tony repeated, and Peter snorted softly, shaking his head as he gripped at Tony’s broad shoulders, muscle honed by years of hard work. Muscle that led up to rough stubble, a sharp jaw that Peter nosed at.

“Good thing I’m not actually a kid then, Mr. Stark. That means you can touch”.

Tony surged forwards on a growl, lay Peter out like a feast on the garage floor; but still hovered over him. Reluctant. Uncertain. Peter lifted his legs, wrapped them around Tony’s waist, tight and steady. “Kiddo…”

“Mm. Your kiddo. Or I could be. If you kissed me” Peter grinned, breathless and bold with the sweet taste of Tony so close. Mere inches. “Kiss me” Peter repeated, and Tony growled as he surged downwards.

When Tony came, it was with ‘kid’ sharp and electric on his tongue. And…Well. Peter felt a little mollified, so naturally, it led to round two, pressing Tony down against the concrete, milking him for all he was worth as a broken ‘Peter!’ cracked on his tongue like a prayer.

The rounds after that were just…Well.

Purely selfish.

415 notes · View notes

sunflowerslyf · 5 years

Text

Unmasked ~~ Twelve

Written by: ~ M ~

Prompt #88

Rating: E (Explicit) This fic will contain consensual sexual content; mild language; discussions of injuries, illness, and amputations in a historical setting; discussions of miscarriage; discussions of minor character suicide; references to non consensual sexual situations.

My thanks to the moderators of @everlarkficexchange for always running an entertaining event, and for playing along with a little fun and mystery. Also my thanks to @sunflowerslyf for generously offering up your inbox for posting this story as well as your patience in dealing with my editing errors and multiple submissions You’re a gem. Please enjoy the twelfth chapter of this adventure. Previous installments can be found here. Regards,

~ M ~

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

~~ Chapter 12 ~~

My dreams are pleasant and I wake to warm sunshine and cheerful bird song. When I sit up and examine the room, I see that Peeta is already awake and gone, but no matter. I feel as though we have made excellent progress, now that I know more about him. So many questions remain, about his life as a Mellark, but as last night proved, he is willing to provide them. Perhaps during our ride today we might discuss it some more.

As I enter the breakfast room, my eyes find him first. Maysilee sits perched on his knee, detailing their adventure for the day. As if sensing my presence, Peeta meets my gaze with a soft smile and an unexpected heat in his eyes. My toes curl in my shoes as I picture how that expression might appear in shadows and candlelight, between just him and I and our bed.

I think I need a confessional today.

I am ahead of myself, however and halt my musings. I do not even know my husband’s birth date nor any number of other inconsequential to momentous details about him. I know that he is a baker, an artist. He prefers to sleep with a window open. He always knots his cravat without the use of a mirror and he never takes sugar in his tea. I know the name of his true mother and father and the nature of his rather humble beginnings, yet there is so much more to him. I already know this and am quite eager to find out more.

And to think of how determined I was to proceed right to the consummation without the courtship. Why though? Perhaps to prevent a connection or affection from forming between us, to convince myself that he is the brute I believed him to be that first day we met. Now that I know the source of both his haste and his reluctance to dismount, I feel quite bad about my initial assessment of him, although I do not know if I am so low as to sabotage my own marriage. Perhaps then it was a desire to be done with it, to not have the deed hanging over my head, or perhaps still it was a means to make myself feel superior to Peeta. That last is ridiculous in light of the manner he has approached our lives together so far – as a partnership, an alliance as he called it that first time. But allies must be equal, each contributing to the further well being of the other and of the alliance.

This courtship idea of his is quite sound, I admit to myself. We now have the chance to get to know one another in a way we were not given time to before our wedding, which I hope can only serve to strengthen our bond.

I choose to ignore that the reason for my not knowing Peeta well is that I focused on pursuing his brother as a potential mate and not Peeta. Why did I make that choice anyways? Was it because of Peeta’s birth or because the one meeting I had already had with him unsettled me so? If the first, then I am a despicable and judgemental creature. If the second, then my judgment in general is suspect. Sir Robert had seemed a safer choice at the time, but his elopement with another women shows that to be utterly false.

I further ignore the man in the mask. Whichever brother it was that night can have no bearing on my future with Peeta. I must judge the character of the man before me, not dream of some fantasy that may have been a complete lie. And thus far, as my mother said that first day, it appears that I have before me a very fine man indeed.

Although I had little choice in our engagement, I have control over how I approach our marriage. I could do so with scorn and resentment, but that will do no one any good. It benefits no one to live in a household with the lord and lady ever at odds. No, I choose now to face my marriage to Peeta as he has done – with an open heart and hope for better things to come. At the very least, we can be good friends and equal partners in our life together.

I force myself into the room as Maysilee reclaims his attention. Standing at the sidebar, I fill my plate. I shall need extra sustenance today, I think. I do not plan to end this day a stranger to my husband nor he to me. Peeta can still take his time with all the niceties and pomp in courting me if he wishes, but I need to know as much as I can learn about him today.

Madge stands from the table and presses close to my side, questions in her eyes.

“What?”

“You practically glow this morning, Katniss,” she whispers. “What happened between you last night?”

“He told me about his mother – his birth mother,” I say, eyes averted. I can feel blood humming in my veins, rising to stain my cheeks pink and know that I will not get away with secrecy, yet I cannot stop thinking about what it means that he trusted me with such knowledge, and oddly enough, I cannot stop thinking about what kissing him in truth may feel like.

“That is not all that happened.”

“No,” I concede and then sneak a peek at the pair still engrossed in their breakfast and plans.

“Tell me, Katniss. The suspense and worry are killing me.”

“There is no reason to worry,” I say.

“So then… he has not hurt you? Been…unpleasant or rough at night?”

“Hurt me? No!” I whisper furtively, glancing over my shoulder and relieved to find Peeta engrossed with both Maysilee and Prim.

“Oh you’ve no idea how relieved I am to hear that. He seemed such a gentleman, and his treatment of you appears above reproach, but I suppose who we are behind closed doors is never the same and both of you seemed so… so tired and distressed in a quiet sort of way and…” her words trail into breath and I stare at her for a moment.

I snort quite loudly. Madge’s brow draws together. We both check that no one eavesdrops before I explain, because I can hold it in no longer.

“On the contrary, Mr. Mellark is the utmost gentleman in the bedroom. One could say he is too much of a gentleman.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment and then her eyes widen. “Oh! You mean that he hasn’t…that the two of you have not…” She waves her hand about in a vague motion as I purse my lips and shake my head.

“He says he wishes to court me first.”

“But…you are already married!” She hisses under her breath and I smile, sly and satisfied with my next words.

“I think it terribly sweet of him.”

“Astonishing,” she says and we both turn to take our places at table. She whispers one more thing before we move within hearing range of the others. “There is still hope then for a truly blessed marriage.”

Hope. The feeling flowers inside me at her words.

“What are you two whispering about over there?” Prim asks and I refocus on my food while Madge diverts attention from me and our whisperings.

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

I am unable to ascertain more of Peeta’s past during our ride as Doctor Aurelius arrives just as we are headed out, with plans to finally remove the plaster cast my father has worn since late spring, when Doctor Aurelius was finally satisfied with the setting of the bones broken in Father’s accident. A good thing too, as I have heard whispers that my father has been in and out of fever the past few days, but the source has remained a mystery.

I am distracted as we ride, unable to enjoy our time together. Sporadic winds kick up dry dust and the heat is stifling today. Even though I chose to wear breeches today, something I have not done in some time, I have sweat like a pig and am excessively dirty and disheveled in no time at all. Peeta suggests we cut our outing short to return, and I eagerly accept.

As we ride up to the house, Madge greets us, taking Sagitarria’s bridle in her hands. “Doctor Aurelius is still with your father. He wishes all of us present. I fear the news is not good, Katniss.”

I leap from my horse and hurry up the stairs, breathing hard as I enter the room.

“What news?” I ask, as I approach Doctor Aurelius. My mother barely looks at me and even Prim is subdued. The lack of response to my appearance confirms that the news is not good. The stench in the room is my second indicator of how bad the news must be. True there has been an overall smell in Father’s room, more stale and slightly foul. This is undeniably foul.

“One moment. This is news all of you need hear, as it will affect the entire household.” I huff in impatience as we wait. When Madge and Peeta join us, she closes the door and Doctor Aurelius nods. “Mr. Everdeen remains in his coma, unresponsive. There was always a risk of bed sores given the length of time, as well as infection. Come and see for yourself.”

He moves aside bed linens and the sleeve of my father’s shirt to reveal discolored skin, an angry red with sheets of it that have peeled off. I cover my mouth and nose at the pus oozing from several blisters. Doctor Aurelius shows the cut away cast, the sheets of discolored dead skin that have accumulated and adhered to the cotton interior.

“Gangrene,” Peeta says behind me and I turn to face him. Tears cloud my vision, making a muddled mess of his image, hazy and distorted like those drawings of his from distant battlefields.

“Quite. It has advanced too far already. I must amputate this arm immediately.”

“And if you do not?” I ask as my mother bends over my father, clutching his good hand, shoulders shaking with her quiet sobs.

“Your father will be dead in a matter of days.”

“Then amputate,” I say. “Take the blasted arm off!”

The doctor gives me a sympathetic look and Peeta’s hands grasp my shoulders, rubbing them soothingly.

“It is not that simple, Katniss,” my mother says, lifting her tear stained face.

“There is a chance the amputation itself will kill him. There is risk of further infection, a severe fever or even pneumonia in response to the amputation, it is possible that the infection began deep in his tissues at the same time as his fall or during the resetting of his bones and is only now manifesting where we can see it. In that case, it may have advanced further up his arm than I am able to observe and an amputation will not solve the problem at all. It is risky with a coherent patient. I have never amputated on a comatose one.”

“But there is a chance he will survive?” I ask and the doctor nods. “And no chance at all if you do not?”

“That is correct.”

“Then amputate,” I say again. Both of us look to my mother. She manages to nod in assent.

“What do you need from us?” Primrose asks.

“I will need assistance with the operation itself. Perhaps two people of stout constitution with some modicum of physical strength as well, a background in healing or medicine would be ideal…” Doctor Aurelius looks between my mother and my sixteen year old sister, clearly not impressed with his options. My mother has barely left the house since Father’s accident and has ceased all of her duties as healer. Without Mother’s supervision, Prim has had little practice in the past few months either.

Peeta steps around me then. “Doctor Aurelius, I have been present during a few amputations, although I am neither doctor nor healer. And…I have survived one.”

“Have you really?” The doctor squints at my husband.

“My left leg, sir.” The doctor’s gaze drops as if he could see through Peeta’s trousers. “I would show you, doctor, but there is an odd assortment of ladies present to include my wife and her as yet unmarried sister. I doubt that their mother would appreciate such a display.”

Madge laughs first, only a note or two, then strangely enough my mother joins her and Prim as well. Doctor Aurelius even cracks a small smile.

“Very well. Your assistance will be welcome, Mr. Mellark. I shall send for my kit, as I did not bring that one with me. Mrs. Mellark I need a boy to run the errand.” I move to the door and shout for Horatio. Doctor Aurelius eyes the clear evidence of outdoor exertion on Peeta’s clothes. “And you shall need a bath and change of clothes, Mr. Mellark. Then we need one more—“

“I will do it,” Mother says, rising from her chair on unsteady feet.

“Are you sure that is a good idea, Mrs. Everdeen?” The Doctor questions. Her resolve seems to waver a moment, and Peeta moves to speak directly to her.

“Madame, you know what we will need. A good, hot fire; supplies similar to what you would use to dress a laceration that requires stitches, in greater abundance as it will need to be cauterized,” Peeta tells her gently.

My mother nods and leaps into motion. The doctor watches her in astonishment, but it seems that having something to do for my father has given my mother purpose again. She is a healer, and having both brought many a babe into the world as well as held the hands of countless dying, it seems that what truly crippled her in this case was the waiting and impotence in regards to my father’s care. There was nothing she could do to revive him from his coma except to sit and wait.

“Katniss, we will also need a schedule of persons, perhaps in pairs, to sit vigil afterwards and tend to the wound we shall create. He will need observation at all hours of the day for a few days. See to the organization of that?” My mother says, even as she moves about the room.

The house becomes an uproar as a fire is built up in the grate in my parents’ room. The windows in every other room thrown open to release the heat that seeps through the walls. The door is strictly monitored to reduce the number of insects entering my father’s sick room. Supplies gathered. Baths ordered for Peeta and myself.

I’ve no time to linger in the room adjoining the kitchens, designed by my father to meet my mother’s needs as a healer. A clean body is less likely to contract infections, she would remind us each time we complained of the frequent baths she demanded of the entire household. My father, in an attempt to appease his wife as well as to ease the burden of carrying hot water or the large brass tub up stairs for baths, designed this room and oversaw its modifications. I take only a moment to appreciate the high windows that admit light without compromising privacy, the clean design of drainage, and wonder if this bathroom will be one of the few things we have left of him at the end of this week.

I dare not linger too long, though. Scrubbed clean and dressed in a simple gown, I gather the household and set a schedule for watching over my father for the next few days. Horatio returns with a leather bag for Doctor Aurelius and disappears with it into the chambers.

Silence descends. I pace the hall, unable to sleep as the doctor suggested I do to prepare, as I will sit the first watch with Charles. We eat a sparse lunch and after, Madge keeps Maysilee busy, distracting her from the somber mood that has covered my home. I cannot even hold my sister as she’s insisted on being present as well. As a healer in training.

Just as I am certain I can take no more, Maysilee yawns. “We should take you upstairs to nap.”

“Wanna nap here,” the child whines and Madge soothes her back a moment. “Mama, play music?”

Madge kisses her daughter and rises, settling Maysilee on the sofa with a blanket before moving to the piano. She sits and glances at me for one moment and then begins to play.

The melancholy notes drift through the house, entering my soul and permeating deep. I find stillness through them and close my eyes, recalling the words to the tune. On a deep breath, I release one line and then another. My voice cracks at first, uneven and hoarse from months of no singing at all. As the song continues and Madge ends it only to begin another on its heels, I sing. I sing until my voice warms and grows to something splendid, as it was on days when I would sing with my father.

With steady voice, shaking hands, and tears on my face, I sing and pray that my father will survive this day. I know not how many songs I sing as Madge plays, but when the notes from the piano stop abruptly and Madge gasps, I turn to face the door.

Peeta stands there, looking exhausted and with red speckled on his sleeves. I do not want to consider the amount of my father’s blood that was shed today, but Peeta nods to me.

“He is alright for now.”

I take three steps and then fling myself into his arms. He holds me tight to his chest and we stand there, feeling one another as the birds sing outside. When we move apart, he holds my cheek in his hand. I do not even know how to describe the look that he gives me then, only the effect that it has on me. He is so calm and so steady in this moment, when I feel as though my world is crumbling to pieces. I need not be strong for Peeta, as he knows what anguish I live in right now. His hold on me reminds me that I can survive this. We can survive this, and all hope is not lost.

“Go see him,” he whispers and I need no more urging to race up the stairs.

The room is unbearably hot, although the fire has been extinguished for now. My father lays perspiring in his bed, his body twitching, already caught in fever. My mother wipes his face with a damp cloth, her hair a mess and her eyes distressed. Servants gather stained sheets and dressings and aprons, bustling from the room with grim looks on their faces.

“When did he become so thin?” I ask no one and no one answers.

“I should have seen it,” my mother whispers instead.

“Mother, it is not your fault.”

“I fear that it is. I spent so many days sitting beside him, waiting for him to return to us, that I…I told myself I could not become a ghost. You were engaged to be married. Primrose spoke of Mr. Hawthorne with such fondness and… Life was passing by and I was spending it here, neglecting my daughters for a husband who might never return to us and I tried to right it. I tried to right it and instead failed your father. I should have—“

I halt her words with an embrace and hold her until her tears are spent. “You could not have seen beneath the cast, Mother.”

She sniffles to end her cry and nods. “I shall sleep well knowing he is in your care now, Katniss.”

My mother kisses my cheek and then leaves as Charles enters. Ours is the longest watch, beginning as soon as the operation is deemed complete and continuing to midnight, an easy time for all to remember, and a chance for all who shall sit vigil to complete tasks or to sleep as needed. At midnight, we will begin our regular rotations. Charles and I work through the evening and into the night, refreshing bandages, bathing Father’s fevered skin. Charles nods off and I sing quietly to my father, wishing that perhaps I had done so sooner, as my mother had once asked of me.

When Madge and Joe relieve us near midnight, I head to the kitchen, unsurprised to find Peeta there, kneading dough. Words are not needed between us as I sit, and yet as he works, we begin to talk. I speak of my father, as though sharing all my cherished memories now might somehow preserve his spirit. Peeta listens and encourages my words. We eat slices of a hearty bread, heavy with nuts and grains, a goat cheese with dill in it melting into the pores and slices of cucumber. Then we retire to our room.

Somewhere in the middle of the night, Peeta wakes me from a terrible dream. I cling to his shirt and refuse to let him go until he climbs into the bed with me. I fall back asleep wrapped in his arms, his fingers caressing over my shoulders and back.

It becomes our routine. The entire household moves in rotations, everyone showing the strains of long days and long nights. I sing to my father on my shift with him. After a late night of keeping watch over my father, I join Peeta in the kitchens. He bakes. We talk and eat. And then we retire. After that first night, he does not even bother falling asleep in the chair, but settles beside me in the bed. He is there to wake me and comfort me from the terrible visions of the night.

The fears are easier to manage with him beside me in the darkness, warm and steady, healthy and whole. A survivor of such an ordeal, his wholeness gives me hope to cling to. In the mornings, he rises early to take his turn caring for my father, kissing my cheek before he goes. I hunt and take Sagittaria for long rides. Life somehow continues in this strange way.

“Is this how you lost your leg?” I ask one night in the kitchens as the stars burn and Peeta kneads dough for tomorrow’s bread. Mrs. Chilton, our cook, mentioned that she has begun to leave some for him to work on each night, since he seems so fond of it. I watch his motions as another question forms in my head before he answers the first.

“No,” Peeta says. “I did not lose my leg to gangrene, although I saw others who did lose limbs in this manner.”

“Then how?”

“A sword,” he says simply and I think he will not continue as the silence stretches. Then he does. “It sliced deep enough that I needed a tourniquet or I would have bled to death. The ironic part is that my job was to care for the wounded soldiers who could be saved, treat them enough on the battlefield that they might be then moved to the medical tents. If I could not help them at all…they perished on the field.

“Most days I was not in the midst of heavy fighting, but rather followed the movements of the soldiers. That day, I was…overwhelmed with patients and did not notice the shift in the tide of fighting until it was too late and I was suddenly in the thick of it. I applied the tourniquet to myself after I was wounded and continued to help others whom I could drag myself to reach, but when the fighting was over, I should have been left where I lay.”

“Someone moved you?”

“Joe. As a horse trainer and stable hand, he had a gentle touch and demeanor with the beasts and could coax them into places they would otherwise shy from. He drove the cart that moved the wounded from battlefield to medical tent, and then the dead to their graves when only the dead held the field. Joe and I had already become friends of sorts. He lied to the others about how close I was to death and ordered them to get me on the cart, after I had already told him to leave me.

“By the time I was moved to the medical tent, there was no saving my leg. The doctor amputated immediately, sutured and cauterized, and then left me on a cot, bidding me good luck in surviving.”

I stare at my hands then, thinking on how close he must have been to dying that day.

“Your father does not have an easy road, Katniss. If he survives, there will be a host of challenges when he wakes.”

“But you have survived it, so you know how,” I say and lift my gaze to him. “Will you stay to help?”

“I have no plans to leave,” he tells me. Such gravity in his eyes as he makes his promise to me. I add it to the ones he gave me on our wedding day, and for one moment, I am certain that he is going to kiss me. So of course, this is when a soft, silly laugh bubbles out of my mouth. “What are you thinking of?”

“That I would not describe Joe as having a gentle touch.”

“Only where horses are concerned,” Peeta says with a smile and we both manage a laugh then. It is a relief to still be able to laugh.

I begin to form an enticing though not yet complete picture of my husband.

“You are more familiar with that bread than I would expect someone who ceased baking at ten to be,” I say on another late night.

“I did not stop at ten.”

“You would sneak into the kitchens of the Mellark household to bake then?”

“It caused a great deal of lectures and strikes of the strap. Such a chore is beneath the son of a Marquis, apparently.” I silently fume at his words. Although I am not surprised to hear that the Marquis resorted to such punishments, as it is quite common, I know that they are not necessary. My mother and father never once struck us that I can recall. Why would one wish to cause your own child physical pain? It seems a brutish practice to me.

“At first I would bake during the day, with the servants, but when the Marquis and Marchioness began to blame the cook for encouraging inappropriate behavior in their ward instead of blaming me for convincing the servants to let me, I began to bake at night instead. By then I was old enough to not need any supervision in the task and no one would suffer except perhaps our poor arithmetic tutors who could not entice me to stay awake for lessons.”

I laugh at the image of a stern man in spectacles attempting to wake a tired Peeta as he dreamt of bread rather than equations.

“It must have been so lonely and confusing for you.” I watch a hundred emotions pass across his face in seconds and know that I have found the truth of it. His adjustment to living in the Mellark household after a mostly happy childhood with William and Nancy Thackeray was not at all easy.

“In many ways, it was…but I did have one brother who became an instant friend and ally. He was more interested in my skill as a playmate and at talking our way out of scrapes than who my parents were.”

“Robert,” I say and cannot meet his eyes, although I see Peeta nodding in my periphery.

“Robert was the only one in that household whose acceptance and welcome of me was both immediate and unconditional. He called me his twin and his brother the very first day and never stopped. He defended me to those who would use my birth as an insult.”

“You must love him a great deal,” I whisper, thoughts of the things Peeta did in the name of protecting his brother foremost in my head. What would I do to protect Prim? Marry someone I knew did not wish to marry me? In a way, that is precisely what I did in marrying Peeta.

“I do. He is my brother. I love him as you love Primrose,” he says and finishes with tonight’s loaf.

Four long days after Doctor Aurelius amputates his arm, my father’s fever breaks. It is during my shift, and I cry out with relief as I feel the sweat finally cooling on my father’s brow, his skin clammy and cooling as the heat dissipates. Charles is near asleep on his feet by then, and I send him to fetch Peeta to relieve him and help me. Peeta and I bathe my father and cover him with a warm blanket, changing his dressings one last time as the day ends, and a new begins. My mother enters as soon as she receives word.

“Thank heaven,” she says when I confirm the change.

“He remains unconscious,” I remind her.

“Yes, but it is enough for now.” She takes Peeta’s cheeks in her hands and pulls him down so that she may kiss his brow. “Thank you, dear boy, for taking care of my Kent. You are nothing like your father at all and such a welcome addition to our family.”

She hugs me and tells me to get some rest, reminding me that the crops will keep.

We walk through the house in silence as I consider my mother’s words and before I can think of something to say, we reach the bath room and Peeta speaks first. “You go ahead. I will see about some food for us.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say.

After I bathe, as Peeta takes his turn, I find a tray of food in our room. I am famished and dive right in to eat. My eyes droop, and as much as I try to stay awake, I am unable to do so. I wake to Peeta tucking me beneath the covers and protest when Peeta does not join me but moves towards the sitting area instead.

“Peeta?”

He shakes his head from the chairs and arranges a pillow. “Your father is out of immediate danger. I assumed that meant that I should–”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Get in the bed,” I say and his eyes widen for a moment. “You are keeping me awake, husband.”

His lips twitch and he nods, joining me, pausing only to sit on the edge of the mattress to remove trousers and false leg before laying beside me with a relieved sigh.

We shift and move, trapped in a sort of limbo of uncertainty. Do I touch him? He has held me every night since Father’s amputation and now we lay with an ocean of space between us. On those nights, even though he held me close, I felt a thousand leagues away, drifting in a haze of concern for my father. Tonight, despite the space between us, I am very aware of Peeta’s presence.

I roll to my side, attempting to discern his profile in the dark room and unable to do so. I listen for any snoring and discover none. I wait and listen to each sound around us, the steady cadence of breath in the night as we attempt to find sleep. I shift to my other side, with my back to him and stare towards the window. The drapes drift on the breeze, revealing brief hints of moonlight.

I cough once and then he moves. His warmth approaches me and even in darkness, I can feel him watching me.

“Is there something you want, madame?” I swear I hear laughter in his voice, but do not care as I reach behind me, feeling through the sheets for his hand. Once I have it, I wrap his arm around me until he moves closer, close enough for us to settle in an intimate embrace. “Better?”

“Quite,” I say. “Now hush so I may sleep, husband.”

“Yes, wife,” he murmurs, but his lips brush the back of my neck as he does and I cannot stop the delight that simmers inside my heart as I find sleep.

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

To be continued…look for chapter thirteen on the blog of @justajjfan

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drabblemeister · 7 years

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a Study in Red {ch2}

Read me on Ao3! Look at the art collabed with this story! Author: Ladelle Comments: Holy bananas, I was not expecting to have so many people enjoy this story. Thank you so much for the notes and feedback on Chapter 1, and for all of the amazing comments left on Ao3. I still haven’t decided on a posting schedule; I’m working on the last chapters now and I need to make sure I can come back and add a few details here and there if I need to, for flow. Tumblr Chapters: One | Two Chapter 2:

The next two days were indistinct blurs.

Tim half-remembered the corporate brunch, from which Bruce had made him promise to take leftovers home. He’d nearly missed the subway stop for college and had stumbled in late to an afternoon lab; he hadn’t trusted himself to do anything that took too much precision, and his partners had gladly agreed to mix chemicals in his stead.

Dinner consisted of coffee and the college café’s last bagel, and Dick had dropped by to give Tim a lift to Wayne Manor, where a Family Meeting™ told them to stop running into each other on patrol; and, in a direct attack to the dark circles under Tim’s eyes and his very loud and grousing stomach, Damian had dropped a box of protein bars into his lap.

“Charitable giving,” he’d said with a scoff.

Tim had countered with, “One day you’ll be old enough to file it on a tax return.”

Afterwards, Dick had given him a ride home and in a very serious, very Nightwing tone had told him, “No patrol tonight, got it?”

Tim itched at the idea that he’d been given an order and rebelled by spending four hours catching up on school assignments. Like most nights he dedicated to homework, he ended up asleep at his coffee table, the alarm on his phone eventually beeping him into a panic-stricken awareness; and, as usual, he awoke with a sheet of loose-leaf paper clinging to his cheek.

Classes the next day were a blur, and all Tim really noticed was that he hadn’t heard from Jason. Partly, he wondered if Jason had decided to wing the exam on his own, and Tim couldn’t help but feel disappointed; it was odd, but Jason was a mystery to him, and Tim, more than anything, enjoyed puzzles.

For the second night in a row, he received a message telling him to stay home; he’d stumbled through a two hour intern tour at Wayne Manor with a jittery sense of excitement that only compounded espresso shots could inspire, and he supposed that someone somewhere in the building had passed the message upward.

On some levels, he supposed it made sense that Timothy Drake-Wayne, heir to a corporate empire, shouldn’t look like the living dead – but since when did anyone in college look like they were thriving?

Since he had plenty to work on, Tim simply formed a line of energy drinks and worked his way through, staying wide-eyed through the midnight hours reading chapter after chapter about the repercussions of economic downturn. The time finally arrived when his eyes simply couldn’t stay open; he barely managed to push himself up from the table and stumble into his bedroom, where he collapsed onto a bed that was half-blankets, half-laundry.

Sometime later, in a very hazy dream, he imagined his bedroom window opening to let huge kernels of corn through; with sharp, popping sounds they exploded to form popcorn – so loud that he found himself shooting awake, heart pounding when he caught a shadow dancing idly on the floor beyond the foot of his bed.

“What the hell –” the person said, and it took a good span of seconds for Tim to wake up enough to pair the voice with Jason – and to realize that he’d come in through the window and effectively landed on spare bubble wrap that Tim had attempted to wedge in the corner. “You’re fucking Red Robin and your security is packing material?”

Tim flopped back down onto his bed and felt around until he found a bundle of socks and tossed them half-heartedly in Jason’s direction. “Red Hood,” he stated, his voice groggy and deep. “Caught breaking and entering, stepping on bubble wrap.”

Jason tripped, falling halfway onto the end of Tim’s bed as he scrambled to find his way in the darkness; he stepped on something a bit more solid and said, “Uhh…” at the same time that Tim let out a whimper and murmured, “Did you break my box?”

“Maybe?” Jason asked. “Are you alive? I thought you didn’t sleep?”

“I need that box,” Tim whined, using all of his energy to push himself up. “And you’re right. I don’t. I’m crashing. There’s a light switch on the wall.”

“Crashing?” Jason echoed, and he moved in the darkness, a shadow against darker shadows, cursing as he stumbled over even more discarded junk scattered on the floor of Tim’s room.

When the lights came on, Tim scrunched his eyes closed.

“Oh. Wow,” Jason said, and Tim heard an energy can crunch beneath his foot. He was sure it was one of nearly a dozen that peppered his carpet, and he blinked his eyes open when warm fingers wrapped around his forearm and tugged him forward. “Come on, you need to eat something.”

Tim stumbled out of bed, too tired to care. Back when he’d had time to sleep, he’d been a night owl; waking definitely wasn’t his forte.

“Do you even have food?” Jason asked, and Tim stifled a yawn and attempted to stretch, drifting past his kitchen and to the living room, where his homework and tech projects lay scattered.

“I think I have brie?” he answered absently. “Oh, D gave me some protein bars…”

“Dick knows you live like this and he gave you protein bars?”

“No,” Tim mumbled, shaking his head. “No, no. I mean, Dick has been over, but the protein bars are from the other D. Little D. Did I just call him that? Ugh. Damian. The child.”

Pantry doors clamored and Tim heard his refrigerator open more than once, and as time ventured on, Tim slowly defeated the grog. By the time clarity gripped him, Jason was standing in front of him, holding out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. His eyes, however, were drawn to the line of energy drinks Tim had situated for his study session.

“How many of those do you drink?”

Tim took the sandwich, nodding his head in thanks before saying, “Not enough, apparently. Okay, so what are we working on tonight?”

Drifting to the space between his coffee table and couch, Tim kicked away various items – blankets, cans, bags, wires, two tablets – and moved on to carefully closing his textbooks, saving his pages with color coded tears of post-it notes he’d stolen from the receptionist at WE. He welcomed Jason to join him on the couch with a gentle pat-pat on the cushion beside him, but Jason simply stared, as if he hadn’t decided whether or not Tim’s window had been a door to an alternate dimension.

“Well?” Tim queried.

“I’m sorry, I feel like I just walked into what will eventually need an intervention, and I’m trying to decide how I feel about it.”

“You feel like getting a GED,” Tim told him. Pat-pat.

Jason moved like a man thrust into unfamiliar territory, like his entire world had just been shaken, not stirred, and here he was trying to make sense of it. He stepped on something that snapped and immediately darted forward, sitting beside Tim, dipping the couch between them.

“Probably a pencil,” Tim murmured around a bite of sandwich, and when Jason looked back, he saw the cracked remains buried in carpet, in need of an excavation. “Also,” Tim added, “My apartment doesn’t need security. Would you rob it?”

Even though Jason remained quiet, as if politely contemplating the question, his eyes gave him away.

No. No, he wouldn’t.

“Well, uh,” Jason stated, and Tim watched as he let a backpack slide from his shoulders – it was interesting, seeing Jason with a backpack, looking like someone Tim might run into on campus. It brought back that feeling, the one that made him say stupid things before self-preservation slid in to stop him. “I guess we could finish the math section, since we were working on that the other night…”

Tim nodded before holding out his hand, marveling at what a difference light made when getting a good look at the workbook Jason was plowing through. It wasn’t old so much as it was abused; Tim decided he must have been staring at it a moment too long, because Jason moved to snatch it back.

A smothered, “Hey!” was forced from Tim’s lungs as he struggled to keep the book at bay, holding it as far away as he could – pulse racing as Jason nearly folded over him in an attempt to retrieve it.

A thousand thoughts bombarded Tim’s brain, things like: so this is what his aftershave smells like, and: oh, I didn’t realize his eyes had green in them. If Tim hadn’t been fully awake before, he definitely was now, and his sudden, stuttered silence had enough gravity to bring Jason’s gaze crashing to his own.

“Obviously, I couldn’t use my own name,” Jason stated, and Tim tried not to watch the way his mouth moved to form the words.

Instead, he kept his eyes glued to Jason’s and let out a blunt and very articulated, “What?”

The expression on Jason’s face came close to disbelief, though unamusement tugged the corners of his lips closer to a frown. When he sat back, Tim followed, eyes drifting to the book’s cover, where a name had been jotted in Sharpie.

“Peter…Jackson?” Tim raised an eyebrow, bringing the book back to his lap. “Is this, like, your GED alias?”

“Oh, like Alvin Draper was a winner,” Jason shot back, and Tim’s expression dissolved into pure, unadulterated judgment as he pointed a finger in Jason’s direction and tossed back, “Alvin Draper didn’t direct Lord of the Rings, Jason.”

Jason’s eyes went wide and his mouth parted, only to snap closed – only to fall open once again.

“That’s why it sounded so familiar….”

This time, Tim laughed outright. “Dear diary,” Tim joked, leaning forward in an effort to snag his phone from the table, which Jason deftly fought to avoid. “I’m so gonna post a tweet about this–”

“No. No you’re not –”

“GED. The one diploma to rule them all —”

“They’re our middle names!” Jason huffed, long-limbed enough to flatten a palm against Tim’s chest to keep him from being able to reach his phone. “Peter. Jackson,” he reiterated, before dropping his tone to its typical, steamrolled sarcasm. “But thank you so much for inviting me to your apartment without belittling me once.”

The whole idea caught Tim off guard. Why on earth would Jason choose their middles names? It was even more impressive, Tim thought, that Jason even knew his. Well, and that he’d use it for something.

Swallowing, he repeated, “Peter Jackson,” and the name sat between them for less than a second before Tim dissolved into laughter again, despite the fact he knew the truth behind it. “Jason, you have made my life.”

“Congrats on being easily pleased,” Jason offered with a sigh, and Tim smiled when his eyes chanced the Sharpie’d cover, just before he flipped open to where they’d left off before. He reached for an unopened energy drink and popped the tab, not at all bothered by the fact it was now room temperature.

“So,” he stated, feeling Jason’s gaze dance between him and the caffeinated beverage at his fingertips. “Where should we begin?”

***

The next morning didn’t arrive in that Jason had shown up around 1am and so Tim had already technically been awake. The sun certainly made an effort to climb a stack of clouds to reach his zenith, and the entire time, Tim danced to his same routines.

As usual, he was late to Wayne Enterprises, courtesy of a subway delay. Also a common occurrence, he impressed a room full of stockholders with a detailed report on the growth of the company with an emphasis on new projects scheduled to roll out over the remainder of the year.

Several people had questions; Tim always had an answer. Bruce arrived nearly fifteen minutes before the meeting was scheduled to end and enamored the small crowd with his easygoing air of confidence, which many of the shareholders treated like sunlight, and basked.

It was the one day of the week that Tim didn’t have class, aside from weekends, which meant that it was the only chance he had to do the various things he needed daylight for, such as fix his bike.

His complex came with pricey little storage sheds, and he kept Little Red tucked away in an effort to keep her from being stolen. As tech savvie as he was, there was no way he could prevent her from disappearing if he simply threw a tarp over her and abandoned her to some garage.

So, on days like today, he wheeled her out and tinkered, constantly putting his mind to work. It felt good to be busy.

It was nearly dark when he decided to check his phone, not quite expecting so many texts. Most were updates, the typical ‘hope you’re doing okay’ type check-ins, and surprisingly, a message sat, unread, from Jason.

If tonight’s slow, you know where to find me.

“If tonight is slow,” he mocked, because this was Gotham and that was a rarity. Still, the invite had Tim looking at the time, remembering the night before and the content they’d reviewed - the moments that Jason had gotten certain answers correct and how success had painted a rare smile that lit the edges of his face.

It was such a simple thing, but it made Tim feel an unfamiliar warmth; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt that type of accomplishment, and seeing the excitement in Jason’s eyes was enough to get a secondhand high. It made his pulse do silly things, like stumble.

I’ll let you know, he replied, because, with crime the way it was, that was the best he could do. Somehow though, Tim knew they’d both find time.

***

And they did, thus beginning the routine of Tim and Jason racing to complete patrols; a steadfast habit that soon turned into a competition to see who could beat who to the weather-vane topped warehouse. Though most of their study sessions were spent legs-dangling over the old, crumbling rooftop ledge, they once ended up sitting across from each other at a neon-lit diner in a darker part of town.

Tim had forgotten the feel of a full stomach and downed a milkshake just because he could. When Jason teased him about it, Tim stubbornly ordered a second, intent to relish the sugary rush that made his head feel light and coolness that had his skin prickling.

Napkins littered the space between them, peppered in scribbled notes. Drops of dewy soda spotted the table, trapped between smeared rings of condensation. Plates pushed aside, workbook center-table, Tim remembered lifting his eyes, just once, to catch Jason’s attention lingering on his face.

“What?” Tim had asked, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth. “Ketchup?”

Jason’s expression hadn’t given anything away. He answered, “Ketchup.”

It wasn’t until later that evening that Tim realized his sleeve had come away completely clean.

With such a minimal amount of time standing between them and Jason’s exam, every spare bit of time seemed to count – from the nights they managed to flip through flashcards to Tim’s hectic, run-around-town days.

“I’ve got to go; I’m headed into a meeting,” Tim would say after talking Jason through the laws of thermodynamics, fingers tangled in the knot of a half-formed tie.

Halfway through another day, he might be fighting for a lecture hall chair, carefully listing out the order of operations for a particularly complex math problem.

“Class about to start?” Jason would ask.

Tim would reply, “Yeah, but you’ve got this. Try it again and we’ll touch base later.”

The days became quick rushes of midsummer haze, Tim darting here-and-there, only half awake but somehow brimming with energy. A visit to Wayne Manor earned him a care package from Alfred and at some point, his midterm grades posted. Tim had nearly forgotten he had been waiting for them.

With a life so fast-paced, Tim hadn’t noticed how normal it had become for he and Jason to text here and there. In fact, Jason probably knew more about his schedule than anyone else.

Still, it had not occurred to Tim, for instance, to text Jason to let him know he’d been shot (grazed, really) and was on bed rest (Alfred’s orders, Batman’s decree). It was the one night that studying got shoved to the backburner – Jason was across town, doing whatever for Roy’s birthday, and Tim was unequivocally down-for-the-count, not used to checking in with anyone.

It also had not occurred to him – even once – that Jason might come looking for him; that the Red Hood might brave Tim’s apartment one more time – that Tim might awaken from a deep and fantastical dream to the sound of panicked popping and a poison-laced, “Mother fucker!”

Of course, he also did not predict the following, crunching, snap.

“The box,” Tim whined.

“Dick told Roy who told me what happened – are you okay?” Jason asked, and his shuffling made it apparent he was attempting to untangle himself from sticky sheets of plastic. A step forward sent him through a tower of cans. “For the love of—“

Jason hit the light.

“My eyes,” Tim moaned, before trying to rollover, only a slurred groan bled from between his lips. “Ah, my arm…”

“Tim,” Jason stated, deadpan. “You’re bleeding.”

Tim blinked blearily, his head a cottony sort-of chaos. The room around him seemed floaty and he felt he weighed less than a penny. “What?” he asked, head lulling sideways until he saw the seeped-through bandages and his blood-blotted bedding. “Oh. That.”

Jason’s steps were easy to follow; he came close enough to the head of Tim’s bed to block out the light from Tim’s lamp. A shake-shake of pills followed, along with Jason’s question of, “These from B?”

“They’re for me,” Tim murmured, sleepily. “I’m bleeding.”

“Yeah, we’ve covered that,” Jason replied, and then his fingers found Tim’s good arm and tugged him upright, forcing Tim’s legs to spill over the edge – Tim wobbled dizzily for a moment as Jason’s palm held him steady.

“You should be studying.” Tim’s words clung to each other, like one sweep of sound.

Jason let out a breath through his nose. “When’s the last time you changed these?”

Tim turned his head to watch Jason’s free hand fiddle with the ribbons of medical tape that kept patches of sterile pads pressed to his skin and felt vaguely offended. “One does not simply change their own bandages,” he stated loosely, but when Jason’s eyes flickered to his, showing more concern than anything else, Tim merely shrugged.

“Too tired,” he explained, because it was the truth. After taking pain meds the night before, he’d crashed, and this was as coherent as he’d been since.

“Yeah, well,” Jason didn’t look surprised, and his gaze drifted to the pills on Tim’s nightstand. “Are there stitches under here?” he asked, carefully peeling back tape.

“Yes,” Tim nodded, unintentionally dragging out the s.

“Was it deep?”

“Mmm,” Tim hummed, catching himself as he drifted sideways. “Yes.”

“Where’s your first aid kit?” Jason questioned, and Tim hadn’t realized he was staring at his bedroom door until Jason’s forefinger settled under his chin and guided him back.

“Bathroom,” Tim answered, somehow aware of each time his lungs filled to take in a breath. It was some sort of hyper awareness, but the kind that couldn’t quite stay focused on one thing in particular.

Jason stood up and left Tim to his own devices – which weren’t much, because the fog of exhaustion made his eyelids feel weighted with gold. Quietly, he slipped sideways, curling atop his good arm over the plush fabric of a fleece blanket.

It felt like hours before he was being pulled upright again, Jason’s hands much warmer than his tone, which sounded torn between concern and frustration.

“You gotta stay awake, Timbo,” he said.

“Mm,” Tim acknowledged, noncommittal. He felt Jason trace the jagged line of stitches with his finger and hissed when a damp cloth blotted the edges, gritting his teeth tiredly against a not entirely unfamiliar ache. After all, this wasn’t his first rodeo.

“Did you do these?” Jason asked, and Tim had to focus on the words to follow Jason’s train of thought.

“Th’stitches?” he asked, just before shaking his head. “Um. B. It’s gonna scar, ‘sn’t it.” It wasn’t a question so much as a statement; Bruce’s first aid was quick and practical, if nothing else.

“You think after so many years this would look slightly less med-student,” Jason commented, apologizing when he prodded one particularly sore spot. “When did you get home this morning?”

Tim’s head lulled backwards and he stared at his popcorn ceiling in thought. “Mm…maybe two?”

The hypersensitivity returned, only this time it clung to how warm Jason was; he was so close that Tim felt heat coming off him in waves, which, he deduced, probably meant he had a fever.

“Is it infected?” Tim questioned.

“No,” Jason said, and the word spilled across Tim’s ear. He couldn’t help the goosebumps that erupted on his skin, didn’t want to help them, didn’t want to disturb the careful application of anti-bac cream on the sore flesh of his bicep. “You’ve been out all day though. When I’m done, let’s make something to eat.”

The idea was inviting.

At least until Tim dissected the words.

“All day?” he said. “No, no–” he murmured, and then he was trying to move, which brought Jason’s palm back to the soft cotton tee he was wearing. “I have a meeting. And a class. What time is it?”

Jason’s palm drew back just enough so that he had a finger pressed to Tim’s sternum, and his tone dipped low. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“But—”

“Ah,” Jason made a buzzer-like noise and followed it with a shoosh . “You need to eat and you need to sleep.”

Tim grumbled but gave up arguing; his eyes slipped closed as he gave in to the rhythmic motion of Jason re-bandaging his arm, answering any of Jason’s lingering questions with small, tired yes ’s or no ’s.

The journey to the living room was a tiring trudge, and Jason abandoned him on the couch in order to scavenge the kitchen. Tim stared thoughtlessly at his phone, which he decided he must have left on the coffee table the night before.

Between opening and closing cabinet doors, Jason stated, “Congratulations on having the world’s tallest pile of dirty dishes, by the way,” and Tim grunted.

“I’m in between maid services,” he stated as the other returned with bits and pieces from the care package Alfred had put together. At the sight of sausage, cheese, and crackers, Tim thought he’d never been so hungry in his life.

“Don’t take any more of those pills,” Jason advised, and Tim wondered how desperate he must look, tearing chunks of smoked sausage from the link before jamming them between his lips. “I mean,” Jason added, “do you even feel anything?”

“Nothing,” Tim confirmed between bites.

“You’re sleep-eating.”

“Starving,” Tim hummed, making a grabby hand for a glass of water that Jason had brought for him. While he worked his way through the plate, Jason dragged out his workbook, which made Tim shake his head forlornly. “I can’t help you today.”

Jason snorted. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. Just get some rest. I’ll stay until later.”

Tim passed forward a plate full of crumbs and tipped backwards, sagging into a corner crevasse of his couch. His arm ached and he felt buzzed, and he was definitely fighting a losing battle against sleep.

“Is this a dream?” he found himself asking, because really, he couldn’t be sure. Jason’s shoulders were less than an arm’s reach away, and all he could smell was that damn aftershave.

“Nope. But you probably won’t remember any of it, anyway.”

“Mmm...” Tim hummed, content. It was nice having Jason around. It felt good not to think. It felt good to feel good and for once, his heart rushed in a way that made him feel like he’d stumbled across some incredibly obvious thing that he’d somehow never quite completely acknowledged. With slow-dragged, sleepy vowels, he murmured, “Hey,” and then, “are you good at keeping secrets?”

Jason’s pencil paused mid-scribble. “What?” The word was tinged with humor, but also something else. Responsibility, probably, because Jason was, at heart, a good soul. “Uh, no. No I am not.”

“Oh,” Tim breathed out, disappointed. Then, “Because I think I like you.”

The words hung; Tim’s eyes had long fluttered closed, and so he only heard, distantly, Jason ask, “What?” too long after.

The exhaustion was real now, and Tim could feel the warm tug of sleep pulling him under. It was all he could do to breathe, “Shh,” against his pillow, and then, with a long sigh, “It’s a secret.”

Outside the window, the world hummed.

***

Consciousness was a fickle thing, a colorful ribbon that slipped between Tim’s fingers. The smallest fuzzy fragments were just beyond his grasp, memories that blurred together, lost to passing time.

When Tim woke, he was alone.

Had he imagined Jason? He suspected it was possible; the images that attempted to drag themselves from the depths were vague and simplistic – the curve of Jason’s neck from behind, the way Jason’s mouth moved as he read silently to himself, the temples of his glasses, sloped against his ear…

Tim frowned.

Glasses?

Since when did Jason wear glasses?

“Ugh,” Tim groaned just before dragging his hands down his face. On a scale of 1 to that time he’d tripped while waving hello to Superman, Jason Todd babysitting him landed a hard 7.

Also, Tim wasn’t even entirely sure he was in his apartment?

Looking around, it was…clean. Too clean. Gone were the cans scattered on his floor; stacked were the books he’d dropped here and there and never bothered to pick up. Weeks of smeared spills, wiped clean – and if Tim tilted his head at just the right angle, he could see that his mile-high stack of dirty dishes was no longer threatening to fall victim to physics.

It was unsettling; Tim didn’t really like people touching his things. It was a product of paranoia – having a secret identity had that effect. It felt awkward though, knowing Jason had picked up after him; Tim had no reason to feel embarrassed but he did, and as his mind skittered through all the possible projects Jason could have busied himself with, he felt his heart do a little lurch.

He wouldn’t have… gone through anything, would he?

Tim wasn’t sure. He was up in an instant though, wandering down the hallway that led to his room, fingertips brushing the wall just in case he needed balance. He hated the feel of after-medicine grog, where the world felt foreign and his thoughts seemed to stumble.

The first thing he noticed was that his bed was stripped; he vaguely remembered blood on his comforter. The second was that this room apparently had carpet. It was beige.

Tim’s eyes darted, searching. They found what they sought – a box at the end of his bed, crumpled, he assumed, because Jason had stepped on it again. Other than that, it seemed untouched; Tim dropped to a crouch and examined it, breathing a soft sigh of relief. For a moment he was tempted to open it.

He decided not to.

After all, even if it was damaged - well, it didn’t matter. Tim tucked it under his bed frame, thinking it might fair better with shelter, and took a deep breath.

He had to keep it safe.

Shortly after, Tim hunted down his phone, not entirely surprised to see a slew of texts. Bruce telling him not to come in; Dick making sure he was alive. A message from Tiffany, his assistant, said that his meetings had been rescheduled for today and the next, along with a succinct, I’ve got everything handled.

With a sigh, Tim sent a message to Jason, more out of habit than anything else.

So. About last night.

He waited a moment, resisting the urge to ask what exactly happened before Jason had a chance to reply. After all, it was the perfect opening for Jason to be Jason and turn the whole ordeal into a joke – which is why it caught Tim by surprise when a message came through that read, simply:

Do you want to come over for dinner tonight?

Tim frowned. His apartment wasn’t that bad.

I’ll cook, Jason added.

...unless Jason had found something sentient in the fridge, which wasn’t an impossibility. How long ago had be bought the brie?

Sure, Tim texted, not willing to ask. He added: also I refuse to feel embarrassed about all this.

Jason shot back: Good.

Tim blinked. Then he shrugged.

Nothing much must have happened at all.

#jaytim #ladelle writes #a study in red

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apathetic-revenant · 7 years

Text

we can figure this thing out

...okay. so, um. explanation.

I’ve had the rough idea for this bouncing around in my head for quite a while now, but I was trying to be a good, responsible writer and not start anything else until By the Skin of Your Teeth was finished. but then, well, things happened and I couldn’t write at all for a while, and when I finally started feeling like doing a bit I just wasn’t quite up to working on BtSoYT. my anxiety was through the roof and Nazis were running rampant and things were just generally bad, y’know, and I knew the upcoming chapter was going to be really intense and I just couldn’t do it yet.

so I fell back on this considerably less angsty idea, which, um, I sort of wrote in between two periods of not being able to work, so it’s been sitting around for like a week now because I wasn’t up to editing it. but today I did feel up to editing it, and it seems like an appropriate day to post this. I mean, it doesn’t really have anything to do with the twins’ birthday, per se, but uh...I don’t have any other fan content for you so here you go.

but please rest assured that By the Skin of Your Teeth is not dead, and I’m very sorry for leaving you guys hanging so long.

AO3 link here. title is from It’s Only Life by The Shins.

Everything was fine.

The Shack was almost back to its former sort-of-glory, thanks to the dedicated and boisterous efforts of pretty much the entire town. Grunkle Stan had recovered most of his memory, and seemed certain to regain the rest with a little more time. Most of the scrapes had scabbed over and the bruises yellowed and faded away, and even Grunkle Ford's burns were healing nicely. It was a warm and beautiful late summer afternoon and birds were singing and the world was healing.

Everything was fine.

Mabel sat in the grass, not caring that her skirt and shoes were getting muddy, and skipped a stone across the surface of the little pond she'd found hidden away in the woods. She watched as it skipped one-two-three times before it disappeared into the murky water, and felt absolutely terrible.

Everything was fine except it hadn't been fine when she saw all her friends imprisoned in screaming images at the snap of a finger, when she and Dipper were running down a corridor with a howling, furious demon hot on their heels, when she was staring into that vast red eye and watching the symbols sliding back and forth like a demented slot machine, waiting to know whether she or her brother would die first. It hadn't been fine when Stan was kneeling on the floor and Ford had slowly raised the memory gun in trembling hands and she had realized all in a great terrible rush what he was about to do. It hadn't been fine when she had run to Stan in the meadow, so sure that everything was alright now, only to see the blank, empty look in his eyes and realize that he no longer knew her.

It wasn't fine. It wasn't fine when she heard Dipper crying in his sleep, when he woke up in the middle of the night with a yell. It wasn't fine when she saw Ford wince as he moved, or run a hand over his wrists when he thought no one was looking. It wasn't fine when Stan hesitated over some behavior that should have been familiar, or gave her that bemused, I'm-sorry-I'm-trying-my-best smile that didn't belong on his face at all.

It wasn't fine but everyone was acting like it was, like it was all over and done with and they were all better now only she didn't feel better. She felt awful and twisted-up inside and she didn't know how to be happy and bright again. She didn't know if she ever would be.

There was a big work party going on to finish up the Shack, with food and soda and loud incoherent music for everyone, and she should have been there, should have been enjoying it, cheering everyone on, eating sheet cake icing and singing at the top of her lungs and generally being the life of the party. That was how things were supposed to go. That was how she was supposed to be. And she had tried, she really had, but every forced smile and half-hearted stab at a piece of food made her feel like she was falling apart, hairline fractures spreading farther and farther across her surface like an old china doll, until she was knew that one more crack would make her shatter into a million pieces.

She hadn't meant to run this deep into the woods. She hadn't meant to run away at all. She'd just had to get away.

She didn't even know where she was, really. She hadn't been paying attention to where she was going, until she looked up and realized she had wandered into some patch of the woods she hadn't seen before. The only identifying marks were a small pond and a few old rocks jutting up out of the grass. It looked more or less like any other part of the woods, beautiful, sunlit, meaningless.

Given the nature of the woods in question, of course, there was probably some ancient secret or hidden treasure waiting to be uncovered in that very spot. Maybe the muddy little cattail-flooded pond was actually a magic pond, and if she threw enough stones into it everything would go back to being alright, properly alright, like it had been before the wood had ended.

She threw another stone into the pond. It skipped once before sinking with a sad gurgle.

The worst thing, the thing she couldn't tell anyone, the thing burning a cold hole in her chest, was that it was all her fault.

She hadn't really remembered, at first. Her memories of being in the bubble were all strange and sticky and unclear, like someone had pulled them out and shuffled them around and messed with all the filters. It had been a lot like a dream, timeless and hazy, where the strangest things made perfect sense, and she had no idea how it had all started. At some point she hadn't been in the bubble, and then at some point she was, and the space between those two points didn't seem to properly exist.

But she'd worked it out, slowly, in bits and pieces in the dead of night, in quiet moments of aftermath, crawling pace by pace to the terrible but inevitable conclusion: she had given the rift to Bill. He had been able to enter their world, to take over, to do all of the terrible things that he did, because of her. Because she had been scared of middle school. Because she had wanted her perfect summer to last a little longer.

Her fault, her fault, her fault: the burns and the blank eyes and the crying in the night. She hadn’t told anyone. She couldn’t. It sat in her throat like she’d swallowed a rock, like something choking her that she couldn’t cough loose, and every time she saw some evidence of the terrible days behind them it dug into her and hurt a little more.

She couldn't get away from it.

Angrily, she picked up another rock and threw it, giving it a good sharp twirl that send it skipping all the way across the pond, and dropped her head onto her knees, waiting for the splash.

It didn't come.

“Ow!”

Mabel jerked her head up in surprise, expecting to see one of the forest denizens-a gnome or a Manotaur or something-and already feeling guilty. Careless, all over again-even sitting on her own in the middle of the woods she made mistakes and they hurt people-

It wasn't a gnome or a Manotaur or any of the other things she'd been imagining. It was a unicorn.

For a moment she just stared at it, forgetting everything else. It was beautiful, graceful and shining in the late afternoon sun, and looking at it made her feel a lot like she had when she'd first seen Celestabellabethabelle: sort of awestruck and overwhelmed and guilty for being so plain and grimy and ordinary compared to that. And she'd hit it. With a rock. She'd beaned a unicorn with a rock.

“Do you mind?” the unicorn said, in that weird way unicorns seemed to talk through their horns. “I'm trying to get a drink here.”

Mabel abruptly remembered that unicorns were actually jerks.

“Go away!” she yelled at it, balling her fists into her sweater, sharp, brittle anger washing away her guilt. Stupid unicorn probably deserved to be hit in the head with a rock anyway.

“Oh, that's nice,” the unicorn said. The voice wasn't quite what Mabel would have expected; it was feminine, but not at all like Celestabellabethabelle's high, flouncy whine. This unicorn sounded...grumpy, and low, and a little gritty and a lot older. “This is your pond, is it? You get to decide who comes and who goes?”

“I said go away!” Mabel bawled back at it. “Leave me alone!”

“I was leaving you alone,” the unicorn snapped. “Minding my own business, me, not bothering nobody. You're the one who threw a rock at me.”

“I'll throw another one if you don't leave me alone!” Mabel yelled, barely even aware of what she was saying; all the anger and guilt and awfulness was racing on ahead of her like an out of control roller coaster and all she could do was try to hang on. “I'm not afraid of you! I know what unicorns are really like! You're all...all...selfish and judgy and you lie to people and make them feel bad!”

The unicorn slowly raised her head from the water she'd been lapping at.

“Really,” she said slowly. “And what, pray tell, are you basing this comprehensive value judgment on?”

Mabel scratched at the dirt with a rock. “I've met unicorns before,” she mumbled.

“Have you,” the unicorn said. “My memory must be going. I don't remember ever meeting you at all.”

“Well...no...I haven't met you,” Mabel admitted. “But...but I've met other unicorns. And my Grunkle Ford has met a bunch too,” she added, rallying a little, “and he said they were all jerks, and he's super smart and knows what he's talking about.”

“Ah. I see. So, having met some members of my species, and knowing someone else who claims to have met some members of my species, you feel confident in your assertion that we all share exactly the same qualities,” the unicorn said. “Sound logic.”

Mabel felt her stomach twist around. For a moment it was like she was back in the glade and feeling lower and lower as a voice from on high trumpeted that she was not pure of heart! But it had been a trick that time. She didn't want to get tricked ever again.

“You're just trying to...to confuse me with your...words,” she said.

“Yes. Definitely,” the unicorn said, sounding dryer than ever. “Getting hit with a rock and called a jerk has all been part of my master plan to make you feel bad. You've figured me out. Bravo.”

She lowered her head and went back to drinking.

Mabel stared across the pond and she wanted to be brave and strong and good and clever, like the Mabel who punched monsters and stood up to mean jerks from any species and made her family proud. She wanted to tell that unicorn what was what and back it up with a good left hook if it tried to argue. She wanted it so hard her fingers dug into the dirt like she might be able to hold onto it, get a grip on her better self before it could slip away, but the horribleness was bubbling up through her like a volcano, like an untended kettle getting ready to scream, and it was all drowning her out.

She leaned her head against her knees and scrunched her face up tight and felt like the world was ending all over again.

After a long, long moment she heard a soft, delicate plish splish plish sound, like hooves stepping daintily through mud.

“...Alright, kid,” the gruff voice said from somewhere above her. “What's eating you?”

Mabel screwed herself up even tighter and willed the unicorn to just go away already. “Nothing,” she mumbled.

“Yeah, right,” the unicorn said. “I'm not so near-sighted I can't spot a blind funk when it's right in front of me. Or are you going to tell me that glowering at a pond and chucking rocks around is how you normally express exuberant happiness?”

Mabel scowled into her skirt. “Why do you care?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” the unicorn said witheringly. “But apparently I do care, so you might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”

Mabel peeked up from her knees to glance at the unicorn. This one was white, shading to silver, with a silvery-blue mane that ran wild halfway down her back. Up close she was still graceful and pretty, but not quite as breathtakingly beautiful as she had seemed from a distance. More...normal, more like an actual creature and not a painting come to life. At the least, Mabel could see that she wasn't nearly as well groomed and coiffed as Celestabellabethabelle; there were burrs in her mane, spots of dirt and mud on her coat, and the edges of her hooves were rough and worn.

For a moment the two of them just looked at each other, and then Mabel burst into tears.

She'd never cried so hard in her life, not even when she was seven and the family cat had died, not even when she was ten and a girl at school at pushed her down and stolen her favorite backpack, not even when when she was twelve and her brother was going away forever. It felt like everything she'd kept pressurized inside her for the past few days was rushing out in a torrent so powerful she could barely even breathe. She cried so hard it hurt.

There was a shifting of silver in the corner of her eye as the unicorn lowered herself onto the grass next to Mabel. She didn't say anything, not even when Mabel huddled against her and got tears and snot on the lovely white coat, just lay there and let Mabel cry until she was finally spent.

For a while, then, there was just quiet, nothing but the sound of the woods gently stirring around them, and Mabel sniffling and hiccuping to herself.

“...'m sorry,” she said eventually.

“Apology accepted,” the unicorn said calmly. “But don't expect me to believe all that was over a mis-aimed rock.”

“...'m sorry I called you a jerk.”

“That's...not really what I meant,” the unicorn said. “But I'll accept that one too, if you want. I take it you've had an...unpleasant interaction with unicorns before?”

“Yeah,” Mabel mumbled. “It ended in a lot of punching.”

“Really? From who?”

“Me.” Mabel sniffled and wiped her nose on her sleeve. “And my friends. We had to get some unicorn hair so my uncle could protect our house. So we went to the glade and we met this unicorn called Celestabellabethabelle-”

The unicorn groaned loudly.

“-and she kept saying I wasn't pure of heart, and I was trying really, really hard to be better, but, um...things happened, and then, and then she admitted that it was all just a con anyway. That unicorns just told people that they weren't pure of heart so they didn't have to give away their hair. And she laughed at me. So I punched her.”

“About time someone did,” the unicorn muttered. “I've half a mind to go around and sort that mare out myself. I knew Celestabella was a stuck-up twit, but torturing kids with that business is a new low.”

Mabel shifted uncomfortably. “I...guess I just thought all unicorns were like that. I mean, she said-”

“Of course she did,” the unicorn muttered. “That's the sort of thing she would say, isn't it? Much easier to claim that everyone's like that than to admit that she's just being a jerk all on her lonesome.”

Come to think of it, that sounded a lot like some humans Mabel knew.

“I'm sorry,” she said again.

“Eh,” the unicorn said. “I admit, we have some bad representatives. There aren't a lot of us, so it's a lot easier for a few to speak for the lot. Especially if they're attention hogs, like some people I could name.”

“Is that why you're out here and not in the glade?” Mabel said curiously. “Because you don't like the other unicorns?”

The unicorn twitched an ear, which Mabel thought might have been something like a shrug. “Not really. The company can get a bit grating in the glade, to be sure, but it's not all bad by any stretch. I just tend to prefer my own. And I like to get out when I can, get some fresh air. Too many rainbows give me a headache.”

“Oh,” Mabel said.

“But enough about me. How about you tell me why you're out here in the woods all on your lonesome, crying up a storm?”

She didn't want to. Once upon a time Mabel had been convinced she was pure of heart; now, she knew that if this unicorn told her that she had done bad things, it would not be a lie. But the unicorn was waiting, patient as an old tree, and Mabel couldn't stand the rock in her throat any longer. She had to tell someone.

“I did something bad,” she said whispered at last. “Really, really bad.”

“Really,” the unicorn said, sounding faintly amused, but not unkind. “What heinous crime did you commit?”

Mabel swallowed hard. “I...think I kinda...caused the end of the world.”

There was a long pause.

“Well...okay,” the unicorn said eventually. “I can't say I was expecting that one. You wanna give me some context here?”

So Mabel told her.

About staying in Gravity Falls with her twin brother and her great-uncle and having great adventures except they got scary sometimes and there was this freaky one-eyed triangle demon that kept pestering them, only at some point he wasn't a pest anymore, he was terrible and threatening and he tricked her brother, and then he tricked her, and she had given him something she shouldn't have because she thought it would make things better but instead it had made everything much, much worse, and lots of people had gotten hurt and Grunkle Stan had lost his memory, had lost himself, all because she had thought, I just want summer to last a little bit longer, had thought, this is just some dumb science thing of Dipper's, had thought, it won't hurt anything.

It took quite a while.

“...and now everyone keeps acting like everything's okay but it's not okay, it's my fault and they don't know it's my fault and I can't tell them but they're gonna find out eventually and then everyone's gonna hate me and I'm not a good person!”

This last came out a lot louder than she had really intended, and startled a few birds.

“...I thought I was,” she said, after a minute. “I thought I was but...I think Celestabellabethabelle might have been right after all. I think I am a bad person.”

The unicorn sighed-a big, snorty, horsey sigh. “Hoo boy. That's a big 'un, alright. Hmm. Hmm. You got anything to eat?”

Mabel blinked, torn out of her reverie with this abrupt comment. “Um. I...have half a bag of gummy koalas.”

“Give 'em here.”

Bemused, Mabel pulled out the wadded-up bag and shook the contents onto the grass. The unicorn nosed around for a moment and selected a green one.

“Mmm. Sugar. Good. Now, then.” The unicorn looked up at Mabel sternly. “First thing, we're going to discard the notion of Celestabellawhatsherface being right about anything, on general principle.”

That made Mabel smile a little despite herself.

“Second.” The unicorn picked up a couple more gummis and mouthed over them thoughtfully. “You didn't know what was going to happen when you handed that thing over, did you?”

“Well...no,” Mabel said.

“So it's a bit rich to say you caused the end of the world. Sounds to me like it was this Bill character who was responsible.”

“Yeah, but...but...” Mabel twisted a hand around in the damp grass, pulling up a few stalks in agitation. “But I still shouldn't have given it to him. I mean, I keep thinking about what would have happened if he had done what he said he would and...I don't think that would have been a good thing. Not really.”

Not after the bubble.

“Well, no,” the unicorn admitted. “Probably not.”

“So...so I still did something really bad,” Mabel said.

The unicorn swished her tail through the grass. “You did something you shouldn't have done, yes,” she said. “There's no getting around that.”

Mabel looked down at the mud and felt her eyes start to swim with tears all over again.

“But everyone does,” the unicorn said. “Everyone screws up sometimes. We're none of us perfect-not even unicorns, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”

Mabel looked up. The unicorn looked back at her, calm and still.

“But...doesn't that make me a bad person?” she said.

The unicorn sighed. “Kid, I'm going to level with you on something. It's a hard truth, but it is true. You ready for this?”

Mabel wrapped her arms around her knees and nodded.

“People like Celestabella, they like to sell you on this idea that there are Good People and Bad People,” the unicorn said. “That goodness is inherent somehow. Ain't so. No such thing.”

Mabel frowned. “That's not true! There are good people, I know that- ”

“Good grief, I'm not saying everyone is terrible,” the unicorn said, rolling her eyes. “I'm talking about this whole pure of heart business.”

“I mean...I know that's baloney,” Mabel said. “I know Celestabella was lying. She said herself.”

The unicorn sighed. “Yeah. I think that might be the problem.”

She nosed through the grass for more gummies, tail twitching thoughtfully. “Look. I'm guessing you believed in this whole 'pure of heart' thing even before you met Celestabella. If you didn't think you were a Good Person, capital letters, would you have been so upset when she told you that you weren't?”

...I'm probably the most pure-of-heart person in this room!

Mabel sighed. “Yeah,” she said. “I guess.”

“And then you found out that she was lying, and she was a jerk, so you must have been a Good Person all along, right? You were in the right and she wasn't, so it didn't matter much what she said.”

Mabel tugged on her skirt and thought about this. “Well...”

“Which, I'm not saying she was right,” the unicorn went on. “But...sometimes knowing that someone else is wrong can stop you from seeing that you're also wrong. It's a tricky thing. My point is, I'm guessing that whole encounter didn't do a lot to convince you that you weren't fundamentally a Good Person, or that Good People didn't exist. It just convinced you that unicorns weren't any good at telling who was and who wasn't. And that may have done you more of a disservice in the long run.”

“So...so I'm not a good person after all, then,” Mabel said, feeling her heart sink down somewhere into her stomach.

“No, that's not what I'm saying,” the unicorn said irritably. “What I'm saying is that being good...it's not a quality that you just have. It's not some shiny thing in you, or anyone else. Neither is being bad, for that matter. Being a good person is something that you do. And here's the hard part: it's something that you have to keep doing. It's not a prize that you win if you get enough points. It's...like a marathon that you have to keep running, every day, and there's no finish line. And sometimes you're going to run really well and cover a lot of ground, and sometimes you're going to trip and plant your face in the dirt. That's okay. The important thing is that you keep going.”

Mabel frowned this over. “So...so I have to keep doing good deeds? Like every day?”

The unicorn flicked her ears. “Not exactly. I mean, good deeds are, well, good. Generally speaking. But it's not about doing things just to be good. It's more of a mindset. Just...when you do things, think about why you're doing them, and what impact it'll have. Be good to the people around you. Give back what you receive. And when you make mistakes-because you will-learn from them. Own up to them. Do what you can to fix them. And then move on. That's the worst part of this whole stupid pure-of-heart idea. If you define yourself as a Good Person, when you do eventually slip up, well, one of two things can happen. Either it completely breaks you, because you don't know how to think of yourself as anything but a Good Person, or, worse, you get to thinking that because you're a Good Person, anything you do is automatically good. Which is how crusades get started, but that's a whole other topic. Point is, it doesn't help anyone.”

“That...that doesn't sound so hard.”

“It's not, by and large. Except when it is. Mostly, you just have to do what you can with what you have. Some days that might be giving to charity and rescuing kittens from trees and some days it might be all you can do to not haul off and punch anyone who doesn't deserve it. It'll come and go. Just do your best. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The unicorn hunted around for more gummis. “Now, for what it's worth,” she said, “I'd say you're doing pretty well. You made a mistake, alright, but only because you were in a vulnerable spot and someone took advantage of it. After all, you figured out what was wrong with that decision. You owned up to it. A lot of people wouldn't have ever made it that far, you know. So chin up, girl. Don't let one thing throw you off the track for good. After all, the world may have ended for a while, but it seems to have come back just fine.”

Mabel nodded slowly.

For the first time in several days, the rock in her throat seemed to ease up and shrink away a little.

“I daresay it'd do you some good to talk about this with someone else, though,” the unicorn said. “I know it hurts to open up sometimes, but it'll hurt more in the long run if you don't. Otherwise, this thing is just going to sit on your chest and make you miserable forever, and that won't fix anything.”

It hurt just to think about, but deep down Mabel had to admit that the unicorn was right. She couldn't imagine keeping this secret much longer. It felt like something was eating her up from the inside.

“Okay,” she said. “I will. But can I...um...ask a favor?”

“You can ask,” the unicorn said. “I may not grant.”

“Can I have some of your hair?”

The unicorn cocked her head to one side and eyed Mabel thoughtfully. “Well, that depends. Are you a girl of pure and perfect heart?”

Mabel hesitated. “No?”

“What are you?”

“I'm...I'm a person trying really really hard to be good but sometimes I make mistakes and I'm not perfect but I'm going to pick myself up again and keep trying.”

“In that case,” the unicorn said, bowing her head, “I grant you a lock of my mane. Use it well.”

Mabel pulled out the penknife Grunkle Stan had given her and gently began to saw off a lock of the silvery mane.

“Though I confess, I don't really see the appeal,” the unicorn went on. “It's just hair. But perhaps that's because I'm attached to it. The novelty's worn off a bit. What are you going to do with that, anyway?”

“I'm going to knit it into a sweater,” Mabel said, tucking the hair carefully into her pocket. “Or...no, a scarf, I think. So I won't outgrow it. I can keep it and remember.”

“Huh,” the unicorn said. “That's a new one. I like that.”

“A girl in a movie I really like did that,” Mabel said. “Well, sorta. She went to a really strange place and it was hard at first and she had to do some really scary things but it got better. And in the end she had to leave but first some of the friends that she made wove her a new hairband to remember them by. Only I don't think any of my friends know how to knit so I'll have to do it myself.”

“Mabel!”

Mabel jumped. That was Dipper's voice.

“Sounds like you're wanted,” the unicorn said.

“I'd better go.” Mabel said, and then, on sudden impulse, threw her arms around the unicorn's neck.

“Thank you,” she whispered into the soft, sweet-smelling mane.

The unicorn nuzzled her gently. “Oh...go on. Get on with you. Your family's waiting.”

Mabel stood up, wiping grass off her knees, and, waving hard all the way, ran off in the direction of her brother's voice.

As she got closer she heard other voices calling her name as well: Wendy, it sounded like, and Grunkle Ford. She ran harder, stomach fluttering as she realized that they all sounded worried. They must have noticed she was gone and come looking for her.

In the end she almost ran into Dipper, who was coming up the path ahead of the other two. They both skidded to a halt, kicking up leaves.

“Mabel!” Dipper gasped. He was out of breath. “Where have you been? We were all worried!”

Mabel twisted her hands, feeling guilty all over again. “Is...is everyone looking for me?”

“No, just me and Wendy and Ford right now. We-we didn't want to make a big fuss about it at first. Where'd you go? Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No...well...not exactly.”

“Mabel, thank heaven.” Ford came jogging up the path, gasping a little, one hand held gingerly to his side. “You're okay.”

“Maybe don't go wandering off in the monster-filled woods without telling anyone right after the apocalypse,” Wendy said, managing close approximation of her usual careless tone, but not quite so close that Mabel couldn't tell that she was also relieved. “Especially when you've got this guy looking out for you.” She jerked a thumb at Ford. “We only just barely convinced him to try looking for you first instead of charging into the woods guns blazing. Literally. Did you know he just carries a gun around? Like, all the time?”

Ford glared at her, but he did look a little bit sheepish.

“I didn't mean to worry anyone,” Mabel said, twisting her hands in her sweater. “I just...”

She'd done it again. Careless. Silly.

Everyone was looking at her.

“Are you okay?” Dipper asked quietly.

The rock was back in her throat and she had thought this would be easier after getting it out the first time, after everything the unicorn had said, but it was still really, really hard.

“Mabel?”

“I have...something I have to tell you guys,” she whispered.

All three of them glanced at each other in bemusement. “What?” Dipper said.

Mabel squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists and choked out, “It was all my fault. Everything that happened. I gave Bill the thing he needed.”

Silence.

“You...you what?” Dipper said.

Mabel couldn't look at him. She couldn't look at any of them. “I, I ran out of the house cause I was all upset cause I thought everything was going to be awful and you were going to leave and I took your backpack only I didn't know it was your backpack and then that time traveler guy showed up and he said he could make summer last longer and I just, I just wanted a little more time! And he said he just needed one little thing and it wasn't that important so...so I gave it to him, only it turned out it was actually Bill and he did all the bad stuff with it and it's all my fault and I'm sorry!”

She wadded herself up with her eyes closed tight and waited for the anger, the hatred, the rejection. The how could you, the you horrible person.

Instead she felt a broad hand rest gently on her shoulder and opened her eyes to see Ford kneeling in front of her. He didn't look angry. He looked...sad.

“Mabel,” he said gently. “Bill...tricked people. That was what he did. And he was good at it. He tricked me. He...he tricked a lot of people. It's not your fault.”

“Yeah, I mean, I fell for him,” Dipper said. “And he pretty much spelled out what he was going to do to me!”

“But...but I shouldn't have given your thing away,” Mabel said. “I should have known better.”

Ford shook his head. “I should have told you about the rift. If you'd known what it was, you wouldn't have given it away. But I...I was foolish, and I didn't want to trust anyone, I thought I had to be the hero and do everything myself and...and...and if anyone's to blame for all this, it's me.”

“Hey, I have an idea,” Wendy said. “How about if instead the person actually to blame for all this is the flippin' demon who wanted to end the world.”

“I like that,” Dipper said with a grin. “Let's blame Bill.”

Ford blinked, slowly, like this thought had never occurred to him. “I...yes, it...perhaps it is time to put the blame back on the shoulders where it belongs.”

“He didn't really have shoulders,” Dipper pointed out.

“Metaphorical shoulders,” Ford amended. “The point is...you certainly aren't to blame for what happened, Mabel. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else.”

“Bill was really good at knowing right when the best time was to try and trick you,” Dipper said. “I mean, he waited to get me until I was really desperate and, uh, I'd been awake for a really long time. And he came after you when you were really upset...”

He hesitated and glanced at Grunkle Ford.

“That...is certainly true,” Ford said. “Bill was extremely good at spotting vulnerabilities.”

“Operative word being was,” Wendy pointed out.

“That's right.” Ford smiled a little. It wasn't something Mabel had seen very often, and it changed his whole face. “He's gone. We beat him. We won. Which we would not have done if you hadn't been very clever and stubborn and brave and good. So let's have no more of this, alright?”

Mabel smiled.

“C'mere, squirt.” Wendy hoisted Mabel up onto her shoulders. “We gotta get you back before Stan notices you're gone.”

“You didn't tell him?”

“We didn't want him to worry,” Dipper explained. “And it's really busy back there. I only noticed you were gone cause I went to see if you wanted to help me make some more Punch-Aid and you weren't anywhere.”

“Yeah, it's dangerous enough having one Mr. Pines freakin' out,” Wendy said. “God only knows what would happen if both of 'em thought you might be in danger. Might not be a town left afterward.”

“You're a very impudent young lady, you know that?” Ford grumbled.

Wendy grinned. “So I've been told.”

“But...um...why did you leave?” Dipper asked, looking up at Mabel with those little creases between his eyes that he always got when he was worried. Which was most of the time.

Mabel fiddled with the back of Wendy's cap. “I just...everyone was being so happy and I felt really rotten and I was trying really hard to be all happy and okay but it wasn't working and I...I don't know. I guess I kind of freaked.”

“Oh, Mabel.” Ford reached up and gently took Mabel's hand. His hand dwarfed hers and she thought of the first time she had met him. A whole finger friendlier than normal. “You...you don't have to try and act happy if you don't want to. It's, it's okay to not be okay sometimes.”

“Yeah, everyone feels rotten occasionally,” Wendy said. “Especially right now. Shhhh-shoot, man, you think everyone back at the Shack's making all that noise and using lots of power tools cause they feel really mellow? A lot of that's stress relief. It's like when my dad gets really worked up about something and he goes out and chops a bunch of trees. I mean he does that anyway, but, y'know.”

“You could always come help me and Ford down in the basement,” Dipper said. “We're fixing up the lab. It's quiet down there. Erm- that's okay, isn't it?” he added, glancing at Ford.

“Of course it's okay,” Ford said. “Frankly, we need all the help we can get down there. It's a mess, and I'm not letting Manly Dan anywhere near it-no offense, Wendy.”

“Listen, tell me something I don't know.”

Mabel perked up. “I could help you guys with your science stuff?”

“Absolutely,” Ford said.

“Oh man, there's some really cool stuff down there,” Dipper said. “Um, which I take very seriously,” he added when Ford glanced at him.

At the start of this summer, Mabel would have thought that spending an afternoon sorting out a dusty old science lab full of nerd stuff with her nerd family when there was a big loud party going on right above her would have been some kind of horrible ironic hell.

Right now it sounded like heaven.

“Oh!” she said, realizing something. “Grunkle Ford, I know something you can add to your journals!”

Ford blinked. “Oh?”

“Yeah! It turns out there are nice unicorns!”

“What,” Ford said flatly.

“Get out,” Wendy said. “When did this happen?”

“Just now! I met one in the woods! She was old and grumpy and she ate all my gummy koalas but she was nice actually even though I accidentally hit her with a rock and she talked to me and then she even gave me some of her hair and I'm going to put it in a scarf!”

“Wow,” Dipper said. “Sounds kind of like Grunkle Stan.”

Ford very nearly stopped walking altogether. “What a horrible mental image.”

Mabel giggled. “It's going to be my summer memory scarf. I want to put things in it from all my friends.”

“Uh, you don't mean like, more hair, do you?” Wendy said. “Because that would be kinda weird.”

“Noooo,” Mabel said. “Just like...yarn and things. Maybe I could ask around and get everyone to pick a color of yarn.”

“That sounds rather nice,” Ford said. “I like red.”

“Dibs on green,” Wendy said.

“I call blue,” Dipper added.

“You guys do know that there are like, multiple shades of color, right?�� Mabel said. “We can have different reds and greens and blues.”

“Is there a flannel shade?” Wendy asked hopefully.

“This is going to be a really interesting scarf,” Dipper muttered.

“It'll be beautiful,” Mabel said, and smiled.

But there was still one person left to tell.

Later, when the work party had broken up and everyone had gone home, leaving the Pines and one adopted honorary Pines alone in their mostly reconstructed house, Mabel sat on the arm of Grunkle Stan's chair and squirmed.

They'd gone through every scrapbook, every ancient video reel, everything concrete they could get their hands on that might jog Stan's memory. The twins had recounted every story from the course of the summer, from the biggest adventures to the tiniest anecdotes. Soos had described, at more length than was possibly strictly necessary, everything he could recall from the years that he had known Stan-if it was embellished a bit here and there, no one had said anything.

Once, Ford and Stan had gone into the kitchen and talked quietly until well after the twins had gone to bed; when they come downstairs the next morning, they found both men asleep at the table, with an empty bottle sitting between them. Dipper and Mabel had glanced at each other, fixed their bowls of cereal as quietly as possible, and crept out again without a word.

What was left now were things that no one could rediscover for Stan but himself: the things about his time in Gravity Falls that he had never told anyone, the long ten years of silence that now had no witnesses to tell the tale save a small box of keepsakes waiting in Stan's office. Stan didn't talk much about what he thought about all this, what he had remembered or not remembered; he tended to shrug it off and, laugh and steer any inquiries into another topic entirely. No one really asked much anyway.

“It's kind of like those old maps,” Dipper had said one night, as the two of them lay awake in bed talking uncertainly about it. “You know, really old cartographers, when they were making maps and there was some area they didn't know anything about, they would draw a dragon or something there instead. Like, we don't know what's out here, but it's probably really dangerous and you don't want to go there anyway. Here be dragons. Like that.”

Mabel didn't know about really old cartographers one way or the other, but it sounded right to her. Here be dragons. That was how it had felt when they had uncovered the box of fake IDs and started wondering if Stan was really even their great uncle after all: like something terrible jumping out at them from the mist. That was how it had felt when she'd been trying to figure out how Bill had gotten the rift.

For the moment, anyway, there seemed to not be much more the rest of them could do, and by general unspoken agreement it was universally felt that everyone wanted to think about something else for a little while. Dipper had suggested a movie night. This of course had immediately run into a speedbump, as no one could agree on what movie to watch, the end result being that they had decided to take turns. The disparity of tastes meant it was shaping up to be a very interesting marathon.

Dipper and Soos were in the kitchen making a small avalanche of popcorn, and Ford was off somewhere rummaging for a part that he swore would allow him to significantly upgrade the TV, leaving Stan and Mabel alone in the living room for the moment. Stan was going through the stack of movies. Mabel was fidgeting.

She knew she had to get it over with, but somehow it still wasn't any easier the third time.

“Grunkle Stan?” she said at last.

“Yeah?”

“I have to tell you something.”

She told him. It took a while. Stan wasn't entirely clear on how the whole business with the rift worked to begin with; neither was Mabel, really, come to that.

“So?” he said, when she had finally finished.

Mabel stared at him. “So...so it's kind of my fault. Um. That everything happened. That you...”

She didn't want to say it.

“I just...thought you should know,” she mumbled into the collar of her sweater.

“No it ain't,” Stan said calmly, not looking up from the pile of DVD cases.

“But...but... if I hadn't given Bill the thing-”

“There wouldn't have been a rift if I hadn't pushed Ford into that portal in the first place,” Stan said, still sounding inexplicably calm. “And spent thirty years tryin' to bring him back even when he told me not to.”

“But that was a mistake!” Mabel blurted out, horrified. This was not at all how this was supposed to be going. “It...it was an accident! You didn't mean to-”

“And you're saying you did?” Stan said, finally looking up at her.

In the sudden silence, the sound of far too much popcorn popping at once drifted in from the kitchen, along with a few panicked shouts.

Stan got up and shuffled over to the chair Mabel was sitting on. “Look,” he said, dropping into it with a sigh, “you really think I'm gonna hold something like that against you? I mean, look at all the mistakes I've made, and here you all are calling me a hero.”

“You are a hero,” Mabel said firmly.

He gave her a wry look. “Well, you can't keep calling me a hero even though I screwed up a whole lot, and keep beatin' yourself up for screwin' up. They're, uh...what's the thing. Mutually exclusive. Now, me, I'd prefer you went with the first one. It's a lot nicer for everyone.”

Mabel wasn't quite sure what to say to this.

“Anyway, take it from someone who lies to people for a living,” Stan went on. “It's not your fault. It's the other guy's fault for lyin' to you in the first place. And I punched him dead, so. Problem solved.”

To her own surprise, Mabel realized she was starting to cry again. She didn't even really know why, except that she seemed to have too many feelings all of the sudden and they were all overflowing and pouring out of her.

“Aw, c'mere, kiddo,” Stan said, holding out one arm. Mabel leaned against him and let herself be enveloped in a bear hug of the sort only Stan could provide.

“I love you, Grunkle Stan,” she whispered.

“I love you too, sweetie.”

“FOUND IT!” Ford bellowed triumphantly from somewhere deep in the house, at almost exactly the same time that the smoke alarm went off in the kitchen.

Stan rolled his eyes. Mabel giggled.

Maybe everything wasn't fine just yet.

But it was getting better.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfic #fanfic #scribulations

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