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youcouldmakealife · 5 months

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LBTE: Jared (140-141)

A lot of ass. A lot of ass.

If you want to follow along, the series page is here.

140. Covering Asses

They don’t sleep together on the road. That rule’s ironclad.

Says the a man who has nursed multiple shower sex injuries.

Naps count. Naps involve sleep. Naps together are not allowed, no matter how much Bryce flashes him his big sad eyes. Besides, they’ll just get distracted, and zero napping will get done, and where will they be? Not game ready. Game readiness is very important.

Jared’s pretending he doesn’t see the eye roll from Bryce as Jared escorts him out of his room so they can take their separate naps.

Intellectually Bryce would agree with this. But most of the time instant gratification wins for him, and instant gratification says ‘why should I nap in a different bed from my husband when he is right here’.

The exciting novelty of Jared being there at naptime is a factor, but Bryce sleeps better with Jared beside him.

Bryce tells him to get some sleep, gives him a kiss goodnight, then goes back to his room without even being asked, which is good. That’s good.

Just like you told him.

“Want me to come back?” Bryce asks.

“No,” Jared says.

“Want me to trash Deere?” Bryce asks.

Jared shuts his eyes and makes himself comfortable, wakes up the next morning to rapping on the door, his phone dead and digging into his shoulder.

Bryce was so willing to break Jared’s rule if Jared wavered even a little, but he’ll offer a lullaby of ‘fuck that goalie, that would have been such a beauty’ if that’s what Jared needs from him.

Well, ideal right up until he gets woken up by loud douchebags giggling and shushing one another in the hall right around curfew.

Jared opens the door and glowers at his husband and his husband’s bad influence.

Bryce is perfectly capable of making those decisions himself, as you well know, Jared.

“Sorry J, did we wake you?” Bryce asks in this faux-whisper louder than his normal voice.

Jared rolls his eyes at him and goes back to bed.

sorry babe Bryce sends him with a bunch of apologetic little emojis.

Probably good it wasn’t ‘sorry babe did we wake you’ considering the situation. J is a slip in itself, actually — J and B don’t get used as nicknames in front of non-Gabe Canucks before Julius’ interview other than, well, right here.

Bryce is half-asleep over breakfast, and Jared feels zero sympathy. Absolutely none.

“Here,” Jared says, as they get on the bus to practice.

Bryce’s sleepy face becomes a confused face.

“I got it from the cafe next door,” Jared says. Bryce hates hotel coffee. So does Jared, but if they’re in a hotel without proper coffee, he drinks tea at breakfast. He’s recently learned Bryce just chugs water and silently suffers without his morning cup of coffee. It’s stupid. “Sickeningly sweet.”

So little sympathy you cut your breakfast short to get him a treat.

He decides ‘just like you’ is not a bros addition to that, even if it’s an objective fact their friends would testify to. The coffee, knowing how Bryce takes it, that could be bros. Jared got Julius coffee all the time, and vice versa, and Gabe grabs Jared coffee when they carpool. Bros can know their bro’s sickeningly sweet coffee order.

“Thanks, J,” Bryce says, face soft and open. He’s too obvious.

“Whatever,” Jared says.

Jared: brings Bryce a coffee, very nearly says ‘sickeningly sweet, just like you’

Bryce: says thank you.

Jared: how dare you expose us.

But also, okay, Bryce calls him J here as well, so maybe Jared has a point.

“I like him better than you,” Jared says.

Bryce, walking down the aisle, stops to beam at him. Too obvious.

And like, Jared wasn’t even saying much. Dmitry sucks.

“Move it along, Marcus,” Jared says.

Bryce salutes him with his coffee, still beaming.

Here Jared is using ANOTHER pet name in the form of Bryce’s last name AND bossing him around. And still he says Bryce is being too obvious. (To be fair, Bryce totally is. Heart eyes everywhere)

“But you’re not mad?” Bryce says.

“You like people,” Jared says. “Why am I going to be mad at you for liking people.”

“I like you the best though,” Bryce says very earnestly.

;-; I like YOU the best, Bryce.

The Canucks, as Jared feared, want to do a bromance video.

It’s Dmitry mercilessly chirping a comically offended Bryce.

Jared doesn’t read the reactions, but the fans apparently love it.

Who amongst us doesn’t appreciate a good bromance video?

“Jared,” his mom says. “Are you jealous of your linemate?”

“No,” Jared says.

“Your married linemate?” she asks. “With children?”

“He’s manipulated Bryce into babysitting for him,” Jared says. “It’s unethical. Stop laughing at me.”

Never.

“They weren’t even funny chirps,” Jared says. “Haha, Bryce, look at your nice hair, it’s so nice, that’s so funny. Everyone point and laugh at Bryce’s nice hair.”

“He called me a Ken doll,” Bryce says, right back to comically offended. It isn’t even an insult. Ha ha, look at you, so conventionally attractive. Burn.

Bryce’s hair is very nice and he gets very offended if you say that for some reason, which makes it fun to compliment him. Ken doll from Dmitry, Disney Prince hair from Stephen. All very upsetting to Bryce, which mystifies Jared.

“Ha ha, isn’t it funny that we call you Bullet but you’re a softie,” Jared says.

“I’m not a softie,” Bryce mutters.

“You’re objectively a softie,” Jared says. “Come on.”

He’s a Squishmallow.

Okay, I just looked up whether there was a Bryce Squishmallow, since there are like, 1000 of them so I had a chance, and look at this guy. A rainbow dog covered with hearts. It's him.

“So tough that you’re sulking over being called a softie,” Jared says.

Bryce’s sulk intensifies. It’s incredible he can multi-task driving and pouting.

“Attention on the road, tough guy,” Jared says.

“I’m not talking to you,” Bryce mutters.

You two deserve each other. I say this with great affection. And also mockery.

“Good morning handsome friends!” Dmitry says as he walks in. He’s four minutes late, but Coach doesn’t even bat an eye.

Possibly because he’s only four minutes late, you ridiculous boy who just checked his phone to time Dmitry’s entrance.

“Fun fact,” Bugsy says on Jared’s other side. “You can’t actually kill someone with your eyes.”

“Wanna bet,” Jared says, looking over at him.

“You know what,” Bugsy says, hands up. “You do you, man.”

Jared’s death glare quota has gone up significantly since Bryce joined the team. It’s…unsettling.

“Blinded by your pasty ass,” Bugsy says. “Where did you spend your summer, Nunavut?”

“Some of us know what sunscreen is, Bugger,” Jared says. “And Nunavut has sun twenty-four hours a day in summer, so hard fail on that one.”

“Only Northern Nunavut,” Gabe says, lacing his skates up. “Which is almost entirely unpopulated.”

“Why are you undermining me,” Jared hisses.

“I don’t think clarifying a misconception is undermining you,” Gabe says mildly.

Gabe usually would keep the correction in his head (this is a key difference between not only Jared and Gabe, but Stephen and Gabe), but sometimes he decides Jared deserves it. This is one of those times.

“Full-on Canadian Heritage minutes over here,” Scotsman says, clapping a hand around their shoulders, then, “Put some fucking pants on, geometry nerds.”

“Do we tell him—“ Jared says as Scotsman saunters away.

“No,” Gabe says firmly.

Don’t correct the goalie.

“Your ass isn’t pasty,” Bryce blurts the second they get in the car.

This has been killing him inside.

“How long were you holding that in,” Jared says.

“It’s a great ass,” Bryce says. “His ass is pasty.”

Absolutely fucking killing him, how dare someone insult Jared’s terrific ass in Bryce’s presence.

Jared pats his thigh. “Do you know what pasty means,” he double-checks. He honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he found out Bugsy used like, spray tan or something. Though he probably just wanders around naked in the wilderness all summer, getting bitten by his insectoid namesakes.

No tanlines on Bugsy. Clothing optional at Bugsy’s cottage.

“Thank you for defending my ass’s honour,” Jared says. “And thank you way more for not saying any of that in front of our teammates.”

“They can see your ass too,” Bryce says. “It’s not pasty.”

“They’re probably a little less eager to defend my ass,” Jared says.

“Great ass,” Bryce says firmly.

He has been SEETHING.

“It’s really sad that you’re not even doing this to like, get laid,” Jared says. Not that Bryce needs to do more than say, like ‘hey J, wanna fuck?’ to get laid, but still.

“Doing what?” Bryce asks, looking confused. Just defending the honour of Jared’s ass because he feels like, morally obligated.

Jared says this like he wouldn’t be so fucking mad if someone insulted Bryce’s ass. (Livid! Have you seen it!)

Bryce frowns at him.

“What,” Jared says.

“You’re mean to Dima,” Bryce says, still frowny, then starts rooting through the belts. Only Bryce would be careful to make sure his belt’s coordinated before he goes to babysit small children.

You’re right and you should say it, Bryce. Even if Dmitry thinks it’s hilarious.

The babysitting is a red herring -- Bryce Marcus would not leave the house at all without coordinating his belt.

Trade Kurmazovs with me., Jared texts Raf.

Absolutely not., Raf texts back immediately.

Raf has been fed information about Dmitry from a) Jared and b) Oleg. It has not been a flattering profile. Also that’s Raf’s hockey grandpa.

“Really?” Bryce says, popping his head back in the room. He’s beaming. Jared hates how effective Bryce’s beam is.

“We’re telling him I lost a bet or something,” Jared says. He doesn’t want Dmitry to think he does this willingly. He doesn’t.

I mean. You just offered. Which sounds kind of willing to me.

“Stop smiling at me like that,” Jared says. It’s too powerful. He thought it would get less powerful with time, or that he’d be more inured to it, or something. Instead it just keeps getting stronger. Or Jared gets weaker to it. Whichever.

You’re both fucking softies.

141. Antagonism

“Would you rather — ”

Another day, another round of ‘would you rather’ in the Canucks’ locker room. Jared is so ready for whenever they get sick of the game, or run out of questions. Unfortunately, neither day has arrived, and Jared is now very well versed on his teammates’ preferences and the way they’d act in ridiculous hypothetical situations, whether he likes it or not. And he does not.

The fact that Jared visibly seethes every time someone asks the question only makes his teammates more inclined to play the game.

“Super strength,” Dmitry pipes up.

“Kurmanator,” Stevie says. “Come on, man.”

The only IJ appearance of Dmitry’s retro nickname of Kurmanator. That was more popular in the aughts.

“Super strength,” Dmitry says firmly, just like he always does, no matter the question. Jared’s not sure if it’s just him being annoying to be annoying, or if it’s his equivalent of Jared looking blankly at whoever is asking the question until they go bother someone else.

Both. With the addition of Dmitry finding it funny, and also: who wouldn’t want super strength?

Either way, him and Dmitry don’t get asked anymore. Gabe does, but he tends to answer so thoughtfully, over-analysing the question and explaining the reasoning behind his answer, that it drives them all nuts, and he’s not getting asked much either now.

Gabe will also debate how realistic the possibility was, and that is not fun in a game based on ridiculous scenarios. He is not doing it to fuck with them, unlike Dmitry. Entirely in earnest.

“Would you rather have no kids, or a dozen of them?”

“Dozen,” Bryce says with absolutely zero hesitation as he tightens his skate laces.

No. That is not the correct answer. The correct answer is ‘if Jared and I were to have children one day, which we have not decided yet, it would be a reasonable amount, like one or two, and not enough to ice an entire fucking scrimmage’.

That is not the question he was asked, Jared. He was asked none or dozen. And he says dozen.

Gabe kicks Jared’s skate, which is probably a silent ‘your face is doing something it should not be doing in front of everyone’. That or ‘haha, sucks to be you’. Jared gives the kick the benefit of the doubt, and focuses his attention on his own laces.

It’s mostly the second one, honestly.

“This conversation is not happening in my car,” Gabe says. “Have it after I drop you off. It’s bad enough dealing with you bullying Bryce into taking the back seat every time.”

“Obviously not a dozen,” Bryce says, twisting around in the front seat to give Jared an earnest look. Jared generously allowed Bryce to have shotgun this time, maybe because Gabe called him out over always taking the front seat. Which is not bullying. He does not bully his husband. He states his personal preference and Bryce is typically happy to oblige.

This is literally the first time Bryce has had the front seat in Gabe’s car. And it’s only because Gabe called Jared a bully.

“Oh no,” Jared says. “No. Absolutely not. Tops is not five. We are not having five kids.”

“Just ignore the driver to have a private conversation in front of him,” Gabe mutters. “That’s fine.”

Poor Gabe.

“Every time we’re back at home it’s ‘when are you getting married’,” Gabe mutters, presumably to himself, though he’s loud enough that Jared can hear him. “‘when are you two having kids’, ‘Gabriel, stop giving me that face, it’s a perfectly reasonable question, you two aren’t getting any younger and I’d like an answer before I get old and die’, can we just not—”

Gabe has some baggage vis a vis the kids question, obviously.

“I am not saying that,” Gabe says. “I am emphatically not saying that. Why are you like this.”

“Hereditary,” Jared says.

Hobgoblin gene.

“We can’t have one,” Bryce says. “That’s like — we can’t do that to them. We can’t just have one.”

“Oh good, and now we’re insulting only children,” Gabe says. “I’m glad this car ride is going so well. It’s so nice to have you both. What a pleasant trip this is.”

Gabe is an only child, obviously. Also his voice is getting higher and cheerfuller with every word. Anyone with any self-preservation skills would find this ominous.

“Are you channelling your mom right now?” Jared asks curiously. The over the top cheeriness Gabe’s complaining with is fascinating.

“…Yes,” Gabe says. “Also fuck you.”

Jared does not have these self-preservation skills, at least when it comes to Gabe.

“It’s cool,” Gabe says on the drive into practice. Jared’s a little surprised he was actually there to pick them up this morning.

Nobody deserves Gabe. Especially Jared.

‘Would you rather’ mercifully peters out just in time for Bryce to fuck up his shoulder again. Not too bad, he claims, but considering the head athletic therapist told him to take a mandatory practice off, Jared suspects he’s underplaying the severity, or, at the very least, that if it’s not too bad now, it will be if he doesn’t rest it.

Another straw on the precarious haystack that is Bryce’s shoulder. (Yes I am mixing my metaphors, no I will not use them properly)

“No way you’re wearing cashmere and hand-tailored pants to sit around and watch TV,” Jared says.

Bryce smiles proudly at him.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m learning my fabrics,” Jared says. It’d be harder not to at this point. And Bryce can’t get pants to fit him like that without getting them altered.

Cashmere’s the one that makes Jared want to rub his face on Bryce’s chest like a cat, obviously he recognises it sooner rather than later. And the hand-tailored pants are all ‘dat ass’ pants. It’s also most of Bryce’s pants. For reasons. Ass reasons.

“Meeting Dima for brunch before practice,” Bryce says. “I’d have invited you, but.”

But you’d make a face like the exact face you’re making right now.

He wonders what Bryce is doing right now. Icing his shoulder, Jared hopes.

The continued naivete of Jared Matheson.

There are four reasons to miss mandatory practice: you’re injured, you’re sick, you’re dealing with personal issues, or you’re dead. And those personal issues better be a full on emergency.

Also BABY!! but I feel like that falls under personal issues. The issues don’t have to be BAD issues. Perhaps 'personal matters' would be better phrasing.

The last thing Bryce needs is a reputation of someone who skips out on stuff. That reputation lingered on the Flames long after it stopped being accurate, and Jared will squash the smallest sprout of it here, even if him knowing is like, friendlier than they should be.

Jared there is literally an article about how you’re best friends.

Jared gets poked in the arm, looks up with a scowl. At Dmitry, because of course it’s Dmitry. Everyone else knows better.

“Don’t poke me,” Jared says.

Dmitry pokes him again, which Jared really should have expected.

There are two people who should know better in this equation.

“That,” Dmitry says, pointing at his left hand.

“Yes?” Jared says. “I’m married? You know that?”

“Yes,” Dmitry says.

“Uh,” Jared says. “Is that all or—”

“To Bullet, right?” Dmitry asks in an undertone.

“Um,” Jared says.

“Okay,” Dmitry says, then pats him on the shoulder and walks over to his stall.

Dmitry has confirmed he is not being fucked with AND has fucked with Jared, so he may now carry on with his day.

“But you told him about us?” Jared says. “Like. On purpose?”

“Yeah,” Bryce says. “Gabe said Dima was like, the first person to find out him and Stephen were together and he was super supportive from the get-go, so I figured he’d be like, cool.”

Considering Bryce and Jared will be out to the entire team VERY shortly, it’s significant that Bryce actually came out on his own terms to a teammate first. Also that there was zero Jared involvement in this — every other time Bryce has come out (barring to Elaine) it’s at Jared’s urging (Chaz) or directly as a result of his relationship with Jared (Dave, teams, even his grandparents), so the fact that Jared didn’t even know it was happening — Bryce was taking a big step.

Jared does not know how he feels about Bryce and Gabe having heartfelt conversations about their sexuality without him present. Warm? But also not. He doesn’t know.

Jealousy warring with relief that Bryce has support and someone to talk to.

“How’s your shoulder actually?” Jared asks.

Bryce sighs dramatically.

Jared waits.

“Fine,” Bryce says.

Jared waits some more.

“Like, kind of being a bitch,” Bryce says. “But it’s fine.”

“Ice or heat?” Jared asks.

“Come on, you’re at least supposed to say something like ‘you’d know’,” Bryce says as Jared rolls off him and goes to the kitchen.

Like Jared would ever set himself up like that.

Bryce snorts. “Honestly you’re not far off,” he says. “Dima kept asking when him and Oksana were going to finally meet my wife. He was all like, hurt.”

And by hurt Bryce is probably referring to that over the top pouty thing Dmitry does, pretending someone’s hurt his feelings then laughing it off if they start to apologise.

He was legitimately a little hurt, considering they’re bros and Bryce got squirrelly every time his spouse was mentioned.

“So I told him he actually already knew my husband, and he was really good about it,” Bryce says. “Said we’re welcome to come by any time. And not just like, for babysitting.”

“How generous of him,” Jared says.

“Right?” Bryce asks, either not registering the sarcasm or cheerfully ignoring it. Probably the latter. Bryce is extremely fluent in sarcasm by this point. Though it always seems to go over his head when it’s Stephen being sarcastic, so maybe he’s just fluent in Jared.

Tremendous fluency in Jared, working familiarity with Matheson, but sarcasm outside these parameters can still trip him up, especially from Julius and Stephen.

“No,” Bryce says. “But they’re adorable, J, those little guys are just— the cutest, you know? And like, they’re so smart and they’ve got their own personalities and—”

Bryce isn’t allowed to babysit anymore.

It’s so cute that you think you can stop him.

“You,” Jared says.

“Good morning Mathematics,” Dmitry says, then, “Did you just kick me?”

“Yes,” Jared says. “I did.”

Dmitry looks down at his shin, then up at Jared. “Was it supposed to hurt?” he asks.

“Yes,” Jared says.

“Oh,” Dmitry says, then ruffles Jared’s hair.

I love that Dmitry’s immaturity gives Jared the excuse to embrace all the immaturity in his own heart. And there is far more than he’d like to admit.

“You’re my nemesis,” Jared says.

“Aww,” Dmitry says.

“It — it means adversary!” Jared says. “Antagonist! Enemy!”

“Aww,” Dmitry says, then reaches out, presumably to ruffle Jared’s hair again, like Jared’s a little boy who’s so smart and has such a personality and —

Dmitry is so touched Jared has declared him his nemesis.

“Okay,” Dmitry says, with this little coo to it like he’s trying to calm a skittish horse or talk one of his sons out of a tantrum. Possibly one in which they hit him with their tiny little fists and kick him with their tiny little feet, and it doesn’t hurt at all. Jared is appalled with himself and his puny fists and his nemesis having.

“Are you talking to me like a toddler right now,” Jared says.

“Yes,” Dmitry says.

“That’s fair,” Jared admits, and then retreats to his stall to seethe some more.

Nobody can say Jared is not aware of his faults. Eventually.

#liveblogging the end

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larabiatasstuff · 5 months

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Ok, since I simply can't get enough from Sweet Tooth and the way you're writing him, I'd like to request a little something. How about him still being in the Asylum and us being his caretaker? Maybe we get a tad bit too close to him and end up falling in love with our patient? Is that something ya would be comfortable with?

Omg I absolutely love your request. Of course I write that for you 🖤I hope you enjoy it 🙏

It was a rainy Monday morning when I was on my way to work. Being a nurse was always a dream of mine and I absolutely loved working with the patients at the Blackfield Asylum.I just entered the courtyard when I noticed a few other nurses whispering and giving me looks. "Good morning!" I said in the most friendly tone. "Good morning Y/N!" they answered simultaneously,before they kept whispering and giggling. I decided to shrug that off, shook my head and entered the building. "Oh good morning Y/N, the director is waiting for you in his office. He wants to talk to you about something." Alice our head nurse greeted me. "Oh? Am I in trouble?" she gave me a warm smile. "No it's... you're not in trouble honey. Now go you shouldn't let him wait." I nodded and my way to the directors office. I knocked three times before a loud "Come in!" was heard. So I opened the door and entered the office. "Oh Y/N you're right on time, please take a seat." the director said opening my personnel file. "I hope I didn't do anything wrong sir. I always do my work as best as I can." he looked at me over his glasses with a smirk. " Don't worry dear you're actually one of my best nurses here. You're always on time, the patients love you and you always wear a smile on your face. " " Thank you very much sir, I really love this job but if I did nothing wrong why do you want to talk to me?" his expression got serious and he took another file and handed it to me." There's this patient in the east wing, Marcus Kane... he is a hopeless case. He doesn't talk to anyone, not to nurses, nor therapists. Every time someone wants to enter his cell he greets them with nothing but silence and aggression." I looked through his patient record while listening to what the director had to say." And now you want me to try it. " he sighs" I'll be honest with you, you are basically our last hope and since you seem find a connection to every patient... " " I understand. Is there anything I need to pay special attention to? "." No it's completely up to you the important thing is that he starts to open up and we can start with his therapy. "" Of course sir, is there anything else I need to know? " " Not that I remember. Oh here are your keys and your ID card for the east wing, good luck Y/N. " I closed the file and got up from my seat." Thank you sir. " with that I left the office.

Part two🖤

#sweet tooth x reader #sweet tooth #twisted metal #samoa joe

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1tboy · 1 month

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jan luis castellanos, bisexual, cis-male + he/him → isn’t that manuel jaime diaz? i’ve also heard they go by the it boy. i hear they’re twenty-two and want to be a broadway actor. they seem to be hardworking & charismatic, but also perfectionist & pushy. they remind me of spotlight shining in the middle of the stage, the shine of a leather jacket, and a morning run around the park.

○ ′ 🌙 loved by taco

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 001

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 manuel jaime diaz 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 manny , mj ( close friends ) , diaz ( jock buddies ) . 𝐃𝐎𝐁 september 1, 1979 𝐀𝐆𝐄 twenty - two 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 virgo 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 cis-male 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 he/him 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 bisexual 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 río san juan, dominican republic 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 bronx, nyc, new york 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 english and spanish 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 senior at lawrence university

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 002

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 jan luis castellanos 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 dark brown/black 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 hazel eyes 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 5′10″ 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 both ears pierced 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 none 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 white and black t-shirts, leather jackets, golden necklace with a cross, jeans.

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 003

𝐒𝐊𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐍 the new it boy 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 protagonist ( enfj ) 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 hardworking, thoughtful, passionate, charismatic, altruistic 𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 idealistic, perfectionist, sensitive, pushy 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 acting, singing, dancing, staying active, basketball, soccer, knitting 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 working

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 004

𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 jaime diaz, forty-eight, restaurant owner/manager 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 marisol guzman diaz, fifty, nurse 𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 none

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 005

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐒 luke patterson ( julie and the phantoms ) , troy bolton ( high school musical ) , anna delvy ( inventing anna ) , blair waldorf ( gossip girl ) , finnick odair ( the hunger games ) , peter kavinsky ( to all the boys ) , hanna marin ( pretty little liars ) , june park ( tiny pretty things )

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 006

when someone mentions the diaz family, it's nothing but good things for that family. of course it would be. they were the poster family of what the american dream was all about. the family immigrated from dominican republic in the early 80s, with a hundred dollars in their pockets and but a dream. the dream for a better life. jaime and marisol had always dreamt of living their lives in the united states, but when manuel was born, they had another dream now, to give manny the best life they could, and that was to move them to a country where anything was possible.

and that's what manuel managed to do. growing up from his humble beginnings and learn that with a bit of hard work and dedication, any dream was possible. and growing up with someone who had everything, he felt like he needed to keep up with all the things he managed. marcus was always the charming one, the trendy one, the king of the school. and manny always felt like he was just his lackey more than he was a friend. but that didn't stop manny for pursuing things he enjoyed, even if marcus wasn't into it, from being the best in whatever sport he was in, to getting a solo in the school and church choir, to ending up getting the lead role in every musical and play he had auditioned for during school. he was dream catcher, a perfectionist, an idealistic person.

the struggles came when he applied to schools, and finding out that he was an immigrant himself. for most of his life he was told that he was born in the bronx. manuel's whole life was in the states, in new york city, and discovering that he couldn't legally get a job or apply for student loans because he was not from here took a toll on his whole identity. no one knew else knew about this, not even marcus, except for esteban chamberlain, marcus' father.

after the news, he didn't stop though. he kept working hard, getting accepted to one of the best schools. his eyes were set on lawrence university. it was the most prestigious school that he knew he needed to be part of, but he knew that he would struggle to afford the school. luckily he got some money with some scholarships, but it wasn't enough. he had enough for a year, thanks to his parents saving up, but he still needed three more years worth of tuition, so he had to find some way to get the money. and so he found himself escorting, and then eventually finding a man that would eventually helped.

he managed to do all this under the books, until marcus discovered the truth. he knew about his status, he found out that he was doing escorting his freshman and sophomore year, and he knew all about the guy that he was sleeping with for money. their relationship had strained, that manny was tired of feeling less, and the night he died he had an argument with him. after his death, it was him that took over the reigns. he was next in line for valedictorian, he was given so much love after marcus died, seeing as he was the closest with him. and now he was the new it boy. it was cool, but the last thing he wanted was for people thinking he had something to do with his death.

○ ′ 🌙 ––––––––––––––––––– 007

CONNECTIONS

childhood friend // competition - marcus chamberlain was always on top. even though he was a close friend to him, manny felt like he was always under his shadow, never shining because he would always take the spotlight from him. and it didn't change when they went to college. but now that he has passed away, he is getting the spotlight that he deserved. but the question is, did manny have anything to do with his death?

childhood friend, found family - someone who genuinely felt a connection with. he even had a little crush on, but never really did anything because of marcus. he hopes now that marcus is gone, things with them could evolve into something stronger.

ride or die - this is a friend he had met at lawerence university, the one that became his true best friend, unlike his former frenemy. how they met was through an event, and then ended up having a few classes together as well, but they ended up hanging outside of school events and classes, which made their relationship even tighter.

current hookup/fwb - it's not serious, but just someone he has fun with. it could go either two ways, feelings may get involved and manny runs or it continues to just be fwb type deal.

more to come.

#mysteryintro #○ ′ 💫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐭 𝐛𝐨𝐲 ≻ pinned

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insomniacwriter17 · 7 months

Text

Saved from the Flames - Chapter Eighteen

“When you’re born in a burning house, you think the whole world is on fire. But it’s not.” –Richard Kadrey

Billy Hargrove is 9 years old. He tries his best to be the son his father wants him to be - quiet, respectful, and obedient. But Neil just pushes harder and harder, all in the name of raising a “strong man”. When Billy is removed from his father’s custody and placed in foster care, it takes some time for him to realize his world is no longer burning around him. New experiences, new people, new opportunities all make Billy realize there’s a whole lot more to life than respect and responsibility.

AKA: The story of how Bob Newby became a real life superhero for one little boy who needed saving.

Inspired by this post I saw from @connordax

read on ao3

CW: Talk of vomit, emetophobia warning

Days turned into weeks, and suddenly Billy had been living with Bob for just under two months. The unfamiliarity had worn off, routines established, and Billy had stopped jumping at his own shadow.

School days were easy: Bob would take Billy to school, then go to work until it was time to pick Billy up. Then some days they went home, but most days they went back to Radio Shack, which was Billy’s favorite. They’d park the car and Billy would get to run to Melvald’s next door and get a snack from Joyce at the store, then he’d spend the rest of the afternoon finishing his homework at Bob’s desk in the back of the store.

Weekends were a bit more fun. Usually Bob had one day that he liked to make sure they would go out: to the park, or a museum, or even out to lunch or dinner. Usually Joyce and the boys were invited, and Billy and Jonathan had become fast friends through all of this.

Visits with Neil hadn’t been restarted yet – at the discretion of Neil’s caseworker. Gabby was keeping Bob updated, and they were slowly breaking the news to Billy through Dr. Marcus, who Billy had warmed up to. Dare Bob say it – Billy looked forward to his sessions with the therapist, and had recently started doing it all on his own (with Winslow’s help, of course). Bob had been so proud to watch Billy disappear to the back room with the man, and then so very bored for the next fifty minutes.

Overall, Bob couldn’t be prouder of all the progress Billy had made over the last few weeks. He enjoyed school, he talked constantly about his friends Eddie and Jonathan, and in the last few days, the name Steve Harrington had popped up in Billy’s stories about recess activities. “He’s the new kid,” Billy had explained at dinner the first night. “He’s really fast. He wins all the footraces.”

It was predictable, safe, and Bob could be happy in this status quo forever. He was lost in thought at work this morning, half-heartedly pulling batteries from a brown box and hanging them on the display by the front door. The phone nearby began to ring and Bob reached for it without breaking his pattern, accepting the call quickly.

“Thank you for calling Radio Shack, this is Bob. How can I help you?” The phone was tucked between Bob’s ear and his shoulder as he continued stocking the battery case.

“Hi, Bob. This is Nurse Kate, from Hawkins Elementary? I’ve got Billy here with me, he’s got a pretty upset tummy and I think he needs to go home for the day.” Bob paused as the woman’s voice came through the phone, immediately closing the box of extra batteries.

“Oh no,” Bob replied quickly. “Yeah, I can be there in about ten minutes. Can I talk to him?” As he spoke, Bob was already pushing the box back behind the counter and looking around for Matthew.

He could hear a shuffling on the phone, and then Billy’s quiet voice mumbled, “Mr. Bob?” He sounded upset. “I don’t feel good.”

“Yeah, that’s what Ms. Kate said,” Bob replied gently. He’d finally found Matthew back in the stock room, and was waving to the other to tell him to come up front. “I’m on my way to pick you up, and we’ll go home to make sure you get all better.”

“Okay,” Billy whispered, then there was more shuffling and Kate’s voice returned.

“I’ve got him set up on a cot here in my office, just swing by the front office and they’ll let you in. One of our secretaries is on the way to get his things from his classroom,” Kate explained.

“Great, thank you so much.” Bob was grabbing his keys from beneath the cash register. “I’ll be there soon.” Then he was hanging up the phone and handing it back to Matthew, who was standing behind the counter. “Give Cameron a call and see if he can cover the rest of my shift!” Bob called over his shoulder as he raced out the door.

Bob made his way to the school as quickly as he could, and it was just twelve minutes later that he was walking into the front office. The secretary was quick to give Bob the sign out sheet and then walk him back to the nurse’s office, knocking on the door frame. “Hey, Kate, Bob’s here for Billy,” she called softly.

Bob turned the corner into the small nurse’s office, frowning sympathetically when he saw Billy curled up asleep on a small cot. The boy’s face was pale but his cheeks were rosy pink, a blanket tucked around his shoulders and his shoes kicked off at the foot of the cot. There was a small plastic trash can placed strategically on the floor next to where Billy’s head lay.

“I think he’s the next in the growing list of our kiddos with a stomach bug,” Kate offered apologetically as she stood from her desk to come stand by Bob in the doorway. She kept her voice low so as not to disturb the fitfully sleeping boy. “He’s got a small fever and he threw up not long after we got off the phone. Unfortunately, it came on a little too quickly for us to do anything about so his outfit was an unlucky victim before we could get to the bathroom. I got him into some lost and found clothes, but they’re a little big,” she chuckled apologetically. “I tried to get him to drink some water but he didn’t want to. He fell asleep just a few minutes ago.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry,” Bob replied with a shake of his head. “Thanks for giving me a call.” Kate nodded and moved back toward her desk, reaching behind it to grab Billy’s backpack and a plastic bag that clearly held Billy’s soiled clothes.

“Here’s all his stuff. I can help you get it all out to the car if you want him to stay asleep,” Kate offered. Bob nodded his thanks and made his way to the cot, kneeling beside Billy and reaching out to brush a sweaty curl off Billy’s forehead.

Before Bob could move to pick Billy up, the boy’s eyes fluttered open, eventually focusing on Bob. “You’re here,” the boy yawned, looking relieved for a moment. The look didn’t last long though, and then Billy’s eyes were filled with tears. “I throwed up on my clothes. I’m sorry!”

Bob shushed him gently, shaking his head. “That’s okay, buddy. Ms. Kate said you’re feeling pretty icky. Things like that happen when you don’t feel good. Looks like she got you all cleaned up though, so we’ll get you home and in bed. How does that sound?”

Billy nodded, slowly sitting up, using shaky arms to prop himself up. Bob stayed crouched by the bed, his hand falling to the small of Billy’s back. He fought back a chuckle, because Kate had not been lying about the clothes being a bit too big for Billy – the neck of the t-shirt was large enough that it hung off Billy’s shoulder. “There you go, bud.”

Billy couldn’t help it – he was crying. Everything hurt and he was so tired! He wanted to go home, but even just sitting up was so exhausting that he couldn’t imagine standing up. Tears streamed down his warm cheeks and his vision swam immediately. He could feel Bob’s hand on his back running up and down his spine, and while it made Billy feel the slightest bit better, he still felt so icky!

“Oh, buddy, I know,” Bob hummed. “You don’t feel good, do you?” Billy was shaking his head immediately, though it stopped just as abruptly when the quick motion made more nausea creep up his throat. “Want me to carry you?” Bob offered softly.

Billy immediately nodded and slumped forward against Bob, so the man knew Billy really wasn’t feeling well. “I’ve got you, don’t worry,” Bob promised, moving to stand with the limp, fevered boy in his arms.

“You can take that trash can, too,” Kate offered. “We buy them in bulk for this very reason,” she chuckled. She stepped forward to grab Billy’s shoes while Bob adjusted Billy into one arm so he could grab the offered trash can.

Billy’s head laid on Bob’s shoulder, forehead tucked against the man’s neck. His entire body was radiating heat, and Bob frowned. The young boy was a lot lighter than he should’ve been, so carrying him out to the car really wasn’t that hard. Kate followed behind them with Billy’s backpack and the bag with his clothes.

While Bob got Billy situated in the backseat, Kate dropped the bags in the front seat. “I hope you get to feeling better soon, Billy!” she called kindly. Then she turned to Bob. “Fever-free for twenty-four hours before he can come back,” she explained. “Unless he gets a lot worse than this, I wouldn’t worry about a doctor visit. Just make sure he’s getting lots of fluid and rest. Bland foods, I’m sure you know the drill.”

Bob nodded, smiling at Kate. “Thank you again for looking after him for me. I’ll get him home and settled, he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

The drive home was quiet and uneventful, much to Bob’s relief. Billy was half-asleep in the backseat, pliable with exhaustion as Bob helped him out of the car in the driveway. “Alright, Billy, let’s get you changed into some pajamas and we’ll set you up on the couch.”

“Okay,” Billy murmured, leaning against the man tiredly as they made their way inside. Bob dropped Billy’s backpack by the door and watched as Billy made his way down the hall.

“I’m going to put these dirty clothes in the wash while you change, okay? You can come back to the living room when you’re done.” Bob called after Billy, who simply nodded. The boy trudged into his room and shrugged off the too-big clothes and traded them for the pajamas he’d left on the edge of his bed that morning. By the time he was in the comfier clothes, his tummy was churning again and his head felt dizzy.

He grabbed Winslow off the bed and shuffled back toward the living room like Bob had requested. He found Bob fluffing some pillows on the couch and the TV was already on, playing a cartoon re-run Billy vaguely remembered seeing before. To announce his presence, Billy quietly offered, “I’m sorry you had to leave work.”

Bob looked up immediately, his gaze softening as he shook his head. “It’s okay, pal! Sometimes things like this happen. It’s not your fault. I just want you feeling better.” He gestured for Billy to come lay on the couch. “You want a blanket or are you warm?” he wondered, reaching out to press his palm to Billy’s forehead.

Billy cleared his throat as he settled on the couch cushions, shaking his head. “I’m hot,” he whimpered, clutching Winslow to his chest. Bob nodded and pushed the curls off Billy’s forehead.

“Okay. I’m going to bring you some water and we’ll drink it nice and slow. Your tummy still hurt?” Billy nodded meekly. “If you feel like you’re going to throw up, we’ve got that trash can right here,” Bob picked up the small trash can Nurse Kate had sent home. “Just in case you don’t think you can make it to the bathroom.”

Billy hummed a non-committal agreement, exhaustion overtaking his tiny body. He wanted to argue that he didn’t want any water, but Bob had already walked away and Billy didn’t have the strength to call out to him. He closed his eyes, listening to the television instead of watching it.

Bob brought in some room-temperature water, managing to convince Billy to drink about half the cup before he pulled away and pursed his lips, refusing any more. “Good job,” Bob praised softly, putting the cup on the coffee table. “That’s good, bud. Go ahead and lay down.”

Billy did so without complaint. His tummy churned and his head spun, so closing his eyes again was a welcome change. “I’m running down the hall to my office for a second but then I’ll be right back in here in case you need me, okay?”

Billy couldn’t remember a time his dad had picked him up from school early for being sick, and even when Billy had to stay home sick, usually Neil went to work and had Ms. Eva from next door come sit with Billy. She was always grumpy and cold, so she never helped Billy feel any better.

All of this was new…the picking up, the couch with cartoons and water and promises of staying close…and Billy really didn’t mind it. Even though he couldn’t see Bob, Billy knew he was still in the room. So he tried to say it quietly enough that Bob couldn’t hear. “I wish you were my daddy.”

Bob froze, his heart aching at the miserably quiet but sincere sentence. “Me too, pal,” he murmured, reaching out to brush another sweaty curl off Billy’s forehead. Billy’s eyes cracked open the slightest bit when he heard Bob’s response, a tired smile pulling at pale lips. But almost as soon as Billy’s eyes opened, they closed again, the boy falling asleep almost instantly.

I wish you were my daddy. The sentence, meek and soft, echoed in Bob’s head as he made his way down the hall to his office. It broke his heart and mended it all at once, but Bob didn’t have time to focus on that right now. Right now, he needed to call Melvald’s, get Joyce to bring him everything he needed for a stomach-bug-laden boy, and get back to the living room before Billy awoke.

Billy slept fitfully for a few hours before he woke for more than a couple minutes. When he opened heavy eyelids, his throat scratchy and dry, Billy could see Bob sitting in the recliner across from him, some papers in his lap. The young boy’s vision swam as he carefully moved to sit up, attempting to not jostle his churning tummy.

“Hey, pal,” Bob called softly, putting down whatever he’d been working on. “How’re you feeling?”

Billy simply whimpered in response. He felt awful! He felt hot and sweaty, but also very cold, and he didn’t feel like he could stand up. But then his stomach lurched and Billy was scrambling for the tiny plastic trash can, hugging it close to his body as he threw up.

Bob jumped up as soon as he realized what was happening, making his way toward the couch. He rested his hand on Billy’s back, rubbing small circles into the boy’s shoulder. “You’re alright,” he promised softly. “Get it all up. You’ll feel better.”

But Billy didn’t feel better, at least not initially. When he finally slumped back against the couch and took a few deep, shaky breaths, he looked up at Bob with teary eyes. “You better not be getting ready to apologize,” Bob chided gently as he took the trash can. He smiled at the boy to hopefully prove that everything was truly okay. “You have nothing to be sorry for, Billy.”

Billy nodded meekly as he curled back up on the couch. He wanted to cry, but it seemed like far more effort than his body was willing to put into anything at the moment. Bob slipped out of the room and right back in with a new bag in the trash can before sitting down beside Billy. “What can I do to help you feel better?” the man asked, voice soft.

Without a word, Billy moved so that his head rested on Bob’s thigh. It was too hot to snuggle with the man, but Billy was desperate for some sort of affection. When Bob’s hand fell to Billy’s hair and brushed it off his forehead, the small boy sighed.

Bob took that as a good sign and continued to pet Billy's hair, talking softly with him about the cartoon playing on the television. Billy didn’t have much to say, but that was fine.

Joyce stopped by on her way home from work, armed with soup, crackers, Gatorade, and Clorox. “Thank you,” Bob replied gratefully as he dug through the bag. His eyebrow quirked up when he reached into the bag and pulled out a small toy bunny.

“What?” Joyce huffed, a smirk playing on her features. “Everyone needs a friend when they’re sick.”

Bob was in the process of formulating a reply when there was a weak cough from the living room. Billy had been asleep when Joyce had arrived, so the two of them had been talking in hushed tones in the foyer. Both adults froze, hanging in the limbo of whether or not the sick boy was actually awake.

Billy looked around from where he was laid down, the fear of being alone creeping up his throat alongside the nausea he still felt. Where was he? He’d been right there when Billy fell asleep! He’d promised to stay close by! Tears welled in Billy’s eyes. He didn’t feel good and he didn’t want to be alone!

Joyce and Bob were still standing in unsure silence when they heard the sniffle. Joyce pointed to the door, indicating that she was going to leave. Bob nodded and turned toward the living room, opening his mouth to call out to Billy. But then came the quietest, most miserable little voice.

“Dad? Where’d you go?”

#stranger things #billy hargrove #ao3 #insomniacwriter17 #bob newby #billy hargrove deserved better #bob newby deserved better #foster care au #cw: child abuse #cw: emetophobia #sftf

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sofiiel · 1 year

Text

Ch.2 | Be Careful Little Lies

" YOU EVER GET TIRED OF BEING SPRUNG, DUDE "

----------------------------- PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT ----------------------------

"Go to school, Eddie!" You shouted into the phone before hanging up. Taking a moment, you laugh at the excitement that lingered. He'd called four times this morning. No more long distance fees.

"If only he knew just how close you actually are." You thought heading for the kitchen. There in stood Lenard, eyes wide and jittery, you snicker from your chair, "rough night, Len?" You asked him.

Lenard tossed you a halfhearted glare, "I heard several things go bump in the night. We may need to get a dog." He said, raising the coffee cup to his mouth, "a big mean ugly one." Lenard added, taking a sip.

You giggled lightly, "You're plenty scary enough." you teased. "Only when I don't get my 8 hours and Sunday appointment. Which may be a problem." a light frown fell across his face, "I love me a small town with charm, but I don't think I can find a good spa or salon here." He sighed.

"Nope, but I saw plenty in Indianapolis, it's not far." You said. Lenard smiled at you carefully, "it's far enough. I can't trust you to be on your own for too long, you like to get yourself in trouble." he said.

You side glanced, being your nurse was personal for Lenard, you were his best friend's daughter. Her only daughter and she was his only friend. "I'd behave long enough, besides soon enough I'll have someone to hang out with, probably. I'll be ok." You said.

Lenard however shrugged, "I'd still rather be near." He hummed.

"Worry wort." you teased.

The doorbell echoed through the house in a warped chime. "Oh hell no, we've got to fix that first." Lenard gasped, covering his mouth. "Yeah, no that's, that's scary." You exhaled.

Lenard turn his head to look at you with a less than amused gaze, "I bet my last penny that it's someone from the estate." He said.

"Yeah? I see you that penny and raise my last dollar that, whoever it is, is just as weird as Marcus was." You murmured, wheeling behind Lenard to the door.

Eddie released a sigh of frustration as he looked down at his note paper. What was meant to be notes of the equation quickly turned into doodles again. Prancer the healer was a feature, as well as a knight and together with the Bard they had begun an adventure. Small doodles showed the journey from a dungeon to a tavern.

"You're doing it again." Eddie thought to himself.

Chrissy lifted her hand, cutting off the teacher from her lesson. "yes, Chrissy?" she asked. "May I be excused?" Chrissy asked, The teacher simply nodded towards the bathroom passes and Chrissy was quick to stand and leave her desk.

Having been late for class, Eddie was stuck with a middle row seat. He scrambled to cover his paper as Chrissy passed his desk. Holding his breath as he hoped she didn't take notice. However, she stole a glance behind her on the way out. "She didn't...." Eddie thought, biting his lip, "would be about my luck, never notice me until the one time I need her not too." Eddie thought in a sigh.

"Man," Paul said with a shake of his head, in his hands he held a pile of notes Eddie passed around to his friends. "They're all covered in these little things." Jeff said, looking over the plethora of doodles.

Eddie's mouth rested against his fist as he watched the notes go from person to person. "Who's the knight?" Gareth asked. "Nobody, just filler." Eddie said quickly. "You spent a lot of time on his details for just filler." Gareth murmured.

Reaching out quickly, Eddie snatched his notes away. "Give 'em back!" He called. Paul's gaze on Eddie was as dry as his words, "you ever get tired of being sprung, dude?" He asked him. Eddie's cheeks began to heat up as his eyes narrowed at Paul. "Do you have to say it like that?" Eddie asked.

"Can't even deny it." Jeff laughed.

Eddie side glanced, "It helps me not think about the fact that, I've got a matter of days before I possibly get Y/n mad at me for misrepresenting myself." he murmured.

"You're being a little dramatic." said Jeff.

"Just tell her why you did it." Gareth said.

Paul's brows raised high on his forehead, "You've been pinpals for how long now?" He asked Eddie. "Years" Gareth answered, "at most, she'll get a little pissed. It's not friendship breaking." he added.

"As long as you're open and honest with her about why you did it." Jeff added.

"Yeah, not gonna happen. Not helpful." Eddie said.

The three guys sighed, "and why?" Gareth asked. Eddie picked around at his small bag of chips, to avoid the eyes of his friends. "It's embarrassing." Eddie muttered.

"A little, but you know what's worse?" Paul asked, "having to come up with dozens of excuses of why we aren't on tour or why she's never seen an album in the store." he said.

"It's not that big of a lie. We don't have an album in stores yet....at least not outside of Hawkins and a few demos being pushed by local radio stations....and a few concerts at nearby bars." Eddie said.

The three guys looked at Eddie, silently blinking. "We barely have an audience at the hideout." said Jeff. "Oh, this will be a disaster." Gareth laughed. "Not funny, Gareth." Eddie shot.

"It's a little funny." Paul admitted.

The rep from the Estate left it had taken hours, and you were no less confused as you peered down at the multiple stack of papers and forms before you at the dinning room table.

Lenard held a frown as he set down one of the many documents. "I don't understand any of this. You may need to contact your father and ask for a lawyer." He said.

Your gaze shifted to look out the window into the shaded woods outside, "it would be nice, if I knew where he was and his new contact information. He hasn't told me where he's gone." You sighed.

"Try his last hotel?" Lenard asked. You shook your head, "new tenant to the room already." You explained.

Lenard's brows knitted together, He didn't like the sound of that. But he would remain quiet about his worries for now.

You looked down at the papers, your heart feeling heavy, and Lenard could see the sadness in your eyes. "I know just what we need, They said they left us a car outside, right? How about we run to the store, grab some stuff. I'll make that pasta you like, and we'll pick up some movies. We can gorge and sulk and laugh or cry at the movies." Lenard offered.

"You'll start school soon, and Dr. Brenner will be sending a college to stop by and give you a check-up beforehand. The Estate will be moving Hasufel and Morning Glory's Dawn they should arrive within a couple of days. There's a lot to handle, might as well try and relax while we can." Lenard reasoned.

You gave a nod and smiled, "sounds nice."

Lenard pleased with himself smiled wide, "as I always say, why stress when you can rest?" He said. Your brow dipped down, and you backed your wheelchair away from the table, "I thought it was why weep when you can sleep?" you asked him.

Lenard chuckled quietly, "honey, that's only when he turns out to be straight or married." He said coyly. You grinned, "and when I'm all out of shrimp cocktails and gin." Lenard added.

"Now go get your jacket, we're going on a field trip to see what the towns like." Lenard picked up a document and re-read it quickly, "and to see if we can find any of these properties dear old grandma left you."

----------------------------- H A W K I N S M A I N S T R E E T -----------------------------

You looked out the window, it was a day that felt more like winter than fall, and the town was sleepy. Still, you had to admit even on a gray wintry day it carried a lot of charm with it. "Why would a one hundred and one year old woman own an arcade?" You asked as you passed the street address for one of the many property locations you inherited.

"It likely wasn't an arcade back then, she owns the land it's sitting on, not the building itself." Lenard reasoned. "But be glad they lay a lease, that's going to be funding your school supplies."

As the two of you took laps around Main St. your stomach soured, "I've got to explain to my only friend why've lied to him and that I own half the town now? Eddie thinks all richies are snobs." You thought, laughing quietly, "except Harrington, apparently who is the snob that's an exception somehow."

As you pass an auto body shop, you spot an unforgettable face, even with his hair tied back. "Damn it!" you whimper, slipping down into your seat quickly, so that only your eyes may peer out the window.

Your body protested, as it was not a comfortable or convenient position on a good day, let alone a bad one.

"What are you doing back there?" Lenard asked, checking the rearview mirror.

"I saw Eddie." You whispered.

"He can't hear you in here, sweetie." Lenard chuckled. "But why are we hiding from Eddie-Teddy?" Lenard asked. "You still call him that?" You asked.

"mmhm, now answer me, you're not slick." Lenard continued to push. You sighed heavily, "I still haven't told him we've moved here. I told him we moved to Muncie, the next town over." You confessed.

Lenard sat in silence for a moment before he spoke slowly and carefully, "Y/n, this town is small, he is going to see you." He said.

"Eddie hasn't seen me since that Christmas card in the 5th grade. I look a little different now in my face, a lot different in my body. It's enough to just 'resemble' myself." You reasoned.

"You'll share a school, probably some classes. People recognize voices." said Lenard, you could hear the amusement in his voice.

You raised your pitch to something that fluttered sweetly but was quiet, "not if I talk like this." You said. Lenard burst into laughter, "Hun, you talk like that for too long, and you'll break your voice box." He warned.

"It's the voice I used in community theater when I did the narrator for the peter pan play." You said, "That was two shows an hour for three hours a day every Friday through Saturday for a month." You said with a shrug, "I was ok in the end. I just need to buy time to tell Eddie in a way that he won't be mad at me."

"And you didn't do this in the first place because?" Lenard asked.

You fell silent, and Lenard's smile fell away from his face as he checked the mirror. "Y/n?" he questioned. You heaved a sigh, "because in our letters and phone calls he was always so impressed with my sportsman life. My obsession with eventing, training, love for the great outdoors. It's formed how he sees me, he sees me the way I am, not the way my body is now trying to force me to be."

You looked down at your hands as you fiddled with your fingers, "all my more recent photos have my lofstrands, rollator, or chair in them. I don't want him to see me the way everyone else does. I'm fine with my gear, It keeps me going - It's the opinions people make up about me the moment they see them." You said.

"I don't want my only friend to start to see me through their eyes. So I've avoided pictures. Which he's been surprisingly cool about." You sighed.

"Honey, if his opinion were to change, he's an asshole who was never really a friend." Lenard said, trying to mask the break in his voice as he batted tears away with his eyelashes.

"The boy isn't like that anyway, not little Eddie-Teddy." He said. "He'd be over the moon to know you were here, and could careless that things have changed for you." Lenard reasoned with a smile.

You frowned, "Eddie and his band are locally famous, I'm sure he has fans and gigs, He'd think it was too hard for me to keep up with that lifestyle, and I'd get left behind eventually." you murmured.

"You keep up with me, you can handle being band bestie," Lenard cleared his throat and mumbled, "even if we all know bestie isn't the word I want to use."

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing, but as I said. If that's how his mind changes, screw him." said Lenard. "I don't know what I'd do without...." You caught the smirk on Lenard's face through the mirror, "Stop it Len, I mean it platonically!" you shouted.

"I bet you think you do." He teased.

"I mean it!" you snapped.

"Uh huh, but why're you still sunken down like that, that's not healthy." Lenard said. "B-because I'm stuck." you admitted. "What!" Lenard pulled the car over to the curb and parked, getting out to help you back into your seat.

Back tracking down Main St. Lenard left you to get the movies while He explored the local flower shop.

" So there I was being actually pretty dang charming, for once, and then Hinkley shot a spit wad meant for Kendrick at the side of my face," Robin explained followed after by an anguished groan, "Ooou, yeah that killed all game, but I'm sure Vicki will forget about it." Steve said with a shrug.

"I really doubt it, it was huge, I have no clue why Hinkley thought that thing would fly past me and two others." Robin sulked. "Hinkley's always had bad aim, you should see the boys bathrooms." Steve muttered.

Robins eyes wandered to the new customer approaching the doors. "Hey, go help her get it." She said. Steve's ears perked, and he looked over his shoulder, "oh shit, right." he said, leaving the counter to head for the door, but as he did so the door opened.

You wheeled yourself in and looked around, "wow bigger place than what I expected." you thought. "Welcome to Family Video!" A girl chimed from behind the counter, she offered you a bright smile. "Yeah, let us know if you need anything. There's currently a discount on animated films." said the guy.

"Thank you." You answered simply, as casually as you could muster. But your heart hammered away in your chest and your palms became damp as they tried to grip your wheels.

"Note to self, rent a lot of movies, the staff are cute." You thought to yourself, "severely cute."

Robin waited until their customer was out of sight before wacking Steve's shoulder. "I've never seen her here before." Robin whispered. "Probably visiting family, we've gotten a lot of those after Star Court and all those funerals." Steve said, leaning onto the counter and opening a bag of M&Ms.

"How are you not all over her? You hound any girl who comes in here?" Robin asked, her hand gesturing to the direction the customer went, "She's cute." she added. Steve side glanced, He didn't want to come off as shallow, and it sounded silly to even himself, but, "S-she... I mean," he stammered.

Robin gave him a flat gaze, "you're an ass, dingus." she said. "I'm not, trying to be" Steve hissed quietly, "I-I just don't know how to work my magic under certain circumstances." He stammered. "It's no different." Robin sighed. Steve rubbed the back of his neck, "I mean, I can give it a try, sure. But she's visiting, right? I'm not for long distance." he said.

"Uh, hello? We don't know that she's visiting. That's what small talk at the check-out counter is for." Robin advised.

"I think six movies is more than enough, Superman III, Flash dance, and Breathless for Lenard" You said, grabbing the final ones and heading for the counter.

Wheeling closer, you could see the two employee's talking, you were nervous all over again. Looking down at your lap and then over to a shelf of movies, you bit your lip, "we could do with a seventh movie." You thought.

Rolling over to the shelf, you looked up to the top of it, "I can't believe you're doing this. But Eddie and Len always say you need to put yourself out there...right?" You thought.

Looking over your shoulder, you tried to flag down the two of them. "Excuse me?" You called out. "I'm sorry, would anyone mind reaching this one up top for me?" You asked.

"You do it," Steve urged Robin, "it's your chance." Robin pushed, "no, we agreed I'm making small talk at the counter." said Steve. With a hard roll of her eyes, Robin placed on a smile and made her way over.

"Sure, which one you want?" the girl asked you. You stole a glance at her name tag, "um, The Sword and the Sorcerer, please." You said. Robin reached up and plucked the movie down for you, "here you go." She said, "thank you." you replied, heading back for the counter.

Robin made herself a ghost, heading for the stockroom, closing the door enough to peek outside.

"Find everything ok?" The guy at the counter asked you as he rang up your movies. "Yeah, this place is well organized." You said, mentally kicking yourself at how awkward it felt.

"We try," He said, his eyes fell on the last movie in his hands, "the Outsiders, huh?" He asked you. "Every girl who comes in this place and gets this has a favorite." He said with an amused smile, a smile that made your chest flutter inside.

"So which is yours?" He asked. "Two-bit, Sodapop and St-" You nearly choke on your words as a smirk replaced his smile and his brow lifted high. His finger lightly tapped his name tag, "-eve" you peeped.

Steve chuckled, "That's exactly why I like asking." he confessed.

"You're awful." You teased, he smiled once more and packed your movies into a bag. "Yeah, well, I'll tell you what, I'll say sorry with a free candy bar." He hummed, tossing the candy inside one of the bags.

Steve eyed you up and down subtly, "she is cute." he thought, passing your bags to you as he finished ringing up or movies. "Remember there is a two-day grace period on late movies and then the free is a dollar a day." Steve said.

"Gotcha, thank you, have a nice day." You called, backing your chair away. "I um...let me get the door for you." Steve offered. You smirked, "thank you, but I've got it." you said.

On the way to the door, Lenard arrived and swung it open. "You ready to go?" He asked you. You gave a nod, Lenard's eyes wandered up two the two employees. "You sure about that?" He asked quietly, in a mild tease. "Let's go, Len." you demanded, rolling past him and out the door.

"You should have stayed, the store had a pretty view." Lenard nearly giggled. "Yeah, well," you muttered, causing Lenard to laugh some more.

"So, is she new or visiting?" Robin asked Steve as she retuned to the counter. Steve hid his eyes in his hand, "damn it, I forgot to ask." he groaned. "You forgot?" Robin asked, wide-eyed.

"Yeah, well, she had a smile that could do that." said Steve. "And she had The Outsiders, so I had to ask my question." He explained. "Oh god, that's the worst pickup you've got." Robin sighed.

Steve made a face and flapped his hand open and closed like a mouth while Robin talked. She crossed her arms and shook her head, "you're hopeless." She sighed. "Then that makes tow of us, doesn't it?" said Steve.

As he walked away, he pointed at Robin, "I'll have you know, I think she liked my worst pickup." Steve shot with a triumphant grin. "Great, now you better hope she's not leaving town soon." Robin called after him.

----------------------- F O R E S T H I L L S T R A I L E R P A R K ------------------------

Having changed out of his dirty work clothes, Eddie arrived at home. Chomping on a ham and cheese sandwich, he headed for his room. Most of his worries were knocked away while at Thatcher's. It gave him time to clear his head. "But you still don't know how to get out of this hole you dug. Maybe Gareth is right." Eddie thought, taking a seat at his vanity.

With his free hand, Eddie shifted the pile of clutter around to make a clear space and pulled out his planning journal and pen. He needed to finish up the event plot for next week's game night. The campaign was going well, and he wanted to end it with a bag before winter break.

Cracking open the journal, Eddie's hands flew into his hair as he eyes scanned over the page littered in doodles. "Alright, you've got a bit of a problem." He exhaled. The Healer, The Knight, The Elf and The Bard were everywhere on a page that held no words.

Eddie blushed embarrassed for himself, "I'm so glad no one ever sees this thing." he murmured, eyes trained on a doodle of The Healer and The Elf, no mater how cutesy the art style was, what they were doing, as less than 'cute'.

Eddie bit his lip, and quickly tore the page out, getting to his feet he walked to his end table and stuffed the drawing into the drawer. "Not going to be able to focus with that around." he said, returning to his chair.

After a while of writing, Eddie laughed at himself, "they guys are going to hate me for this." He mused. "Two light weight boss battles and my own problems made a feature in the plot."

Eddie shut his journal and shrugged, "mm, at least they'll get good loot if they win." he hummed. Standing up, he grabbed his acoustic and started to play. Watching his phone as he strummed, Eddie paused to check his watch.

It was well past time for his daily call with Y/n. "Maybe it's one of those bad days, and she turned in early." He thought, but it didn't help the unease. She tried to hide it from him, but Eddie was well are the illness was getting worse. More check-ups, stronger doses, new meds, cocktail switch ups.

Sometimes he could hear it in her voice over the phone.

"Calling cheers her up." He told himself as he reached for the phone.

"I got it!" You called out, scooting swiftly through the old house to the phone. You pulled to a stop with a hint of pride on your face, You were damn good at navigating your chair.

"Hello?" You answered.

"Are you feeling ok?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah, better than this morning, a little achy but - why do you sound like that?" You questioned. Eddie sighed into the phone.

"Because it's an hour past when we usually call. I thought maybe you weren't feeling too well. You said you were having a hard week." He said.

"I'm sorry, I just got back from exploring the town with Lenard. There's got to be something in this town's water," You said.

Eddie lifted his head a little in curiosity, "something in the water?" He chuckled, "You make it sound like The Hills Have Eyes. I've been through Muncie, it's fine." He said.

"Oh, I didn't mean that in a bad way." You said. Eddie read the tone in your voice, "You mean that in a 'I saw a lot of hot people' kinda way, right?" he asked. Eddie's voice became dryer.

"Maybe." You hummed.

"Out with it, dweeb. You don't do coy." Eddie said playfully.

"Ok, so Len and I are going to have a movie marathon, and I went to the video store, and both workers there we insanely cute." You explained. "Both of them? Lucky you." Eddie teased.

"Look, I don't get out often. Cute employees at a place I'll probably be all the time is a real win for me." you said.

"Well, so what happened?" asked Eddie. You couldn't fight the smile on your face, "The guy, he flirted at me -"

"With you, Y/n. He flirted with you." Eddie corrected.

"No, I do mean at me, 'with' implies I was composed enough to flirt back." you said. You could hear Eddie's laughter, though he tried to keep it quiet.

"It's not funny, I'm serious." You murmured.

"I know that's why it's funny." He said.

"Yeah, well, I've got to return these movies soon. What do I do?" You asked him.

Eddie leaned back in his chair and gave his guitar a strum, "Nothing." He said simply. You squinted at the phone before pressing it back to your ear, "nothing?" You asked.

Eddie shrugged one shoulder, "Yeah, You're a dweeb, but you're an adorable one. You don't have to try, just, talk to them. I give it under a week. One or both will be hooked." Eddie said, a slight frown on his face.

His words made heat rise to your face, but you could hear a sigh in his voice. "Are you tired? Long day at work?" You asked him.

"No, I'm fine." Eddie said, mentally cursing himself. "You idiot, sound happier." his mind scolded. "Maybe a little tired." he said quickly.

"Do you want to hang up?" You asked him.

Eddie adjusted the phone between his ear and shoulder and continued to play his guitar. "Nope. Just finished plotting the party's next adventure. I'm up." He said.

The sound of music faintly reached through the line, and you smiled. "What are you playing?" You asked him.

With a grin, Eddie played a little louder, if there was one way he knew he could impress you, it was with something a simple as letting you listen to him play. "Wish it worked like that on everyone." Eddie thought.

"Guess." He said to you.

You trained your ears on the sound and closed your eyes. "That's, nothing you listen to." you said. "You're right, it's not." said Eddie. "But you know it, it's a little old." He said.

Listening intently, nothing is coming to you. "I'm going to have to give up." You caved, "aw, that's no fun. Come on, not yet. Think back, like, years ago and remember." Eddie urged. He played a touch louder, starting from the beginning once more, it was only the chorus, but he'd looped through it.

Slowly, you started to hum as the tune came back to you, and you giggled. " Goodness knows, you're my honeysuckle rose" You sang. Eddie smiled at your little laughter, "oh god, that's the song your mom taught you when we went through that weird phase." You said.

Eddie chuckled dryly, "heh, yeah that weird phase, that was horrible wasn't it?" He said, playing along, though he could feel his palms sweating. "Please sound normal." his mind pleaded.

"I guess it was kind of cute, leave it to a pair of twelve-year-olds to blur the line of friends and crushes." You said.

Eddie bit his lip and fell silent, as he quietly played the song. Only barely drawing sound from the string. "Yeah, totally glad we grew to know better. It could have ended poorly." he said as playfully as he could manage.

"To be fair, I still have that cheesy Valentine's Day card you sent me. I plan on showing all my future god children how sappy their heavy metal dad was." You teased.

Eddie's eyes narrowed, "you're a cruel woman." he said. "I'm sweet as a button." You shot back.

"Cute as a button." Eddie corrected. "I meant like the candy." You said. "There's a candy?" Eddie asked. "Yeah. How do you not know this?" You asked.

"My mom wasn't a semi-famous chef." Eddie chuckled.

"Get off the phone with your totally not boyfriend and help me carry this food into the living room!" Eddie heard Lenard shout in the background.

"Ugh, sometimes he forgets he's a care taker." You joked.

"I'll let you go, I should probably be practicing the song set anyway." Eddie said. "Alright, goodnight." You said.

"Goodnight, and you know to call me if you start feeling bad and need a distraction, right?" Eddie offered, he then spoke with a smile in his words, "Because last time you didn't and Lenard told on you." Eddie chuckled.

"Snitch." You mumbled.

"I'm his favorite child." Eddie boasted. "So say you will."

"I will." You sighed. "You promise?" Eddie asked.

"yep."

"That hardly sounds honest. Say it like you mean it." Eddie pressed.

" It like you mean it." You snickered.

Eddie sighed, "you know what? Goodnight, smart ass." he snapped dryly.

"Ok, ok, I promise. No mad goodbyes. House rule number three." You said quickly. Eddie scoffed but smiled, "now you care about the house rules?" He said, be wanted to be difficult, but the fondness lingered in his words.

"I mean when they work in my favor..." You lulled.

"You just call me if you need bad time company." He said.

"I will." You replied.

"Y/n! If I drop the risotto, it's on you!" Lenard snapped.

"Got to go, night!" You called quickly before hanging up.

Eddie sat in his room, laughed silently as he shook his head. "It will be nice to visit them for once." Eddie thought as he hung up the phone. "So yeah, the moment you see her, you tell her the truth and why you're dumbass lied in the first place." He sighed.

"So did you tell the boy?" Lenard asked as he followed you into the living room. You took the warm casserole dish off of your lap and set it onto the coffee table. "No," You murmured, trying to push back the guilt with the savory scent of the dinner.

"O be careful little lies what you speak," Lenard sang. You frowned, "You remember your mother used to sing you that." He hummed. "Yeah." you sighed.

"You don't lie to people you care about. Remember that, the sooner you fess up, the less damage is done." Lenard said.

"Yes, Mother." You teased, trying to lighten your mood. Lenard shook his head, "You're hopeless," He sighed.

"Makes two of us, doesn't it? You haven't called Richard in a week, I've noticed!" you shot. "Because his name is Richard, a Lenard can't date a Richard that sounds ridiculous!" Lenard exclaimed.

He teetered his head from side to side and sighed, "he was sweet though, maybe I should call. Can always call him Dick." Lenard mused.

"I... That's one way to look at it." you said, reaching for the movies, you let your hand hover over them. "Which one first?" you asked.

"Seriously? Do you remember who you're talking to?" Lenard asked flatly. You shrugged and took the VHS case in your hands, "Superman it is, silly me for thinking it could be anything else." You hummed.

Lenard laughed and took a seat on the couch, "You're forgiven," he sang playfully.

"I made pasta for days, eat it all up. Because by the time the boxes arrive and the unpacking begins, we're gonna need all of this fuel." Lenard added, watching you go, pop the movie into the player.

----------------------------- PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT ----------------------------

#eddie munson x fem!reader #steve harrington x fem!reader #steddie x fem!reader #steddie x you #steddie x y/n #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x you #eddie munson fluff #steve harrington fluff #eddie munson comfort #steve harrington comfort

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tkc-info · 2 years

Text

The French Novel

Day 5 - novel

@wagner-fell @chibi-tsukiko @littleturtle95

1883

They were close to missing the train, but Marcus couldn’t help scanning the bookshop’s window.

“Marcus?” Vera asked when he halted to a stop.

“Just a second.”

His focus had landed on two books, propped up beside each other. One of them —Godfrey Morgan: a Californian Mystery, it was called— was authored by Jules Verne; the other one was gorgeously bound, although Marcus refused to read the title on its spine on account of his many failed French lessons.

Beside him, Vera huffed a sigh she concealed halfway through its exhalation. “What is it?”

“They seem rather interesting, don’t they?” Marcus answered her inquiry with one of his, nodding to the books “I believe one of them would be a tremendous addition to Camille’s library, albeit I don’t know which I should choose.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Vera tugged at his arm, through which her own arm was looped. The motion prompted Marcus to divert his attention off the novels to her gaze. Vera stood unchanged in the face of time. The same light blue eyes, fair complexion paired up with dark hair, and bowed lips Marcus had come close to kissing but once. However, she presently wore her hair in ringlets as opposed to rigorously parted down the middle and pressed down to her scalp; not to say that her gowns had adapted to the changes of fashion and her skirts were topped off by a bustle of generous considerations that looked ridiculous on everyone who didn’t bear her name, and unparalleled grace.

Vera settled a feather-light hand on his bicep. Her white laced gloves —which matched her ashen-rose gown sensibly— stood out against his dark jacket. “We must get to the train station immediately. I shall not wait three additional hours for another one to come, the journey is exhausting as it is.”

And, naturally, she spoke the truth. She’d spent the past five months in a military base in the outskirts of Swansea, a coastal Welsh village, working as a nurse while Marcus attempted to teach hopeless young men the gargantuan task of not shooting their feet. Now it was time to return home. Earlier that morning, they’d taken a carriage to Cardiff, where they would get a train to Bath in fifteen minutes. From Bath, they’d take another carriage to Oxford —where Vera lived when off her nursing duties— and then Marcus would journey to Wolverhampton. Captain Fitzsimmons had urged him to spend a fortnight in his country house.

If he hadn’t been his superior, Marcus would’ve turned down his proposal as soon as it was uttered. Five months was too long a time to be away from Camille, and Marcus missed his husband terribly.

His eyes flickered back to the display window. Last evening he’d received a missive from Camille stating his yearning was requited, and Marcus found himself wanting to make up for their time apart with literature.

“I’ll be quick,” Marcus excused himself, stepping back from Vera and entering the bookshop in two long strides. The establishment had a lavish interior; a big oil lamp hang from the ceilings, the walls, as was expected, hosted bookshelves so large stairs were the only access to the uppermost spaces. The black-and-white tiled floor was evocative of a chessboard, and big oak tables were spaced out across it. An old man was seating on one of them —to his left, a pile of books; to his right, an even taller pile of books.

“Good morning, sir,” Marcus greeted as he took off his hat.

The man jerked to his feet. He looked oddly like a spectacled squirrel when caught fetching walnuts mid-motion. However, he visibly forced himself to relax by smoothing down his old-fashioned jacket and passing a wrinkled hand through his impressive moustache. “Yes, hello,” he let out in a frail tone.

“I wish to buy my friend a book. Could you bring me Godfrey Morgan and the French novel displayed beside it?”

The shopkeeper squinted his eyes at Marcus. “Une histoire sans nom?”

“That might be its name.”

“Hm,” he harrumphed something in a strong Welsh accent London-born Marcus couldn’t comprehend “Very well.”

Marcus watched —with secret concern— as the old shopkeeper wobbled to a bookshelf on the far right, whereupon he began going up a stair. His thin legs shook so much Marcus feared he’d fall and die, and so he held in his breath until the man was back on the ground. Two books in hand.

“Two pounds apiece,” the man unceremoniously announced.

“I intend to buy only one,” Marcus said. He puffed out his chest, if only not to appear like the brat this man was making him feel “What is this one about?” he inquired, gesturing at the Jules Verne novel.

“Adventures. Americans.”

“And this other one?”

“It’s in French.”

“I guessed as much. My friend knows French.”

The man’s reply didn’t stretch beyond a gruff huff. It frankly put Marcus off buying the second book —no matter how artfully crafted. Camille had a bright character, and read to stimulate his intellect. Verne’s works did just that, while, going off the shopkeeper’s reaction, the French novel might be nonsense ensconced in a beautiful shell. And shells were worth nothing.

Marcus had made up his mind. “However, I shall only buy Verne’s work.”

Grumping something too low to understand, the man wobbled to the counter, where he carelessly packaged Godfrey Morgan. “Come here,” he told Marcus, his back to him “Two pounds.”

Marcus handed the money over, all too glad to leave the unwelcoming establishment. Outside, he inspected the book for any damaging the shopkeeper could have inflected onto it.

“You’re incorrigible,” was the first thing Vera said upon joining him. She’d been waiting at the threshold and looking at a little boy play with a hoop and stick —Marcus tried to dismiss her looks as inconsequential.

“Every man and woman has their own vices,” he replied, joyfully taking Vera’s gloved hand and settling it on the crook of his elbow “Mine are buying books for Camille and a good bottle of scotch,” he arched a brow at her “Yours is working, even though that would mean turning down a perfectly good invitation to spend your free days with friends. If you can indulge your vices, why can’t I?”

Vera scrunched up her nose adorably. “There’s just so much platonic love one can witness before seeking to inflict oneself a concussion. Besides, I would have to journey back home sooner rather than later, and society wives are such a bore,” she cleared her throat and continued, in a high-pitched tone “‘Oh, Miss Kiskadden, how was your stay at Woolaham Estate?’ ‘Oh, Miss Kiskadden, how do you see Mrs. Woolaham faring? I’m sure Mr. Marcus Woolaham’s sister, Mrs. Kirkham, would love to lend her support to his spouse’, ‘oh, Miss Kiskadden, when ought you get married? I’d loath to call you a spinster, but…’” she threw a sideways glance at Marcus “If I spend my time working in Mrs. Barbary’s millinery, I can stay well away from those church-bells, the word ‘spinster’, and your sister. I mean no offence, but she has a very meddling personality.”

“Nothing you say could offend me,” Marcus reassured her “I know how Pearl is.”

Aside from being senselessly ashamed of Madeleine’s homosexuality, and an unashamed apologist of the treatment that had led to Madeleine’s (and, Marcus wanted to believe, Agnes’s) death, Pearl had always wanted control over Marcus’s life. What clothes he wore. Who he talked to or befriended. Who he married. What he ate or didn’t eat. Even how he rode his horses.

Once, when Marcus had gone to visit Camille after Gaylord had hit him so hard he bled, she’d waited in his bedroom for his return. Then, she’d admonished him for angering Gaylord, and slapped him for his ill behaviour. It had been the dead of night and Pearl had been married and with children at the time. She’d abandoned her duties for the sole purpose of adding to Gaylord’s humiliation of Marcus.

“What book did you purchase?” Vera asked. Probably having noticed Marcus’s change of humour “And we should get going. I’ll repeat myself: I refuse to miss the train.”

Marcus nodded. “Of course,” he began walking in the direction of the station “I got a copy of one of Verne’s works. Godfrey Morgan: Something or Other, it’s called. I believe it’s about adventures and Americans.”

Vera hummed noncommittally. “I thought you would choose the other one.”

“Why?” Marcus frowned.

“Well, it was prettier, for one.”

Marcus laughed, causing two young women to direct bewildered looks at him. “A book’s appearance hardly matters to Camille. Some of his favourite books are but yellowed manuscripts.”

“Perhaps. However, imported novels do tend to be wonderful. I’ve had the pleasure of reading some myself, and I found them well above the average work of the average English author.”

“Is that so?” Marcus looked at her; angel-like features, soft, smiling lips, and blue eyes fixed on the path ahead, not on him “The shopkeeper heavily implied the book wasn’t worth the staggering two pounds it cost.”

Vera shrugged. “Then it’s good you went for Verne.”

Yet Marcus was no longer secure in his decision. As he made idle conversation with Vera, his head argued with itself, recalled the short minutes in the bookshop, and attempted to justify having let the shopkeeper’s rude temperament determine his purchase. The French novel truly had been a sight to behold; meagre stories didn’t receive such a packaging, did they? The shopkeeper had in all likelihood thought Camille didn’t have the proficiency required to understand it, thus refused to offer Marcus a synopsis. It was enraging, if Marcus let himself ponder on it —how could he think Camille didn’t know French? How could he doubt his husband’s abilities, when he was the smartest man Marcus knew? And, in any case, the shopkeeper was no authority figure to turn down Marcus’s request to be briefed on the contents of a product.

Eventually, they arrived to the station ten minutes before their train’s scheduled departure. Young women dressed in colourful gowns, newspaper-reading gentlemen, gossiping women as well as many other sorts of persons were already there. They sat on benches, milled around or talked to the personnel in attendance.

Vera let out a relieved sigh. “Finally, now we are sure not to miss the train. Oh, do you not think that lady’s hat is simply magnificent?” she inconspicuously pointed to a woman of no more than three-and-twenty with a hat with a mockingbird cradled on the brim, and a rich assortment of feathers.

“I’m a man married to another man,” Marcus whispered “Female fashion is a mystery to me, yet you’ll have to forgive me if I doubt your taste in it,” he squeezed her hand once before letting go “I will pay for the tickets, you remain here and observe headwear.”

Vera smiled at him as if he were a young lad, but nodded her assent. Satisfied, Marcus went to a uniformed man on whose hand was a stack of square-shaped, small papers.

“Good morning,” Marcus told him “Two tickets, please.”

“To Bath, sir?”

“Indeed.”

“Then ten shillings, sir.”

Marcus dug his hand into his jacket’s inner pocket for his wallet. He noticed that he carried with him a sum of eight pounds, more than enough to last him for the remainder of his journey and even afford himself…

“Here you go,” Marcus exchanged ten shillings for the tickets, and hastened to return to Vera “Take these. Don’t wait for me.”

“Where are you going?” she asked, weariness seeping into her voice.

“I’m going back to the bookshop.”

“Marcus Woolaham, you shan’t.”

“I’ll be quick, upon my word,” the sudden urge to kiss her was nearly incapacitating, but, as always, he smiled and suppressed it.

Vera sighed. “Incorrigible, I tell you. Well, then, go. Make haste. I won’t hesitate to leave you if you’re late.”

Marcus smiled and ran.

The stares he received as he sped through the streets ought to have elicited feelings of self-consciousness under different circumstances. Marcus unbuttoned his jacket with a sole hand for his comfort, and elbowed anyone who stood in his wake. He had only eight minutes.

“The French novel,” he announced when he got to the bookshop.

The ancient shopkeeper started violently, even cowered when he saw Marcus heaving. “My heart—”

“I don’t have time for your harrumphing,” Marcus walked to the mahogany table onto which the novel had been placed “I want this. Here’s the money.”

He didn’t wait for the man’s assent before exiting the bookshop. Running back to Vera, he checked his pocket-watch and found he had only two minutes left.

“Bloody train,” he cursed, increasing his speed. By God, all his military training better be of use now.

A loud siren sound pierced the monotonous hum of mundane conversations, just as Marcus set food on the station. To his horror, he realised that the train was already in motion. But the doors had yet to close.

Mustering one last fit of stamina, he sprinted to the moving train, and jumped through a door. He knocked down an elderly woman, who shrieked his ears deaf. However, he’d succeeded in getting aboard, so all was good.

“Get off me, you rascal—” the woman began slapping him “Help! Help!”

“Apologies, ma’am,” Marcus managed to say as he poorly stood up and offered a hand “Have I hurt you?”

The woman made a disgusted sound. “You’ve certainly damaged my dignity beyond repair,” she looked around the wagon, where everyone was gawking at their exchange “Won’t anyone call the security?!”

“That won’t be necessary,” a familiar voice said. Vera was sure to have heard the commotion and intuited Marcus’s arrival “I am in possession of Colonel Woolaham’s ticket,” she waved the object in question for proof.

The title ‘colonel’ seemed to silence the woman. His ascension of the martial hierarchy had been recent, and Marcus had not yet come to terms with such reactions. He excused himself to Vera’s wagon amid shocked whispers of the nature of, ‘whatever is a colonel accosting a senior woman for?’

“Really,” Marcus told Vera “You needn’t have flaunted my position in the military so.”

Vera arched an elegant brow at him. “You deserved it,” she smirked in a fashion that came off as both innocent and cheeky “Consider it payback for worrying me.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Nonsense.”

“Hm,” Vera pulled him into the nearest cabin, then urged him to take a seat “You look exhausted, I hope you got the book.”

“I did,” Marcus passed the French novel onto her “Furthermore, I am exhausted. So, if you’ll excuse me, I will proceed to write a letter to Camille and then take a nap.”

“Do you have the necessary materials?”

“Of course,” Marcus fished a folded piece of paper and a pen out of his jacket’s inner pocket “I always have some with me, in case I witness an event Camille would like to be notified about. I know I will have to write ostensibly to him during my stay at Captain Fitzsimmons’s house.”

“How so?”

“His daughters can be…” Marcus searched for the least offensive adjective “Particular in their regard for me.”

Miss Magnolia, nineteen, never ceased staring at him. Miss Melvina, seventeen, never ceased offering him food and tea. Miss Minerva, sixteen, never ceased requesting he modelled for her to practice with her watercolours. Miss Marjorie, fourteen, never ceased inquiring after his opinion on love. Camille referred to them as the Accosting Ms.

Vera laughed. “Poor girls, they don’t know that however much they love you, you are Camille’s.”

There was a hint of bitterness in her tone, a flash of resentment, that upset Marcus. His shoulders tensed. “I may not love Camille romantically, but I love him, unashamedly and without any shadow of regret whatsoever.”

He wanted to add onto that: poets have romanticised romance, they have created the fake illusion that everyone should prioritise a lover above all else, and society entreats people to adhere to that notion as if it were a Twelve Commandment of sorts, when in reality one could love friends more than they did a lover. But that would be terribly cruel of him, for Vera and Marcus were in love, and still he loved Camille above all others.

Vera smiled at him, sadly. “I know.”

None of them wanted to continue their conversation after that, so Marcus started writing his missive:

Dearest Camille,

I miss you and wish I could be journeying straight back home. You know that, and I know you know, nevertheless it feels quite fitting to write my homesickness down.

Presently, I find myself in a train (with the purpose of going to Bath so that I can ride to Birmingham, so that I can ride to Wolverhampton to spend a fortnight hiding from the Accosting Ms —please, I entreat you to pray for my sanity), and I thought it wonderful to write to you. There’s something I must tell you.

Did you know that to get to Cardiff’s train station it is paramount to pass a bookshop? The owner is a grumpy, frail fella with a lacking sense of business, but the books are good goods. I saw two in particular that I suspected would pique your interest, and so, well, I purchased them.

You should receive the first one in a few days. It is titled Godfrey Morgan: a Californian Mystery, and is one of Verne’s works (a rather long-titled one, at that —I can’t fathom the purpose of such an intricate name). Expect to read an adventure novel which features Americans. Beyond that, I can’t tell you what the story is about. Blame the shopkeeper for my ignorance.

The second book I shall keep to myself until I return to you. See, I suffered quite the ordeal acquiring it. I settled on buying it mere minutes before the train commenced its traverse, and had to run rather a lot to go to the bookshop and back to the station in the short time space which I was given. Even then, the train had already started moving, therefore I fell compelled to jump inside the nearest wagon to secure myself passage. Camille, you can imagine the woman who cushioned my fall was rightfully apoplectic. Poor woman seemed to be nearing seventy, and so slight a gust of wind might just as well push her onto the ground. I hope she hasn’t broken her hip.

Anyhow. The book. I call it ‘the French novel’, but in truth it’s titled Une Histoire sans Nom (I’m copying the title). It’s entirely in French, and the most beautifully bound book I’ve ever laid my eyes on. Aesthetically-wise, I just know you’ll be gratified with your gift. Story-wise, I’m not so sure it’s as magnificent. The shopkeeper didn’t provide a synopsis.

I would like to be present when you read the French novel. You have a soothing accent when you speak the language of our Gaul counterparts, and falling asleep to it — while employing your legs as pillow— is always a delight.

Eternally yours,

Marcus.

#oc-tober 2022 #oc tober 2022 #oc tober

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brettgonzalez · 2 years

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Week 8 Script

Scene One

DAVID (checks his watch): Oh shit, I’m already 4 minutes late, how did that happen? I left at the same time as last week.

DAVID checks his phone, where he has a text from SABRINA, reading “You coming?” He steps up his cadence, walking fast as he battles the early morning wind and rain with his umbrella, all before the sun has even risen. He arrives at SABRINA’s house, and gets in her car where her, SARAH, and CRYSTAL are waiting.

DAVID: Good morning, sorry I’m late.

SABRINA: It's okay, don’t worry. We just decided to wait in the car because it's too cold to wait outside. (She puts the car in gear and begins driving).

DAVID: Honestly I feel that. I walked out of the house and was not prepared for the cold weather. I don’t have any of my warm jackets with me yet.

SARAH: At least you have your umbrella. I don’t own one and I forgot that I lent my rain jacket to my friend, so this morning is already off to a shitty start.

CRYSTAL: Well sorry to break it to you, but you’re also the charge nurse for today.

SARAH: What? How do you know that? Did the manager say that?

CRYSTAL: Yeah, Marcus just texted us. Honestly, being charge nurse isn’t too bad so I wouldn’t worry about it.

Scene Two

It is noon, at the hospital. MICHAEL, the nurse manager, enters onto the unit, where DAVID, SABRINA, SARAH, and CRYSTAL are caring for patients. MICHAEL gathers the nursing students.

MICHAEL: Who’s hungry? You guys ready for lunch?

SABRINA: God yes! My stomach was being so loud that I think my patient heard it (laughing).

MICHAEL (chuckles): Alright let’s go then.

The five of them go down to the cafeteria together. DAVID, SABRINE, SARAH, and CRYSTAL begin eating their lunches, along with BRIE and ANGEL. A few minutes later, MICHAEL approaches their table.

CRYSTAL: Oh, did you come to eat lunch with us?

MICHAEL (jokingly): I never got the invite.

DAVID: Well, we never not invited you.

MICHAEL: No that’s alright. I’ve got some work to do in my office. But hey man, eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich? That’s how I know you’re in nursing school (the whole group laughs).

Scene Three

It is now 5:30pm, and the group’s shift is over. It is starting to get dark outside. SABRINA has agreed to give BRIE and ANGEL rides home as well. The group gets to SABRINA’s car.

BRIE: Wait, there’s six of us. One of us is gonna have to sit in the hatchback, because there’s no way in hell that we are squeezing four people in the back seat. Who’s it gonna be guys?

ANGEL: Nose-goes! (everyone except for SABRINA puts their finger to their nose)

BRIE: Oh my god! I thought I left that children’s game behind me in middle school. It’s alright though, I’ll sit back there. At least it’s only a 10 minute drive.

The group of six squeezes into the car with BRIE in the back of the SUV. SARAH drives the group to their homes. DAVID is the last to get dropped off.

DAVID: (gets out of the car) Thanks so much Sarah! I’ll Venmo you. See ya!

DAVID: (opens the door to his apartment and kicks off his shoes) Ugh, now time to make dinner.

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worldofbryant · 2 years

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January 23, 2017

Since the last entry, I've spoken to Daphne(call/text) several times. Daphne found her cell phone after 'losing' it. Her lil brother, Brett hid her cell. Then Saturday(1-21-17), me and Daphne spoke for 2 hours before she fell asleep on me(my baby was tired and her allergies was messing with her). Then earlier this morning, daph texts me and tells me that Desiree and Donovan are making fun of her because how she says certain things. Kids will be kids but, they(Desiree & Donovan) needs to learn some respect! If they continue this behavior when they get older, Gwen and Pete will have to rescue their 'precious darlings'. A couple nights ago, I was talking to Joe's ex, Courtney Johnson. She wanted someone to listen to her because her ex(not Joe) left her like a coward. Then Courtney says something about having a guy to come over and have some 'fun' but, they have to be out before her kids woke up. I said I contemplating the same thing when it comes to a female and Courtney thought I wanted to come over and mess with her. Courtney knows that I won't mess with her because she was with Joe and that's crossing the line of respect (bros before hoes). Courtney even asked how I felt about messing with her since it's been 9 years since her and Joe has been together. Could I mess with Courtney?....no! Again, Joe was with her. I did volunteer to help her with some things after she has this surgery for her shoulder. If Courtney is in a relationship like she says, then going to her house is a BIG No-NO! I get in from work last night and the first few minutes was great. Mom cooked an amazing dinner and the convo was good until...she tried to remember what Marcus wanted her to tell me. Come to find out, Marcus wanted me to upload the pics he sent me of his daughter Cheyenne to his Facebook page. That lead to mom getting anal about wanting the pic of Emily Shumpert. I had totally forgot about her wanting it. So, Thursday, I'm going to get a copy of Emily's pic along with the pics of Marcus's daughter. Mom got mad cause I said that she was computer illiterate but....she said it and I guess everything was supposed to have been good. Mom isn't tech savvy so her lack of knowledge is no big deal. I want her to explain the best way that she knows how but, if for some reason she doesn't understand things, ask to gain knowledge! Then mom had something about that she's not gonna ask me to do anything for her. If you remember correctly mother dearest, you wanted me to take you the food pantries when you thought I was going to get this car. Mom's attitude is due to her not having nicotine coursing through her body( no need for the attitude pissy Annie). She got turned down by the people in #150. If she would do her cigs correctly then she wouldn't have to go through so damn much and she wouldn't have to panhandle from people here at wooden Indian. Mom isn't going to be able to go to bingo (watch out there) and she's going to have very little left to get her cigs(that's another thing, she said she wouldn't have me to go get her cigs either...if that's how you feel!). So, what I might do so it makes mom in a better mood is, tell her to go to bingo and I'll put in $20 in what I'm going to send Damani. Mom's attitude just sucked! I told her that if I ever got that way when I get her age, I'm going to have Daphne throw away the key on me! Mom, you need to quit making up these excuses about your behavior, own up to why you act the way you do! I almost forgot, mom had said that she can smoke in the room because she pays the rent! No shit ya dummy! That last part she wears that out so damn much its tiresome like she is when she doesn't have a cancer stick in her fucking mouth! I'm not going to let her bring me down because she doesn't do nothing all day. By the way Stella, if you really think that I'd see you in a nursing home, you're as stupid as you fucking look...and sound! 'Joking' around with Marcus Anderson about sending you some cigarettes and something to drink isn't cute! You make yourself look stupid.

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sirowsky · 2 years

Text

Wrong Way Home

Marcus Pike One Shot

Author's Note: Rewritten and updated in March 2024. This was not supposed to be such a self-portrait, but it really is. It's completely self-indulgent and I make no apologies. I wrote this for myself, because I needed it, but maybe someone else needs it too.

Description: You pick up a stray and decide to help him get to where he's supposed to be. A decision which ends up having lasting implications.

Rating: Mature themes 18+ONLY Warnings: Female reader with no detailed physical descriptions but hair long enough to be put up, and it is implied that reader is smaller than Marcus. Driving, animals on the road, cursing, blizzard, hazardous road conditions. Reader is a carer and therefor prone to self-sacrifice. Meet cute, fluff, lovingly meddling mother, angst. Word Count: 18,280 (5590 words added) Author's Masterlist

Two consecutive blizzards had dumped almost three feet of snow on your hometown, in the space of just one week, and now a third one was bearing down on you, expected to drop at least another two feet. You were used to bad conditions, having grown up there, but it was just as cumbersome and inconvenient each year, no matter how well prepared you were. Everything took three times as long and absolutely anything requiring you to set foot outside, meant getting cold and wet, regardless of how well you dressed.

Thankfully, the city council and road authorities were also used to it and had all their resources in the streets, day and night, to try and manage the frozen masses that were trying to bury you. They had urged all citizens to keep off the roads other than what was necessary or unavoidable, but you were a good driver who knew how to handle snowy roads and bad visibility, and you had a good car too.

So, when your mom had asked you to help her clear some snow in front of her house that Friday, to make sure the winds couldn’t push it up against her front door, you hadn’t hesitated to make the drive over. She was retired and had badly arthritic hands, and while she was good at managing on her own most of the time, there were certain things she just couldn’t do anymore. You’d made her stay inside while you’d battled against the winds and the whirling snow for a good two hours, until you’d cleared enough of it that she’d hopefully be able to get her door open in the morning, even if it kept snowing all night.

Once you were done, you stepped inside to keep her company for a while and get yourself warmed up. You were sitting by the little table at the kitchen window, sipping tea and looking out on the storm, talking about the latest things to have happened in the family since the holidays that had come and gone. Your mother knew that the depth of winter was hard for you, because the lack of sunlight made you depressed, and did her best to keep the mood light, but she could tell that you were more than ordinarily tired today.

“How was work this week?”

“It was okay. You know how it is, it’s stressful and hard, but fun and rewarding too,” you said, and she nodded thoughtfully, having been a nurse herself as well.

“Yeah. Thanks for coming today, I know how much you need your weekends off to rest your mind.”

“It’s not your fault that the sky is falling down, mom.”

“No, I know, but I just want you know that I appreciate it. You always come when I call, and I wanna make sure you know that I try not to take that for granted.”

“Thanks for saying that, but I’m happy to help,” you tried, but even you heard how false that sounded, so you chose a different angle which was more truthful. “I need a kick in the ass to keep myself from never leaving the apartment until spring. Besides, shovelling snow can be really therapeutic too.”

“I suppose that’s true. Will you stay for dinner?” she asked, no doubt angling to try and keep you around longer, but likely also in the hopes of paying you back for your troubles.

Had the roads been in better condition you would’ve stayed, but saying you wanted to get going so you wouldn’t have to be up all night to dig yourself out if you got stuck somewhere, would only worry her.

“No, I think I wanna get home and shower. How about tomorrow? I assume there’ll be more snow to wrestle with by then,” you offered instead, and she seemed pleased with that.

“Sure, sounds good. I do have one more favour to ask, though.”

You smiled and shook your head a little, before taking the last swig of your tea.

“You always do. What is it this time? Don’t tell me you went and bought something on some online flea-market again, cause I’m not picking up some odd chair or a pair of socks on my way home, not in this weather.”

“No, no, it’s just the Christmas tree, if you could help me get it up to the attic?”

You couldn’t hold back the sigh which pushed past your lips at that. The plastic masterpiece weighed a ton, and the narrow steep staircase to the attic required some delicate manoeuvring, which should be interesting when your muscles were already spent from your battle with the snow. But your mother knew you’d still do it, which was why you didn’t feel bad about the sigh.

“Fine. But that oldest brother of mine is bringing it down again next season, mark my words,” you griped, fully intending to text him with your demands as soon as you got back home.

She just smiled and took both your cups to the sink, while you got up and went to work on the eight-foot beast of a tree.

Half an hour later, just after 3pm, you were back in your car and making your way through the small village where your mother lived, mentally mapping the ten-mile route to get to your apartment, trying to think which roads might be best maintained. The wind was howling and tearing at the car, even at low speeds, and visibility was awful with how much snow was being pushed around out there. It was a minor miracle that you even spotted him.

He was little more than a shadow against a dark background, but his movements caught your eye and once you took a closer look, you got worried and slowed down further before reaching him. He wasn’t anywhere near dressed correctly for this weather, wearing the kind of coat that looks good but isn’t particularly warm, and suit-pants, suggesting a full suit under the coat. But nothing more. No thermal clothes of any kind, not even a hat or proper gloves. His shoes were under a foot of snow, but you’d bet anything that it wasn’t gonna be boots.

On top of that, he was carrying what looked like an overnight bag and a generally confused body-language, leading you to the conclusion that this was either the most unprepared tourist you’d ever seen, or someone who was seriously lost. You came to a stop right next to him, but the windows were frozen shut, so you waited for him to take the hint, until he opened the passenger side door but politely only poked his head inside.

“Hi, can you help me, I’m completely lost?”

An American. That was unexpected, but thankfully your English was excellent, and you’d finally get a chance to use it.

“Get in, you’ll freeze out there.”

He did as you’d said, and sat down, cramming the bag down on the floor by his shiny shoes which were absolutely packed with snow. You turned the heater up to maximum and then started driving again.

“I need to keep moving or we might get rear-ended by someone not expecting a car standing still in the middle of the road in this weather,” you explained, while he took his thin leather gloves off and put his trembling hands against the warm air fan in the centre consol.

“That’s okay, I don’t have a clue where I am anyway. Thank you so much for stopping,” he said through clattering teeth, so you reached underneath his arms for the button to start the heater in the passenger seat.

“No problem. Where are you supposed to be right now? Cause, no offense, but you’re dressed for a dinner-party, not a blizzard,” you said, quickly looking him over while executing a turn.

You noticed that he had an attractive profile, but since his looks weren’t much of a priority at the moment, you refocused on the driving.

“I flew in this morning, and we were supposed to land in the capitol, but the runways weren’t cleared of snow, so we got diverted to an airport around here and I was told that a bus was gonna take me to a hotel. But it just dropped me off here and I can’t find any hotel,” he explained, before apparently deciding that his hands were warm enough now to start digging some snow out of his shoes.

“Yeah, that’s because this is a tiny village on the outskirts of town, literally the end of the bus-line,” you clarified, and then set about trying to work out the rest of his story. “But if you were headed for the capitol, you’re about a thousand miles north of the mark. Was this really the only airport with an open runway?”

“We got diverted twice, actually. So, yeah, it would seem so. I was originally supposed to take a connecting flight to a different small airport which I can’t remember or pronounce the name of, but it was somewhere in the middle of the country,” he recalled, and then abandoned his efforts with his shoes and started turning his bag around. “I have the ticket, hold on a second…”

He dug around in the bag for a moment, opening a few different compartments before finally pulling out an envelope and handing you one of the tickets from it. You took quick glances at it, trying to keep your eyes on the road as much as possible since it kept disappearing on you, until you saw the name of the airport.

“Oh… that’s bad.”

“What? Why?” he asked, and in your periphery, you could see his head turn to focus on you, while the rest of him froze in his seat.

“Two reasons, primarily,” you started, while wrestling the car out of a deeper segment of snow which was trying to bog it down. “Firstly, because that’s about four hundred miles to the south of us. And second, because that city is home to one of the best hospitals in the country, which is why the airport prioritizes medical transports before all commercial flights, and there’s only one runway. Basically, it’s closed during bad weather, for everyone but air-med.”

“Oh… yeah, that is bad,” he concurred, and he sounded very sad about it.

“What time are you meant to be there?” you pressed, hoping to figure out if there might be some way to help him.

“I’m supposed to hold a class at the police academy there, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Wait, you’re a cop?” you blurted out, genuinely gobsmacked, but then you instantly backtracked, feeling bad about it. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound so shocked, it’s just that I really thought you were a politician. Or possibly a salesman.”

But he just chuckled warmly at your very honest reaction, and something pleasant crept along your spine at the happy little sound.

“No, that’s okay, I get it. I don’t look much like a cop because I’m an FBI-agent,” he elaborated, and you smiled as the pieces clicked into place.

“Ah. Suddenly the suit and coat make perfect sense.”

You answered him while using your right hand to gesture flimsily towards his less than adequate attire, and with your left hand, deftly manoeuvring the car out of a standstill at and intersection where the snow had been blown into large ridges which had to be crossed at the right angle to stop the car from getting stranded on them.

“Normally, I wouldn’t do this, I’m a field-agent, not a teacher. But the guy who was supposed to do it got sick and I was asked to fill in since I was already at the airport. I’d just stepped off a plane from London when I got the call and there wasn’t even time to go home and change before the flight here. I just wish someone would’ve mentioned that I was heading into a snowstorm before I left. There was enough time to run past the airport shops, so I could’ve at least bought a hat,” he recalled, offering a fuller explanation even though you hadn’t asked.

And while you were listening and did appreciate that he was sharing things just to help you understand his predicament, at the same time, you were working the problem, trying to think of a way to get this man to the academy on time. And you kept arriving at the same conclusion.

“A good hat is essential, for sure,” you answered on autopilot since your mind was elsewhere, which the guy seemed to notice.

“Everything okay?”

You were on the major highway by then, which was always given top priority for snow-clearance and was in a much better state than the small unploughed roads you’d been navigating almost blindly. This meant you could relax a little more, allowing you to put the finishing touches on the plan which you’d come up with.

“Yeah, I’m just thinking. And what I think is that there is a way to get you there on time.”

“Really? How?” he begged, clearly determined to do anything he could to get the job done.

“I can drive you there,” you suggested, which was apparently not what he had expected to hear.

There was a stunned pause, and then from the corner of your eye, you saw him shake his head firmly.

“No, I couldn’t ask you to do that… Four hundred miles in this weather? No way.”

“You’re not asking, I’m offering,” you countered, wanting him to at least hear you out before he shut you down. “I have both family and friends there that I could stay the night with and then drive home in the morning. I’ve driven this stretch hundreds of times, in all kinds of weather, and I’m telling you that it’s the only hope you have of getting there at all any time this weekend.”

“I’m not gonna let you risk your life for me, you just met me,” he argued, but you were undeterred.

Somehow, this just felt like something you should do. Be it a random act of kindness or an attempt to increase your own sense of self-worth by doing something that would make someone else like you. You had no idea. But you wanted to do it.

“So, because you’re a cop, you can risk your life for strangers as much as you want, but because I’m just some random woman, I can’t?” you challenged, although you kept your voice light and unaccusatory.

Glancing at him, you could tell that he wanted to retort, but that he couldn’t find a good enough argument, so he wisely kept his mouth shut instead, and you took the opportunity to press on.

“You should know there aren’t any trains here. Busses aren’t gonna drive in these conditions and good luck finding a cab driver that’ll wanna make this trip. But I’m a good driver. Good enough even that you’re probably safer with me than with anyone who chauffeurs people professionally, so just let me help you.”

He seemed to chew on that for a minute, probably thinking back on what he’d already seen of your capabilities behind the wheel, and you found yourself trying to think of ways to counter any remaining arguments he might have against this journey.

“You don’t even know me. Why would you do this for me?” he finally asked, and to be completely honest, you didn’t have a clear answer, so you chose to focus on him instead.

“Because you came all this way to do something important, even though it’s not really your job. And it’s not your fault that the sky decided to empty its bowels and shit all over your attempt to help these students, all of who I’m sure have been looking forward to this for a long time.”

There was a longer and somewhat more awkward pause then, which you hesitated to break because it felt like that might disturb his decision. Then…

“Promise me you wouldn’t be giving up better plans for the weekend if you did this for me,” he demanded, and you almost snorted with the thought, but managed to stop yourself.

Sure, it might seem like a ridiculous demand to you, since the only thing you had planned that weekend, like every other weekend, was watching tv and catching up on sleep. But he couldn’t possibly know how pathetically lonely and largely empty your life was. He was genuinely worried he might be stealing time from your regular activities, which was technically true, and you could understand why it would bother him. In fact, you were kinda loving that it did bother him, since it said a lot about this man’s level of care and appreciation for others.

“I promise,” you declared, letting all the honesty you possessed fill the two words.

“Hm. Okay, then,” he agreed, and you felt yourself getting a bit excited about taking a roadtrip with a stranger.

You’d never done anything like this before. But perhaps that was also why it felt special. There was a sense of freedom being unlocked inside of you by the mere act of doing something impulsive and maybe even a little reckless.

“Alright, but we’re making a stop at my apartment first. You need proper clothes and I need a shower and some food before we set off.”

“I’m at your mercy, good Samaritan” he surrendered, before extending his right hand to you above the stick shift. “I’m Marcus, by the way.”

“Hi, Marcus. Nice to meet you,” you replied, shaking his hand briefly but firmly.

“Pleasure’s all mine, believe me. What do I call you?”

Dang it. You didn’t really care if he knew your real name, at least not out of any safety concerns or fears that he might somehow use it to mess with you. You just felt like there was air of adventure to this whole thing. Like you’d magically jumped into the pages of a book and was getting to experience a different reality for a limited time. And it just seemed like if you were still just regular old you, the magic wouldn’t quite work, and you wouldn’t get the full experience. But how could you ever hope to explain that without sounding crazy?

“Uh… How about you just call me Sam? Don’t get me wrong, I’m not looking to hide anything, I’d just prefer it if we kept this casual,” you said instead, and then remembered another thing. “Plus… I’ve never actually liked my name.”

“You don’t owe me any explanations. If you prefer Sam, then Sam it is.”

“Thank you.”

Your apartment was small, but cozy, and you’d never been so grateful to yourself for finally having gotten to cleaning it earlier that week. Or your impromptu guest would’ve walked into a mess of dust-rats, dishes and notebooks and ongoing (but stalled) projects that you just didn’t have the energy to work on right now. The only blemish was the unmade bed at one end of the combined bedroom and living room, but you could live with that.

“Welcome to my home,” you invited him, while unlacing your boots and stepping out of them, careful to stay on the hallway carpet so all the snow that fell off them wouldn’t end up as puddles on the floor. “I’ll get some dry clothes for you to change into, or you’ll never get warm.”

While you went through your closet, which was also in the front hall, digging up the biggest pair of sweatpants you owned, along with a wool sweater and some fresh socks, unbeknownst to you, he started undressing right there in the hall. So, by the time you turned back with the dry clothes, he was in nothing more than his underwear. You were completely thrown for a moment, just staring at his well-toned, broad and somehow soft-looking body, until his shivering registered in your brain, and you quickly handed him the clothes along with an embarrassed apology.

“Eh, sorry about that…” you sheepishly mumbled and then hurried to turn away so he could get dressed in peace, although there wasn’t really anywhere for you to go to give him some privacy.

Other than the bathroom, but that felt more like you’d be trying to avoid him. Which you weren’t. Still, you did desperately need a shower.

“Um, make yourself at home. I don’t have any coffee but there are teabags on the counter if you want a cup. Feel free to rummage through the kitchen for anything you want, I just really need to clean up. I was shovelling snow for a few hours earlier today,” you rambled with your back to him, way more nervous than you had reason to be.

“I’ll be okay, you do whatever you need to do,” he assured you through the shivers, making you feel even worse about objectifying him.

The least you could do was grab him a nice warm towel from the bathroom, and hand it to him so he could dry himself off thoroughly before putting on the borrowed clothes.

“Right, well just shout if you need anything else,” you said, trying to ease your own guilt, before locking yourself away where you could properly scold yourself.

You’d meant to make it quick, just scrub yourself clean of the old dried-in sweat and put some conditioner in your hair, but once the warm water spilled over your back you couldn’t bring yourself to hurry. You’d always loved water. Your favourite part of summer was being able to go to any lake and just dive in and swim, gliding through the soft cool mass as though a part of you belonged there. Almost as though it was a haven to you. A way to drown out the rest of the world and exist only in whatever imagined world you chose for that moment.

The shower worked differently, though. It served as a substitute for the warmth you missed around you when you went to bed each night. It served as a substitute for every massage you’d meant to get, but never had. And it served as a substitute for the punching bag you’d never replaced after it broke, helping you bring your feelings to the surface so you could deal with them. Provided you had the strength for it.

This day was no different to every other day, and the water did what it always did, keeping you under the spray until your muscles had warmed, your skin was flushed from the heat, and your mind was calm. But you’d forgotten to bring clean clothes into the bathroom with you, so you wrapped yourself with a towel and stepped over to the closet to get some.

You never faced that direction, so you didn’t notice Marcus sitting by the kitchen table, at the side which had a clear view of the hall, or that his eyes lingered on your bare legs while you stood there by the closet. Although, if you had known, you wouldn’t have minded at all. You’d been the one ogling him just half an hour earlier. Besides, there was something very comfortable about him which you couldn’t quite name. Something quiet and unassuming. Humble but still confident. You’d barely been around him yet, but you found yourself feeling drawn to him, and that was a very rare thing for you.

He joined you in a quick meal consisting of spaghetti with a tomato, ham and basil sauce, which he praised with what seemed like unnecessary enthusiasm, but then, he had been half frozen an hour earlier and a warm meal would be close to heaven after that. While you ate, you took the opportunity to study his features a little closer, getting more intrigued the more you noticed about him.

He had a slight scruff of a beard around his jawline, and a thin moustache, both of which only added to his attractiveness, which wasn’t true of all men. He was slender, but also thick somehow. The laugh-lines around his eyes were well defined, so this was a guy who enjoyed himself, despite what you were sure had to be a trying job, and the one dimple on his right cheek was the cherry atop the cake.

But more than all that, he was charming. Not in the kinda sleazy way that the men you’d encountered on your few dates in the past years had been, with that undertone of wanting something in return. Marcus was charming in the more classic sense, almost a bit old-fashioned, and it was the most endearing quality about him thus far. Because it made him feel so genuine and earnest, something you’d never seen in any man, at all.

He insisted on helping you clean away the dishes before you left, so that it wouldn’t be sitting there waiting for you when you came home from what was probably going to be a tough drive. Before leaving the kitchen, you grabbed some raspberry muffins from the freezer to bring for the journey, in case you needed something to nibble on, before once again digging through your closets to find some thermal clothes for your travel companion.

He was taller than you and significantly broader over the shoulders, but you were an outdoorsy kind of person and had several different set-ups of clothes for different activities. He had no problems fitting into your snow-mobile coveralls, which were a few sizes too big for you so that you could fit about four layers of clothes underneath. And you had special boots to go with it, that were also too big, and you didn’t have petit feet to begin with, so those worked for him too.

Making sure you had everything you needed, you locked your door and stepped back out into the blizzard, with your guest closely on your heels. You’d only been inside for about ninety minutes but that was enough for the car to have several inches of snow on top of it already, so you started by sweeping it clear and making sure you had full view out of all windows, before getting in and settling into your seats for the drive.

“It’s almost 5pm. How long do you think this is gonna take?” Marcus asked while you reversed the car out of your parking spot.

“On dry roads it’s about a three and a half-hour drive, but in this weather, it might very well be twice that. So, make yourself comfortable.”

“I’m paying for all the gas for the roundtrip,” he declared, to which you just shrugged.

“That’s fine with me, but this car’s got good mileage so don’t expect any astronomical costs.”

“Good, I’m on a government salary, which is in no way astronomical,” he chuckled drily, but then continued with a much warmer tone. “Can I just say, you seem really at ease behind the wheel, even in these conditions. I’d be terrified driving in this, I can barely even see the road.”

“I was born and raised here, and I’ve lived right here in this town all my life. I learned to drive in conditions like these. Which is why I know to always have a shovel and bag of sand in the trunk, in case I get stuck. And why there are flashlights, a knife, and high-visibility-vests in the compartment between our seats. Oh, and there’s a large box in the trunk, full of tools, straps, oil, WD40 and coolant, as well as a spare battery.”

“Where you a girl-scout, Sam?”

“I was, for about a year when I was like seven,” you admitted, and he snickered. “But when you’ve been stuck in a snowdrift in the middle of the night on an empty road, with no mobile phone and no shovel, you know what to bring the next time there’s risk of it happening again.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel even more confident about your abilities, knowing that you’ve gotten it wrong before.”

“Why would I take that as anything but a compliment? How else would I know what to do?” you countered, feeling good about yourself because driving was one of the things you truly were confident about.

“What did you do? In that particular incident, I mean.”

“I dug the car out as best I could with my hands and feet, and that car was an automatic, so then I stood in the doorway with one foot on the throttle and the other on the ground, using my back as a brace and then rocked the car backwards with each touch on the pedal. It took a while, but eventually I got it free and drove home.”

“And what did your back have to say about that?” he said, while crossing his arms over his chest, having clearly already figured out that you could be quite cruel to yourself if the occasion required it.

“Oh, it complained,” was all you gave him, which probably only further piqued his interest.

“I’d imagine so. But now I’m curious. What other jams have you gotten yourself into?”

“Uhm… Well, the only really bad one I can remember right now, was when I sprained my ankle while out on a run. I know that might not sound like the most dangerous situation, and I suppose it wasn’t really, but it’s one of the most painful experiences of my life. Again, I had no phone on me, and this happened just as I was turning back, so it was on the part of the run that was furthest from home, about four miles, and it really was a bad sprain. I could hear a tendon snap when it happened.”

“Ouch…” he grimaced, you could hear his sympathetic teeth-grind within that one expression.

“Yeah. I tried to walk on it for a bit, but once the swelling set in, it was impossible. But I was in the woods, so I found a fallen branch and used that for a crutch to walk all the way home.”

“Where I assume you called an ambulance?” he pressed when you didn’t say anything more, since the story ended there, as far as you were concerned.

“No. I bandaged the foot and put it on ice over-night.”

“Wait a minute, you didn’t see a doctor?”

“It wasn’t broken, so what I did was exactly what they would’ve done.”

“How did you know it wasn’t broken?” he argued, and you stifled a sudden urge to roll your eyes at him.

“Because I examined it thoroughly before bandaging it.”

“Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I’d sprained the same ankle once before, falling down some stairs, so I knew what it felt like,” you explained, and saw him start to react to that, so you hurried to shut him down. “Besides, I’d never call an ambulance for anything that wasn’t life-threatening. If I’d felt it necessary to get it examined, I would’ve driven to the emergency room myself.”

“With a potentially broken foot?” he was almost stuttering now, with how upset he was getting.

“It wasn’t broken,” you persisted, and he sighed heavily.

“Wow…”

Strangely, you found it a bit amusing that he was getting so riled up about stuff that had happened years ago and hadn’t caused any lingering damage to you, so when you remembered another one of these incidents, you decided to share and see how he’d react.

“I was once kicked right in the kneecap by a horse, while riding another horse. That was a fun one,” you offered, and in your periphery, saw him dip his head forwards and rub his forehead for a moment.

“You’re gonna turn out to have a lot of these stories, aren’t you?”

“I don’t know, I never remember them until I start talking about them.”

“And that’s precisely why you keep ending up in those kinds of situations, because you’re not committing them to memory.”

“I won’t argue with you there. I just don’t see the point in dwelling on past mistakes.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded. “That does sound awful, though. Please tell me you went to the hospital that time?”

“Of course not, I had to get the horse home and take care of it,” you explained, and by now he was turning in his seat so that he could glare at you when he replied, almost upset enough to scream at you.

“Oh my god! What’s wrong with you? Give the horse to the other rider and call for help. Or did neither of you have a phone that time either?”

“There were four of us, actually, and we all had phones, but we didn’t call anyone. We rode back to the stables, very calmly, and I hopped around on one leg while taking care of my horse, since everyone else was busy taking care of their horses.”

“Unbelievable…” he breathed, slumping against the backrest and shaking his head.

“Not really,” you countered, feeling the need to stand your ground on this one. “That’s actually one of the major character traits of all equestrians. We learn to do everything by ourselves, because chances are, no one’s gonna be there to help us if something happens, so no matter how much it hurts, we soldier on. The horses can’t take off their gear or go get grains for themselves, so we have to do it, it’s not a matter of choice. It’s what we signed on for when we got the horse. We get it done, and then we worry about ourselves.”

“Yeah okay, I get that, and it is admirable. But there were other people there that time, you could’ve asked for help.”

“True. But I didn’t. And it gets worse, because when I was done, I went home and cleaned up, wrapped the knee with ice and then went to drive my sister to a doctor’s appointment because she was pregnant.”

He just stared at you for a few beats, and you could see his mouth open and close a few times as he tried to find the words.

“You-…? I don’t even know what to say…”

“Relax, I did get the knee checked out the next day and nothing was broken,” you reassured him, and he seemed to find it easier to breathe then.

“Amazing. Are there x-rays to corroborate that?”

“Well… No. It was a friend who looked at it. But a doctor friend. Kinda.”

He sighed again, even deeper this time.

“Absolutely astonishing,” he chided, and then seemed to think of something. “Just to be clear, if we should crash, you would call an ambulance, right?”

“Of course, I would!” you automatically snatched your head around to meet his eyes for a moment as you retorted, but he just raised his eyebrows in mock disbelief, daring you to tell the whole truth. “I mean… I’d probably insist that I was fine and make them take care of you instead, but I’d definitely call.”

“Alright, let me guess; you work in the medical industry in some way? You’re a caregiver,” he concluded more than guessed, and you nodded.

“Nurse.”

“Yep, that’s what I thought. Well, now I’m upset, so why don’t we change the subject.”

“Why are you upset?”

“Because you obviously don’t value your own life very much, which is a terrible mistake, but I can’t possibly convince you of that so let’s just talk about something else, before I start screaming at you.”

He punctuated the last sentence with a sharp huff, and you suddenly got the sense that he wasn’t only the sparkle-eyed sweetheart that he appeared to be. There was something very protective and powerful inside of him, the kind of something that made you wonder what he’d do if someone were to harm a person that he loved.

“Fine,” you brightly agreed. “Do you wanna go back to talking about the weather?”

You talked about a lot of things while the miles and hours slowly ticked away, and the muffins grew fewer and fewer. He had dozens of questions about the country, its politics, military and police, most of which you didn’t know that much about. But you had family in the military, so you ended up talking about that for a spell, which then led to spending the next two hours talking about your family.

You had a big one, which fascinated him, and he laughed himself silly at some of the stories you told him from old family dinners and parties that had gotten completely out of hand. Usually due to the older generations among your relatives, most of whom were competitive, fun-loving, and slightly bonkers.

“I need to meet these people someday; they sound absolutely delightful,” Marcus announced once he’d settled down from the worst of the laughing fits.

“Well, that’s a hell of a thing to say to a girl you just met,” you teased, but he just turned on his charms in response.

“Well, it’s a hell of a girl.”

That made you crack a wide smile, but you still felt the need to confirm whether he was being cheeky or slightly rude.

“Ordinarily I’d take that as a compliment, but this one could go either way, I feel.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw him smile back at you.

“Oh, I wouldn’t dare insult you, Sam,” he answered, with a voice of pure honey, prompting you to suddenly need to change the subject before you’d begin to struggle concentrating on the damned road.

“You know, it’s funny, the more I hear you call me that, the more at home it feels to me. I was exaggerating a bit before, when I said I don’t really like my given name, but it’s not a lie. I don’t hate it; it’s just never felt good to me to hear it.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. You could always change it.”

“Wouldn’t do any good, my family would still use the one I grew up with. Not out of disrespect, just decades worth of habit. No, I think I’ll let “Sam” belong to you.”

“I kinda like that. Having my own version of you, in a way,” he said, once again letting his voice drop, but this time, you were too distracted to be affected by it.

While he’d talked, you’d moved your right foot away from the throttle and over to the brake, because something felt off about the pattern of the snow whirling in front of your headlights. Visibility was only a few yards ahead, so you were creeping along to begin with, but took the precaution of slowing further, choosing to trust your intuition and experience, which turned out to be wise.

Out of seemingly nowhere, there were suddenly two reindeer in the middle of the road, and you stopped completely.

“Whoa…” Marcus tensed, but then quickly relaxed again as he realized you had the situation under control. “How’d you know they were out there? I didn’t see them at all…”

“The snow gave it away. Some manner of obstacle was upsetting its flow from the left. It might have been just a tree, but there’s always the risk that it’s something moving, so it’s always best to slow down and make sure.”

It was a small herd, maybe ten to fifteen individuals, and they were just crossing the road, not moving along it, as reindeer were often lazy enough to do, so you waited for them to pass, keeping your hazard warning lights on in case another car approached from behind.

“Impressive. If I had any doubts left about your skills as a driver, they’re all gone now,” he commended, following the animals with his eyes. “I’ve never seen reindeer for real before. They’re beautiful.”

“Yeah. We tend to just pass them by, annoyed that they’re so often on the road, and happy not to have hit them, but we rarely get the chance to just look at them.”

Once the deer had moseyed their way across the road, you set off again, noting that the clock had passed 11pm by then, meaning you’d been driving for six hours straight. It didn’t feel like that much time had passed, though, and you weren’t the least bit tired.

A part of you didn’t want the journey to end, but you recognised the lit-up intersections you passed, so you knew that you were getting close, and it made you sad. It had been a long time since you’d felt this comfortable with anyone outside of your family, and more than that… Damned it, the guy was cute and caring and polite and respectful and you didn’t wanna let him go, knowing you’d never see him again.

Men like him didn’t exist in your country, and if they did, they were taken already. You would’ve given anything for the chance to get to spend more time with him, to get to know him and figure out if the tingly feeling in your stomach was what you thought it was. People called it butterflies, but it felt more like those sparklers you used to light on New Year’s Eve when you were a kid, and you hadn’t felt them in a very long time. God, you’d missed them.

“Hey, are you okay? You’ve gone all quiet and sad looking all of a sudden,” he observed, and even that was enough to increase your dread, because it meant he could already read you really well.

“Uh, yeah, I’m okay. Just got lost in my head there for a moment. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize, but I hope your head is a more fun place than your face was suggesting just now.”

“It is, for the most part. But I have depressing shit in my life too, like most people. However, I’m not in the mood to get into that. We’re getting close to our destination, so if there’s anything else you’re wondering about this lovely little country, you’re running out of time to ask it.”

“The country – no. But I’d like to keep talking to you anyway.”

“Okay,” you said, trying not to let that hopeful twinge in his voice go to your head while you searched for something to talk about. “Then tell me more about yourself.”

“There isn’t that much to know. I spend most of my time at work, and any free-time in between I go running or read or watch something on tv.”

He’d already told you about his work in more detail, but beyond that, you hadn’t really had a chance to ask him about himself. He’d kept you busy with talking about yourself instead, which was starting to feel like he might be avoiding the topic of Marcus, now that you thought about it.

“Family?” you prodded, but he shook his head.

“None left. Except an uncle I’ve never had any contact with.”

“You’re not giving me a lot to work with here. Should I go into favourite things instead? Food, movies, authors… like that tells me anything about you.”

He chuckled a little.

“I’m just not really that interesting. I’m a good cook, friendly company, reliable and honest, I like simple things and I have little patience for excessive drama. But I’m flattered that you’d like to know more about me.”

Why did that make you blush? You weren’t the sort to turn tomato red, but your cheeks and neck heated, and you were sure that he could tell.

“There’s little else to do in a car with a handsome stranger,” you deadpanned, hoping he’d take it with a slice of humour.

“Handsome? Are you hitting on me now, Sam?” he grinned, so you feigned indifference with a theatrical shrug.

“What good would that do when we’re just five minutes from your hotel?”

He saw through your deflection, though, in the smile which played around in the corners of your mouth, and decided to push you for a more truthful answer, while the now fully lit main street was passing by behind the blur of snow outside the windows.

“I guess that depends on how hard you’re hitting,” he said softly.

Inviting you to take the bait and run with it, all but promising he’d reel you in if you did. And really, what did you have to lose at this point? He was about to disappear, so what did it matter if you embarrassed yourself?

“I’m out of practice so I’m sure you can’t tell, but… I’m hitting as hard as I can.”

He didn’t answer that, and you had to focus on the road even more now when you were navigating the half-ploughed and slightly confusing roads of the inner city. So, you didn’t look at him until you’d reached the hotel and stopped at the curb. He was staring at you with a simultaneously warm and sad expression, one which you recognized all too well.

“And now you know why I looked sad earlier,” you offered, and suddenly he seemed unsure, getting fidgety and moving his gaze from one place to the next, as if he was looking for something outside the car.

“I… um… I really like you Sam,” he finally said, turning the sparklers inside you into fireworks. “If I didn’t have to get out of this car now, I wouldn’t. I’d stay in here and drive around with you all night, if I could.”

Something inside you yearned for that to be what happened next, but you also knew it wouldn’t be, so you buried those wishes and just offered him a smile which didn’t quite manage to reach your eyes.

“It is what it is. I’m happy to have met you, Marcus.”

“Likewise; and thank you so much for your trouble. How much do I owe you for the drive?”

You gave him the approximate sum of the gas consumed on your way there, and he gave you double what you’d asked for, keeping his promise to reimburse you for the roundtrip. He took off his seatbelt, then for a moment, he hesitated in his seat. It looked like there was something he wanted to say, but he held it back with a deep sigh and moved to open the door, just as a thought hit you.

“Hey, wait. This airport might be closed all weekend, in which case you’ll still need to use the same one you landed on, so take my number, just in case you need a ride back.”

You quickly jotted down your number and handed it to him before he could object, watching with a tiny sense of hope as he carefully placed the note in his inside breast pocket.

“I only have two classes tomorrow morning, so my flight back was set for 2pm. But if the airport’s closed then I assume that’ll get changed around. How long will you be here?”

“I’m gonna stay at a friend’s place, and she’s free all weekend so I can stay as long as I need to,” you explained, wondering if you sounded as desperate as it felt like you did.

“Okay. I’ll let you know if I need your help.”

“Good. And good luck with the class.”

“Thanks. Seriously, thank you for this.”

“It was entirely my pleasure.”

He smiled again, making your insides dance, and then he opened the door, and the blizzard suddenly came charging into the car, prompting him to hurry through collecting his bag from the backseat, before disappearing into the lobby. You told yourself that you stayed there by the curb, watching until he was out of sight, just to make sure he didn’t fall and hit his head on the way. But in truth, you just didn’t wanna leave him.

The six-and-a-half-hour drive down the coast had seemed to pass in a flash, but the fifteen-minute drive to your friend’s apartment felt endless. You hadn’t told her you were coming or asked if it was okay that you spent the night, but she was the kind of friend that would only be happy for the surprise and the company. And even if she wasn’t, you had a few other people in this city to ask to house you for a night, so you weren’t worried. The only thing that worried you that night, was the thought of never seeing the handsome American again.

--=¤=--

You woke up late the next morning, having stayed up with your friend for a while, to explain what had brought you there in the middle of the night, and answering her enthusiastic questions about the mystery man you’d driven so far for. The first thing you did when you woke up was to check your phone for messages and being disappointed to find no notifications of any kind.

But it was only 10am, he might still be at the academy, or he might still be trying to organize his return trip. You tried not to dig a hole of despair for yourself over a man you’d just met and had little chance of actually getting to know, much less have any kind of future with, but your heart wasn’t doing a great job of listening to reason that morning.

You went to the kitchen and started cleaning up what was probably all that week’s dishes from the sink, just to keep yourself busy, and then made breakfast. It was all ready just as your friend came strolling in about half an hour later, understandably confused as to why her dishes were all gone, and all the flat surfaces were glistening.

“Did you clean my kitchen?” she sleepily wondered, just as you put the finishing touches to your cup of tea.

“Yeah. Needed something to do.”

“Cause of Marcus?”

You just nodded while she sat down opposite you at the kitchen table, digging in to the food you’d prepared.

“You okay?” she asked, knowing you rarely ever got nervous about guys.

“I honestly don’t know. All I want is just to see him again, talk to him, listen to his voice…”

“Oh, honey. You’re falling headfirst, aren’t you?”

“Too damned fast and way too hard,” you admitted, doing your best to reason with yourself, even though you knew it wouldn’t make any difference. “I mean, it’s not like it could realistically go anywhere, he lives on the other side of the fucking world.”

“I don’t know, stranger things have happened,” she winked at you, completely undermining your attempts at reasoning.

“Please don’t give me hope.”

“Sorry,” she said, but her knowing her little grin didn’t go anywhere, and in the next second, your phone rang.

You momentarily froze, feeling adrenaline flood your body and your heartrate more than double in the space of just one ring. But then you saw the caller ID.

“Hey, mom. Are you snowed in yet?”

“No, the winds have changed, so it’s actually been blowing away from the porch all morning,” she happily chirped, and suddenly you felt bad.

Not about being unable to help her with the snow, but about not joining her for dinner as you’d promised. She couldn’t really go anywhere alone in the winter months, even in the best of weather conditions, so she relied on company to come to her, which is why it always bummed her out when plans fell through.

“Oh, that’s good, because I don’t know if I can come see you at all today. I ended up taking a trip yesterday. I’m having breakfast at Anita’s right now.”

“You drove all that way in the blizzard alone? What on earth for?” she asked, but she didn’t sound as disappointed as you’d expected.

“I wasn’t alone, actually, I kinda picked up a stray. It’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it the next time I see you.”

“I look forward to hearing it. Are you driving back today? Cause the roads are just as bad still, I heard on the radio this morning that they’re having trouble keeping even the major roads clear, and this relentless snowfall isn’t predicted to let up until Monday.”

“Uhm, it might be today, I’m not sure yet. But you know I’ll drive carefully,” you assured her, hoping the reminder of your calm and cautious demeanour behind the wheel would help her to worry a little less.

You’d taken her on road trips throughout the country during the summers, for many years now, so she was well aware of how responsible you were.

“Okay, well I just wanted to let you know that I’m good for now. I’ll call your brother if I need any help,” she reassured you in return, which took a lot of guilt off your shoulders.

“Great. I’ll let you know when I’m back.”

“Stay safe.”

“Always.”

You ended the call, and nearly dropped the phone when the lock-screen reappeared and there was a message notification. In the mere second that the fingerprint scanner gave you a hard time about the precise placement of your fingertip you nearly had a panic attack, scaring Anita into dropping her sandwich. But then it unlocked, and you opened the message.

<Hi, Sam. Hope you slept well. I’m told I will need to fly from your airport again, but they had to shift things around a little, so I won’t be leaving until Sunday. Can I take you up on that offer for a ride back?>

You felt like doing cartwheels in the living room, or just jumping up and down like a hyperactive kid, but you managed to keep to just smiling and squirming a little where you sat. Anita was kind enough not to give you the third degree right away, and once she’d recovered from your nervous outburst, just sat there eating quietly, although with a shit-eating grin on her face, while you typed out your reply.

<Hi. I slept fine, thanks for asking. I’d ask how the class went, but I’d prefer to have that topic left for the drive, since it’ll be another long one. This weather isn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Which is also why I think it’s best if we get going today. Maybe after lunch?>

You hit send and then forced yourself to keep eating your oatmeal while you kept glancing at the screen, counting the seconds until you saw a new message appear in the stream.

<I’ll be ready whenever you need me.>

Shit. Why did that make your heart feel like someone had their hands wrapped around it, and squeezed?

<Okay, I’ll hit you back when I’m ready to go.>

He sent a happy smiley-face back, and that’s when Anita couldn’t shut up anymore. She launched into a serious interrogation which lasted almost an hour, bleeding into conversations about past relationships, fears you’d had and things you’d learned since then, as well as defining what your feelings really were, here and now. And afterwards, while you were cleaning up the table and washing the new dishes you’d dirtied up with your meal, you found yourself grateful for her questioning.

Because even when your feelings didn’t make much sense and even though the conversation didn’t make you feel any less confused, talking about it with a good friend was still comforting. It made you feel less emotionally constipated, and you were able to laugh and enjoy the rest of the morning with her, talking about a range of subjects far removed from your non-existent love life.

And when it came time to go you were suddenly regretting the decision to leave so early, wanting more time to just talk and be relaxed without any underlying stress. But your decision to set off in good time wasn’t just because you were eager to see Marcus again. There were practical advantages to leaving in daylight and having a big margin for error in case something happened along the way, putting him at risk of missing his flight.

You promised Anita that you’d keep her in the loop on what happened over the rest of the weekend, and then set off back to the hotel. You’d notified him that you were on your way and found him waiting in the lobby, darting outside the moment he saw your car arrive at the curb once more, and you were ridiculously happy just to lay eyes on him again.

“I see you haven’t had time for any shopping since last night.”

You were in such a good mood you just had to tease him a little about still wearing your clothes, even though, oddly enough, it all looked better on him. Even the short dash between the building and the car had left him covered in snow, and he playfully ruffled the borrowed clothes in your direction, sending a slew of cold droplets all over you.

“They get the job done, and that’s good enough for me,” he smiled roguishly, apparently just as happy to see you too.

“Thanks a lot, now I’m cold,” you accused, but jokingly.

“Want me to warm you up?” he said, twinkling his eyes at you, but no doubt oblivious to what he was doing to you in that moment.

The words made you literally gulp. Because while he was just being playful and jovial, the mere suggestion was enough to fill your head with images, sounds, and other sensations, all of which had a very real effect on your body, far beyond that of butterflies, sparklers or fireworks.

“It would seem you already have,” you tentatively replied, unable to take your eyes off him.

For a moment, he looked a bit confused, until he seemed to realize what you’d meant by that, and… Was he blushing? He ducked his head and was suddenly very concerned with folding his gloves, looking down on his own hands in what could’ve been deep concentration, if not for the size of the grin on his face.

“Hm. Good,” was all he said in response, his voice brimming with either pride or satisfaction, and frankly, he was too fucking cute for you to call him out on it right then.

You buried the insistent itch to ask him to explain himself, since that would probably just lead to insufferable awkwardness, which you didn’t find all that desirable at the beginning of such a long drive. Checking your mirrors, you drove away from the curb and started mapping the route out of the city center in your head, while looking for a non-awkward topic to break the silence.

“So, how was the class?”

“A lot more fun than I’d imagined, actually,” he quickly responded, as if he was relieved you’d let him get away with his little flirtation, and dove into the longest reply he’d thus far given to anything you’d asked him. “They were really engaging and asked so many smart questions. The right kind of questions, you know? They didn’t get stuck on asking about me personally, or trying to take the FBI down a notch, they didn’t even give me the usual ‘Americans think they’re better than everyone else’-speech.”

“Huh… Are you sure you were in the right room?” you mocked, to which he just huffed bemusedly, and then carried on.

“They asked about procedures, about how we apply various methods of incursions to specific situations, and how we take on complex investigations, coordinate between departments, or even different bureaus, and across all states. I told you that I work with art-theft and forgery, mainly, and our methods don’t apply to all departments of the bureau, but they didn’t place any focus on that. They just tried to take as much knowledge as they could get, and I really hadn’t expected to walk away without being ridiculed at all.”

He finished on a note of incredulity, which you found surprising, so you tried to offer him a different perspective on how those classes might have viewed his visit.

“Well, if it had been me sitting there, I know I would’ve been grateful to someone who had come all that way just to talk to my class, and not wasted time being a prick about it,” you said, which he took a few beats to consider.

“I hope that’s how they all reasoned as well. It would give me so much hope for the future of this country to know that all those students had such a sense of cooperation and good perspectives.”

“Yeah, me too.”

You were both quiet for a bit then, while you navigated the trickier intersections of the outskirts of the city, where there were no redlights or roundabouts and visibility was jack shit. For the most part, you just carefully drove into the intersections and hoped that no one was gonna come blasting through and T-bone you.

“So, where’d you end up sleeping, if you don’t mind my asking?” he picked up the conversation once you were clear of a particularly gnarly section, probably hoping to help you relax by talking about something else.

“A friend’s couch. She was really happy to see me, even though I showed up well after midnight, covered in snow and-…”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hang on,” he cut you off, and he sounded upset now. “You mean you drove for almost seven hours straight only to then spend the night on a couch?”

“Sure,” you shrugged, genuinely not seeing what the problem was. “No matter who I’d gone to, I would’ve had to sleep on a couch. No one I know has the economy to have a spare room just sitting there unused in case of visitors.”

“Damned it, Sam…” he sighed, although it could’ve been a growl, it was so deep. “I’m the reason for all this inconvenience you’ve put yourself through. If I’d known you didn’t have a bed to sleep in, I would’ve paid for a hotel room for you.”

“Which I would’ve declined and taken a couch anyway. I told you; this is not the first time I’ve made trips like these. And I slept just fine, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried, I just feel bad that I can’t possibly repay all this kindness, and you’re sure as hell not making it any easier for me.”

Now it was your turn to sigh, and then try and find a way to explain why this was simply not an issue to you.

“Marcus… Around here, we’re used to handling ourselves and we’re very used to things being less than comfortable a lot of the time. I know you think that you’ve come along and completely upset my life this weekend, but I promise you, you haven’t. Just two years ago, I made a trip almost exactly like this one, for no better reason than that my mother wanted to go to her latest grandchild’s first birthday. The only real difference was that on that occasion, the return trip was the same day, and I had to get up to work the next morning. I’m glad I got to sleep at all this time.”

“Hold on, you mean you drove some twelve hours in a blizzard just so your mom could say congratulations to a one-year-old who wouldn’t even remember that she visited?” he asked, clearly bewildered. “I mean, I get wanting to see your grandkids, but not in a whiteout storm, for pete’s sake.”

“Oh, but it gets better,” you added, recalling something else about that trip which had made it one of your least favourite of all time. “It was eleven hours of driving for a two-hour visit, and we nearly got run over by a 24-wheel truck that spun out on black ice.”

You didn’t dare take your eyes off the road to see how he reacted to that, but you also didn’t need to, because his silence spoke volumes.

“Okay, I’m gonna need to talk to your mother,” he finally decided, sounding most adamant about it, which brought the humour back to you.

“I thought we’d already established that we’re nowhere near ‘meet the family’-status on this highly temporary relationship.”

“Maybe not, but I still need to talk to your mother.”

You just shook your head at him, but with a soft smile in your frame. It truly did warm your heart that he had such care for you, even though he barely knew you. And while that was probably just the kind of person he was, and not something he did exclusively for you, it was still a very attractive part of his personality, and again, something you hadn’t seen a lot of in the men you’d known.

“I’ll try and fit you into her overwhelmingly busy schedule,” you joked, but his reply sounded sincere.

“Thank you.”

It left you feeling a bit bad for him, although you weren’t quite sure why. It was almost as though he was upset that your life had never been easy, or that you’d had to face so many difficult things on your own, having had no one to even ask for help most of the time. But you didn’t wanna think about that, and he remained quiet, so you tried to think of something to ask him which might tell you more about his everyday life.

“So, art-theft and forgery. Somehow, I can’t picture you doing that. If you’ll pardon the pun.”

“I’ve always had a passion for art,” he replied softly, as if the mere topic soothed him. “But after doing military service in my twenties, I realized there was more I could do for my passion than just look at it. And now I protect it.”

Christ in a fucking cartoon... Could this man be any more perfect? He had to have some massive, ugly flaw. Something had to be wrong with him, he couldn’t simply be this walking talking embodiment of a paragon, he just couldn’t.

“Okay, look… I need some clarification here, because based solely on what you’ve told me about your life, I’m assuming you’re single. And I just have to ask: how is that possible?”

He laughed lightly at that, and it sounded like a soft purr, but maybe that was just how your ears perceived it through the haze of infatuation which you were at serious risk of drowning in.

“Your assumption is accurate, but as for the how… I’ve come close once or twice, to the real thing. But it’s just never been good enough. Whether because of me or circumstance, I honestly couldn’t say, but I’m still alone so something must have been missing. I wish I knew what it was, I really do.”

He sounded so sad by the end that you were sure he’d had his heart broken badly, and maybe not too long ago. You didn’t like hearing him sound like that, so you were about to change the subject, but then he turned it on you.

“You’re single as well. Do you know why?”

“Um, I know parts of it,” you started, trying to buy yourself an extra second to think about whether you should get into this or not.

Because you actually did know. You were far too aware of what the obstacles to your own happiness were. The question was whether to burden someone else with them, or just keep things light since it probably wouldn’t matter much in the end anyway. The thing was, that you really did want Marcus to know you.

“I know it’s hard to meet people when you keep to yourself almost all the time. I know I’m scared of going on dates, because I’ve had some bad luck in the past. And I know I’m reaching an age where I’m perceived as less attractive, which messes with my confidence no matter how much I try to ignore it.”

“You’re very attractive,” he interjected, and while that did feel wonderful to hear, especially from him, one person’s opinion wasn’t enough to scrub away all the previous evidence to the contrary.

“Thank you. But I’m also head-strong and patient, which is a deadly combo. And I’m determined to the point of idiocy, as you’ve already discovered, so if I set my mind to something, I’ll do it, no matter how much it costs me in the end. And I suppose… maybe that’s my downfall.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean… I tend to dive in headfirst, and not care that I’m supposed to come up for air at some point. Whether it’s work, or family, or friends, I only have one setting. All or nothing. I’ll run myself into the ground before I let my patients or my loved ones come to harm, even if it’s due to something that isn’t my fault or even my responsibility. And when I love someone, that’s everything to me. I won’t change myself to be what someone else thinks I should be, but I will destroy myself to get to keep that person. I’ll hide my pain until it breaks me, if that’s what it takes, which is precisely why it never works.”

He didn’t seem to know what to say, which was pretty much what you’d expected. Because what could anyone say? Damned it, why’d you even tell him that? If anything it would just make him less inclined to want to be a part of your life, in any capacity. You were both quiet for a while after you fell silent, which you were thankful for when the Saturday afternoon traffic kicked in, and you were suddenly navigating a maze of half-hidden red brake-lights and barely visible indicators, every time you passed a village or town.

“Why are so many people out and about in this weather on a Saturday?”

Marcus was trying to help you keep an eye on the cars behind, so that he could warn you if someone wasn’t keeping a safe distance, and a momentary lull in the winds revealed a long line back there. He was half turned in his seat, angled towards you but with his head turned to the back window, since it was easier for him than to try and see through the side mirror, which was set to your line of sight.

“Some are those who work on the weekends, with too far to travel to be able to walk, and therefor don’t have a choice because all public transport is cancelled,” you replied, keeping your focus on the closest car in front, since it was only when it was breaking you could make out how far ahead it was.

“And the rest?”

“The idiots who think they’re better drivers than they are, or that driving in two feet of snow is a piece of cake. I swear, some of these boneheads actually think that roads magically plough themselves every hour on the hour.”

“You mean they don’t?” he gasped theatrically, grasping at his chest in feigned indignation. “The impertinence…!”

You felt certain he was trying to relieve the tension left by your earlier conversation, as well as the stressful traffic situation, by making you laugh. And it worked, prompting you to play along.

“Indeed. Has no one informed these roads that the great Agent Marcus is travelling on them today, and that they should be on their most accommodating behaviour?”

“It would seem not, and I’m frankly offended at the disrespect on display here today. These roads ought to be ashamed of themselves,” he carried on, playing the role of an outraged aristocrat to perfection.

However, your laughter died out when a loud bang sounded from somewhere in front of you, and the closest car suddenly stopped. You stomped on the brakes and the clutch-pedal and felt the ABS and traction control system work hard against your right foot, to keep the wheels from spinning while grinding you to a halt, just a few feet from the car in front.

The sudden stopping force pulled Marcus forwards in his seat, but he was still half-turned to the side, held in place by the now taut seatbelt. On instinct, before you’d even come to a complete stop, you reached your right arm over and forcefully pushed his right shoulder back against the seat, so that his back and neck would be straight if a car hit you from behind, which would minimize the risk of whiplash. Thankfully, all the drivers behind you seemed to be alert that day, and no impact came, so after about fifteen seconds you let go of him and turned to look at him instead.

“Are you okay?” you asked, watching his movements closely to try and see if he’d managed to tweak his neck anyway, but he seemed to be able to move freely.

“Yeah, are you?”

“I’m fine. I’m gonna go find out what happened, you stay here,” you ordered, but which he mistook for a suggestion.

“I’ll come with you,” he tried, unbuckling himself.

“No, you won’t,” you sternly admonished, while slipping your arms back into your jacket. “Marcus, I mean it, stay here. I need to know you won’t get yourself turned around out there.”

“I have been outside in a blizzard before, Sam.”

“I’m sure you have, but you don’t know this landscape,” you continued, putting on your hat, scarf and gloves. “It’s a lot easier than you think to get disorientated here. This is farmland, which means everything’s flat and white, and there are no natural landmarks like mountains around. All of which means you can’t tell how far you’re walking and can suddenly find yourself hundreds of yards from where you started even though you think you’ve only walked a little bit.”

He wasn’t keen on staying put, you could tell. This was obviously the kind of guy who didn’t sit on his hands and wait to see if shit would sort itself out. He was used to being the one who checked things out and gave the all-clear. Not a control freak, but someone who liked to know all the variables, to be aware of all potential dangers, even if he wouldn’t necessarily be the one to deal with them. And while you respected that, you also knew he’d be out of his depth here.

“Promise me that I’m gonna find you right here when I come back,” you demanded, meeting his worried eyes with steely determination.

“Okay, I promise. But please be careful,” he begged, helping you to get your gloves to fully cover the ends of your sleeves so the wind couldn’t slip past.

“I will. I’ll check it out and come right back.”

The windchill and sheer force of the air that hit you when you quickly stepped out of the car, was like a punch to the gut, even through the layers of clothing. It was so strong that it felt like your lungs were being compressed if it hit you from the wrong angle. And it was so cold that the tears it immediately spurred to fall, threatened to freeze your eyes shut from how quickly they froze.

Within ten minutes you’d assessed the situation and returned to your car, but that was enough to make you breathless with the mere effort of remaining upright. Not to mention that every inch of your face which had been exposed to the elements, was covered in frost.

“It was a moose… crossing the road… startled a driver, who hit the brakes… and got hit from behind by a car that was too close,” you explained while trying to catch your breath and get the hood and collar of your jacket down, so it wasn’t obscuring your mouth.

“The moose made it?” he asked while he helped you.

“Yep. Lucky bastard… Fucking hell, it’s bad out there. I nearly got blown over twice.”

“You look like you’ve just tried to sprint against Bolt.”

“I feel like it too. It’s incredible, it takes everything you’ve got just to keep yourself upright.”

You were covered in snow and ice which had already begun to melt in the warmth inside the car, so you started shedding the jacket to keep the water from seeping into the seat, before letting the gloves, scarf and hat follow. Marcus took them one after the other and draped them over the backseat to dry, while you drank some water and worked on slowing your pulse down.

“Do we have to stay and talk to the police?” he wondered once he was done, and you’d gotten your heartrate down to below a sprint.

“No, the drivers of the two cars who were involved are gonna do that. We didn’t see anything that would be in any way helpful to a potential investigation, and there didn’t seem to be any animosity between those two. I just need to catch my breath for a second.”

“Of course, take your time,” he offered, but you saw him check the windows around the entire car to make sure no one else seemed to think you were obstructing their way. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been in a situation like this, is it?”

“More like the tenth… These kinds of things happen all the time here. So long as no one gets injured or dies, it’s a good day. And hey, even the poor moose made it, so this was a very good one.”

You smiled at him, and he reciprocated, but then something unsure seemed to creep into his features. And the longer he looked at you, the more it seemed to affect him.

“What?” you prompted, getting worried he might be experiencing pain or discomfort.

“I just…” he started, but then paused, as if he didn’t know how to express what he was thinking.

He turned away from you, looking out through the front window, at the car that still stood there, just a few feet away from your bumper, and his brows knit together.

“You hadn’t even stopped yet,” he said in a low, almost incredulous voice, but you didn’t understand what he was getting at.

“I’m not following…?”

Turing back, his eyes found yours, and his were somehow both steel and the smoothest liquid, while yours were just confused.

“You reached out to protect me even though you hadn’t gotten the car to stop yet.”

Ah. Now you understood his expression. This man was a protector at heart, and as such, he would struggle to accept that other people might sometimes need to put him first, every bit as much as he probably always did everyone else. But you were a carer, which meant you were more than a protector. You were a defender. A shield and a weapon, to anyone who might need either.

“Yeah, because if a car had hit us with you sitting like that, you could’ve broken your spine or neck or both,” you argued, surprised at his lack of reaction to the incident as it had happened. “Why didn’t you adjust yourself? Don’t they train you to be able to think rationally in situations like that, at the FBI?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t concerned with myself.”

“Well, clearly I was,” you countered, which seemed to upset him.

“Sam-…” he tried, but you cut him off.

“You should buckle up, I wanna get going. It’s getting dark and traffic is still gonna be bad for another hour or so,” you said, all of which was true, but had little to do with why you didn’t want to hear him out.

You’d cut him off because you knew he’d say something like you shouldn’t risk anything on his account, shouldn’t inconvenience yourself in any way, especially since you’d already done so much for him. But you didn’t care about any of that. And you suspected he could tell where your head was at, at least to some degree, because he didn’t argue, although you could tell he wanted to.

You just couldn’t have this conversation. One way or another, it would inevitably lead to you confessing how much you liked him and how badly you wanted him to stay. And aside from the fact that you were scared of admitting that, even to yourself, he also shouldn’t have to hear something like that when there was nothing he could do about it. Once you were clear of the accident site, you grasped for the first topic that came to mind, to try and alleviate the now pressing silence inside the car.

“So, tell me about Washington D.C,” you suggested, and he obliged, albeit with a quieter tone now, as if he was disappointed with you for some reason. Or perhaps just… sad.

The further north you got, the worse the roads were, and it wasn’t until four hours later, after a total of almost eight hours behind the wheel, that you finally rolled into your parking-spot outside your apartment. You turned the car off, unclipped the seatbelt and slumped forwards, resting your elbows against your thighs and rubbing your eyes in the hopes that they’d stay open long enough for you to get inside without walking headfirst into a wall.

“Well done for getting us back in one piece, Sam. That was horrendous.”

“Mm. Welcome,” was all you replied, too exhausted to bother going for full sentences.

“Just one thing… Am I sleeping on your couch? Because I don’t see any hotels nearby,” he gently wondered, clearly aware that you were of a somewhat fragile state of mind right then, but also needing to know if there was any plan in the works which he just hadn’t picked up on, or if there was no plan at all.

You pulled your head back up and stared bleakly out the front window for a second. You’d driven home more or less on autopilot, already so used to having Marcus next to you that it didn’t even register in your brain he might need to stop somewhere else. With a groan, you slipped the key back into the slot and tried to mentally prepare for another thirty minutes of driving.

“Sorry, I completely forgot…” you mumbled, doing your best to blink the gravel out of your eyes while you fumbled to reach the seatbelt.

But while you tried to remember how to work the belt, he suddenly swiped the car key.

“No, you’re way too tired to drive anymore tonight. I’ll take your couch and you won’t have to pick me up from anywhere tomorrow. I promise I’ll behave.”

You just groaned again, letting the belt roll back, not even trying to argue because all you heard was that you wouldn’t have to drive anymore.

“Not sure I will…” you heard yourself respond to him, although you weren’t sure what exactly you’d meant by that.

You were too busy trying to remember how to get your jacket on to notice the surprised but wishful look on his face when he heard that, though.

He had to help you stay upright against the winds while you made your way to the apartment, and once inside, he insisted that you eat something before you passed out. So, as soon as you’d gotten out of the thermals, he made you an omelette and then sat there with you to make sure you ate at least half of it before he let you brush your teeth. Once you’d crashed into bed, he tried to tuck you in, but you shooed him away.

“I can’t sleep in clothes, I choke myself. Go away so I can undress…” you grumbled, and he went back into the kitchen without protest.

You heard him busy himself with dishes while you wrestled underneath the duvet with the tight wool garments you always wore closest to your skin in cold weather. It took longer than it should have, but eventually you got them off and let them drop to the floor by the bed, closely followed by your sports bra. Once you were done, you let the fatigue take over, feeling your body turn heavier by the second, and you expected to drift off to sleep in no time.

But you weren’t used to having people around you in your apartment, and despite your exhaustion, you couldn’t stop your brain from trying to listen to every little thing he did. Through a haze of almost-sleep, you heard him make something to eat for himself as well, or perhaps just reheat the leftover omelette, and then clean that away before taking a quick shower and finally settling into the couch.

By then, your inner thermostat had apparently decided to just stop working, leaving your feet ice cold, which in turn made all of you feel cold. You started battling with your duvet to try and get it around your feet, but once you managed to get your impossibly heavy legs to perform the correct movement, you suddenly weren’t comfortable in the position you were lying in anymore, and started turning to find a better one, having to start over on the feet.

“Sam, are you okay?” Marcus asked quietly from his spot on the couch. “I thought you were asleep already.”

“I’m cold. Should’ve showered before bed,” you grumbled, before once again shifting yourself around to try and find a comfy setup.

He was quiet for a good ten seconds, and just when you thought he wasn’t gonna say anything more...

“Want me to warm you up?” he repeated his little jest from before, although this time it didn’t sound playful and jovial.

It sounded like he was really asking if you wanted him to join you in the bed.

Well… shit. Now you were fully awake. By the same time the next day he’d be gone forever, and you wondered if it would be more painful to lose him after having been intimate with him, or if never knowing what that felt like might be even worse. You weren’t sure if he was even offering that. It felt like he was, but you didn’t want to assume.

“I’d appreciate that,” you eventually said, just as quietly, but he didn’t get up right away.

“Are you sure?”

“If you’re warmer than I am right now, then yes, I’m sure.”

You heard him rise from the couch and walk over to the bed, and then stop to remove some item of clothing, you weren’t sure what, before you felt a rush of cold air on your back when he lifted the duvet to crawl in behind you. The bare skin of his chest felt downright toasty against yours, and you couldn’t help but lean into his warmth. He felt so solid. So reliable. If only there was some way for him to stay. He wrapped his arms around you and let his bare legs follow the contour of yours, not even flinching when he felt your icy feet against his warm ones.

“How can you be this cold under a duvet this warm?” he asked, and he sounded happier now, with a surprised little chuckle in the back of his throat.

“I have no idea… I think my thermostat stopped working.”

“Does this feel better?”

His low voice right behind your ear was like a damned aphrodisiac, making you shiver with the pleasant sensation that ran down your spine. Thankfully, he assumed it was due to your current frozen state, and just tugged you deeper into his chest. You couldn’t find the words to tell him how good you felt right then, but your silence seemed to make him nervous, so he tried to relieve the tension.

“I am a fix-it kinda guy, but thermostats are a little out of my league,” he joked, seemingly oblivious to how you’d already started heating up, just from his closeness, never mind his warmth and his inviting softness.

“I don’t know that anything’s ever felt better,” you finally managed, although it seemed way too inadequate a response. “Thank you.”

You weren’t sure if the tears which suddenly obscured your vision, and the lump in your throat which made your words tremble, was the premature grief of losing him, or maybe the gratitude of knowing that he existed. Of having gotten to be around a good man, even just for a few hours, so you’d always know what to look for in the future.

Probably both. Probably a lot more than just those two things.

Maybe he noticed the shift in your energy, or somehow felt the simultaneous sorrow and joy clashing within you, or maybe he just read all of your conflicting emotions through that slight tremble in your voice. But whatever the case, a moment later, his moustache tickled the back of your neck, and then his soft lips pressed against your skin. Once, twice, three times. And you knew that it was an invitation, just like you knew that if you turned around and met those lips with your own, you’d never want to taste or feel any other lips, ever again.

--=¤=--

The next morning arrived way too fast, and you woke up feeling even more tired than you had when you’d gone to bed. His plane would leave at 9.15am, and he needed to be there at least an hour in advance for check-in, and it was a ninety-minute drive to the airport, if the roads were still as bad. So, you were up early.

Neither of you wanted to eat, so you just sat at the table and had some tea, both equally unable to find a single thing to say. You kept studying his features, over and over, trying to learn every wrinkle, every flaw, every strand of hair, as though you could somehow keep a part of him if you could just know his face well enough.

He didn’t accept your thermal clothes this time, going back to wearing his suit and hopelessly inadequate coat and shoes, all of which he’d managed to dry and freshen up while at the hotel. You didn’t argue with him. Washington would be warmer than your home. You pictured him stepping out of the airport back home, under a glistening sun over a frosty but not frozen cityscape, with the wind grabbing at his jacket and rustling his hair. And it was such a gorgeous image that even though it only existed in your head, you filed it away with the rest of your real memories of him.

The drive was just as quiet, and infinitely longer than the two previous ones had been, even though this one actually took less time than predicted, since you had the good fortune of driving shortly after the plough had been there. You stopped at the pick-up/drop-off zone, rather than park the car, and once you were idle, Marcus said something to you for the first time that morning.

“Come inside and have breakfast with me? There’s more than enough time,” he asked, but it was so much more than just a question.

He wanted more time, more moments with you. His voice gave away how desperate he was for just one more minute, he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

“I can’t. This is hard enough… I can’t sit there and…” you tried to explain, but the pain wouldn’t let you.

“No, I know. I just had to ask,” he admitted, his voice full of sorrow now as he looked out the window towards the entrance but made no move to leave the car. “I’m gonna miss you so much, Sam.”

After a minute, he turned back to look at you, and there were tears in his eyes.

“My Sam,” he added, wiping off a tear which had already fallen, from your cheek, and he was still so warm. So devastatingly inviting.

“Marcus, I need-…” you tried, but your voice broke, and you had to clear your throat before you could try again.

Because you really didn’t wanna do this, but you had to. If you were to have any chance at recovering from this somehow, there was no other way.

“I need this to be it,” you started again, forcing your voice to carry this time, even though it threatened to die on you with each syllable. “If I can’t ever see you again, then… this has to be the end. No texts, calls, chats. The end.”

He didn’t look hurt, just so heartbreakingly sad, and you wanted to leave him with some manner of hope at least.

“I’ll never be able to afford a trip over there, but if you’re ever in these parts again, I’d love to hear from you. But only if I can meet you. I wish I was the sort of person who could make do with less, but I just… can’t. It’s always gonna be all or nothing with me. I’m sorry.”

You expected him to just nod or not really respond much to that, since it was about the smallest hope that anyone could be given. But instead, he surprised you by finally sharing something deeply personal and probably painful.

“Not that long ago, I was the one who sat and watched someone important to me walk away. And here I am, doing the very same thing to you…” he said, and now it was his voice that was breaking. “Don’t apologize for being honest. I understand.”

His eyes told you that he did, and you nodded your thanks, no longer able to speak at all. He respectfully inclined his head to you in return, and then sucked in a deep breath through his nose, as if looking for courage. Then he grabbed his bag, stepped out of the car, and out of your life. And you’d never felt an emptiness like the vacuum he left behind.

From a Friday to a Sunday, he’d snaked his way into every aspect of your life, in one way or another. From a simple drive, to shovelling snow, to your family and friends, to your job and your home. Everything reminded you of him. Especially your now empty bed, the sheets of which you’d end up refusing to change for two months. Not until you could no longer smell him on them.

In the days, weeks and months that followed, the emptiness tried to hollow you out, refusing to be filled with anything else until it felt like you might disappear into the vacuum. As always, it was your mother who eventually got you out of it, by forcing you out of your apartment and out into the world and the people around you, day after day, until you could finally endure the pain, no matter how mercilessly it kept stabbing at your heart.

That was all you did, though.

You endured.

--=¤=--

“Sir, you wanted to see me?” Marcus asked as he poked his head into his supervisor’s office on a Tuesday in early June.

“Hey, Pike, come on in.”

“Please, tell me you’re about to let me know we’ve made some progress on that Renoir?”

“Sadly, no. But I did call you in for some good news,” his boss replied, although his face revealed no hint of anything positive going on.

“That would be a first, sir.”

“Well, then hold on to your hat, agent, because your request just went through,” the supervisor announced, his face suddenly breaking into a huge grin as he watched Marcus’ expression go blank with shock. “Both parties have accepted your offer.”

For a moment, the agent just sat there, unable to formulate a single word because he was too dumbstruck to understand what was happening. Then the meaning behind those sentences begun to register in his mind, and suddenly there weren’t enough words, but they still spilled out of him so fast that he couldn’t even finish a sentence.

“You’re serious? You can’t joke abo-! Sir, I know you like to pull our chains, jokes are fun-but I’m-and you know I’m always game-but you can’t do it, not with this! I need to kno-… oh, god, this can’t be real, sir, please, I need-…”

“Wow, take a breath, Marcus,” his boss tried to calm him, leaning forwards in his chair and raising his hands in a pacifying manner. “I know what this means to you, man. I’m not gonna joke about it. It’s one hundred percent real, all you have to do is officially accept.”

“I do!” he blurted out, still so emotional that he was reacting without filters. “Sorry, that was loud. I mean, yes sir, I accept.”

“Well, okay then. Consider yourself transferred. I’ll need you to stay on for your fourteen days’ notice, just to get all the paperwork in order and get your replacement up to speed, but then you’re free to fly, my friend. Congratulations.”

Trying to accept that it was real, he leaned back and took a few deep breaths, doing his best not to fall into the habit of convincing himself that good things didn’t happen to him and that this had to be a mistake. His boss had never outright lied to him, so this was legit. It was happening. Holy crap…

“I didn’t think it was gonna work. It’s been so long, and I’ve tried so many times,” he said, still breathless with the subsiding shock. Then something else the supervisor had said registered to him. “Wait… you’ve already got a replacement? How long have you known about this, sir?”

“I heard some chatter about a month ago, and the general feeling seemed positive, so I started putting some feelers out. But I didn’t know anything for sure until this morning.”

“Who’d you get?” Marcus asked, curious about it because he still cared about the work, and he wanted to be sure that the cases he was currently working on would be handed over to someone competent enough to have a chance at closing them.

“Zhang.”

“Good, she’s better than me,” he breathed a sigh of relief, but the other man looked mildly disagreeing on that point.

“Maybe, but I’m still sad to see you go. Can I throw you a party, at least?”

“Nope. I don’t have time for that, my plate just got full,” the agent smiled, finally let the truth of what he was about to do sink in. “Shit… My plate just got really full. I’ve gotta sell my apartment, figure out what to do with the furniture, get a visa…”

“And work your ass off these last few days, don’t forget about that,” the supervisor added with a warm smile, rising from his chair and extending a hand across his desk.

Marcus rose as well, and took it, shaking it strongly to hopefully convey how grateful he was, although it wasn’t nearly a big enough gesture for that.

“Right. Back to work it is. Thank you, sir. Thank you so much!”

--=¤=--

“You could be a touch more enthusiastic, honey,” your mother lovingly admonished from the kitchen, knowing you’d hear her in the bathroom down the hall where you were putting the finishing touches to your hair.

“Mom, I’ve already told you, I don’t want to go. The only reason I’m doing this is because I owe you for losing those tickets to Les Mis. That’s it. You can force me to go, but you can’t make me happy about it,” you grumbled in return, as far from enthusiastic as you’d ever been.

“Fine, be that way.”

“I will, thank you.”

You were at her house, getting ready for a blind date that she’d set up for you, which was already a recipe for disaster. But adding your bad mood and general lack of romantic openness, and it was bound to be an evening of torture. The best you could hope for, was to be either nasty or boring enough that the guy would just give up. Preferably within the first hour.

That was the goal, and you were purposefully fuelling your malcontent to that end, because you were still a carer, which meant that you were always automatically inclined to put others first, no matter how much you tried not to. Your only hope was to be so angry by the time you got there, that the guilt you’d inevitably feel after the date was over, wouldn’t matter to you.

You stepped out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, throwing her a cold glare when she tried to compliment your look, before picking up your purse to make sure you had everything.

“Where are my car-keys?” you asked her, having checked the jeans you’d arrived in and knew you’d left the fob in when you’d taken them off. “I left them in my right-hand side pocket, and now they’re gone.”

“Yeah, I took them,” she happily shrugged, and you huffed in exasperation.

“Mom…”

“You’re not driving yourself tonight. Look outside.”

“Don’t tell me he sent a car? I don’t believe this…” you griped while moving to the window, but sure enough, there was a shiny black Mercedes out there.

Well, at least it wasn’t a fucking limo. You were still not getting into it, though.

“Give me my keys.”

“Not tonight,” she persisted, and even though you knew that it would probably be pointless, you had to try and persuade her, because this was hard enough as it was.

“I don’t drink alcohol, so there’s no reason I shouldn’t drive myself. And furthermore, you’re asking me to trap myself with a stranger, with no means of getting my ass out of there if he turns out to be a piece of shit.”

“He’s not, I would never set you up with someone I wasn’t sure was a good guy, you know that.”

“Honestly, I don’t care if he’s a fucking saint. I don’t even wanna meet him. You know I don’t, and you know why, so please just let me…” you tried to find the words to explain just how uncomfortable this made you, but nothing came out, so you just sighed and crossed your arms defensively. “Let me at least have a way out.”

Tears were burning your eyes by then, but you held them back. You were tired of crying, and you needed to move on. But this wasn’t the way to do it, and she knew that. Or at least you’d thought she did.

“Your brother is out and about tonight, he’s your way out, should you need it. One signal from you and he comes running,” she chirped, completely unfazed by your entirely obvious concern. “Now get going.”

You closed your eyes and took a breath, reaching for the heat of anger inside of you once more, to help you push the sadness and worry away. It still sat close to the surface, so it took only a second before you felt your pulse start to quicken and your blood heat up, at which point you opened your eyes again, and fixed her with a steely glare.

“When this little plan of yours fails epically, you’re gonna owe me for the rest of your life,” you warned, and then you turned on your toes and stomped out of her house.

You didn’t even bother to greet the polite driver as he held the backdoor of the Mercedes open for you until you’d climbed in. He drove you into town, to the fanciest hotel available, and as he held the door open for you again, informed you that your date was waiting in the bar at the very top of the building. But like a petulant child, you stayed in the car for about two minutes as you deliberated with yourself, while the driver just kept standing there, holding the door open.

You could just walk away. There was nothing and no one stopping you. It would mean a long and painful walk back to your apartment, some six miles away, but at least it was late summer and balmingly warm. In the end, it was only your promise to your mother, that you’d at least meet the guy, which kept you from turning away from the hotel when you finally stepped out of the car. But you had promised, so you walked inside and headed for the elevator.

There were mirrors covering the entire walls from floor to ceiling in there, so you checked yourself over one last time, just to make sure nothing was out of place. You were wearing a pretty summer dress which wasn’t new but still looked like it, knee-long and white, with a pattern of pale green leaves taking a chaotic route along the right side of it, getting fewer the further up they got. It was a halter neck that left most of the back exposed, but showed no cleavage at all, and the skirt fanned slightly outwards on its way down.

You’d picked flat shoes for comfort, but they matched the dress in both material and colour, and so did your small purse. Your hair was gathered in a quick and easy knot on the back of your head, and your make-up consisted of mascara, and nothing more. In short, you’d made the least amount of effort you could manage, while still trying to look presentable.

The elevator pinged, having reached its top level, and you got out, heading straight for the stairs which led up to the final floor, the sky-bar. Once you reached the top of the steps, you were greeted by the familiar window walls and wooden furniture scattered around the oval bar which took up the center of the floor. But this evening, the sun was creating a spectacle of pink and orange, which stained everything around you, creating the illusion that you were somehow standing among the clouds.

Mesmerized, you froze at the top of the stairs, momentarily forgetting why you’d come to the bar at all, until you looked around and discovered that there were no other guests in the establishment at all. You were just about to ask the bartender if he’d seen anyone, when a waiter approached you and informed you that the entire penthouse had been booked exclusively for your party for the evening and that your date was waiting for you out on the terrace.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you growled, back to being angry the moment the spell of the burgeoning sunset was broken. “Do I have to jump through hoops next?”

You didn’t even bother to keep your voice down, ranting on while you made your way across the bar floor, up the three steps and through the glass doors to the sun deck.

“It’s not enough that I have to ride his car and come to him at his convenience, now I have to go looking for the jerk too? If this is supposed to be a treasure hunt, then he had better not be the treasure at the end of this rainbow, because I couldn’t be less impr-…”

You nearly fell over when your legs stopped working from one step to the next and it suddenly felt as though they weren’t even there anymore. It was a dream, it had to be. It couldn’t be him… he wasn’t there… it was impossible. Except, he was.

A soft white button-up t-shirt hugged his tanned chest, not a single button closed. Dark blue chinos shorts covered his thighs, and the wind ruffled his hair, grown much longer than the last time you’d seen it and naturally bleached at the ends by the sun. And his eyes were so alight with joy that you wondered if you’d ever seen someone truly happy before.

“Sorry for the inconvenience. It seems to be what I do best, where you’re concerned,” he said with a wide smile, and it was that voice.

The voice which had haunted your dreams for two and a half years now. That’s what finally took all your strength away, and you dropped to the floor, struggling to breathe with how hard your heart was pounding against your chest and lungs. He was beside you in a single moment, his hands so delicate and yet so sure, just like they’d been that night.

And just like then, he pulled you into his chest, inviting you to take him, take everything he had and make him yours. You’d caved that night, too in love with him already to resist having anything he might be willing to share. And you caved now too. Still too in love with him to do anything but beg for more with soft, urgent, adoring kisses.

But in his eyes, you could see that he knew. That your mother must’ve told him everything. Because he wasn’t here to beg in the hopes that it wouldn’t be too late. He knew you were still hopelessly, madly in love with him. For a moment, your brain got stuck on the detail of how he’d even found you, much less your mother, because you’d never told him your real name. Until you realized that he must’ve seen it on the row of mailboxes outside of your apartment, and remembered it.

All this time… he’d remembered you. Thought of you. Worked to find a way back. To you.

“I’m here Sam,” he whispered against your lips, before pulling back to hold your face between his hands, as if he’d been dreaming of you and needed to remind himself you were real. “I’m here for you and I’m here to stay. Forever.”

He said it as though it had been understood from the beginning. As though there had never been any other outcome but one where the two of you were together. And you wanted to tell him how much that mattered. How grateful you were that he had apparently just never been willing to accept a life where he wouldn’t get to see you again. But all you managed was holding him tighter, kissing him deeper, wordlessly making him all the promises your stitched-up heart was already throwing at him.

THE END

Thank you for reading, and I hope you found this story satisfying <3

Tagging some lovely people who I think might like this: @idreamofboobear @deadhumourist @lucrezia-thoughts @nolanell @tintinn16 @bison-writes @tiffanyleen @sarahjkl82-blog @la-lunaluna @tanzthompson @cannedsoupsucks @toomanystoriessolittletime @sjdraws-00 @agingerindenial @prostitute-robot-from-the-future @shsoba05 @thisshipwillsail316 @f0rever15elf @dornish-queen @herefordistractions @littlemisspascal @sewmanystitchssewlittletime @ophelialoveshandsomemen

#marcus pike #marcus pike x fem!reader #marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike one shot #marcus pike fanfiction #marcus pike fluff #the mentalist one shot #the mentalist #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #sirowsky stories

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momosbrainrots · 2 years

Note

hm...

maybe...... hcs bout reader taking care of sick!grayson?

[you do not have to do this request, if you do not want to-]

Migraine | Sick Grayson X Reader hcs

This one... Nice, nice. I love sick fics.

Thank you for requesting! And sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy it! ♡

Grayson? Sick? Oh man, that's a sight!!

She's too damn tough she's lucky if she gets a cold, besides from all the migraines she gets from work.

But even she is human and no one is safe from getting sick! It's unusual but not impossible.

In all probability she got sick from not taking enough care of her health at work or from overworking herself too much.

At first won't let you know that she is sick. Will pretend that everything is alright as she goes about her morning

This morning she's quieter than usual, so when you see her tired face you wonder what's wrong with her. She'll brush it off but when you went to kiss her face you feel how hot her skin feels.

Your hand reaches to touch her forehead to notice that she has a fever

Good luck trying to make her stay home because "Im the sheriff, I must go.", "Duty calls" and "I'm not dying." She'll leave without listening to you.

Oh but when she cames back, she's feeling worse than when she left, face burning, dizziness and a killing headache... This time you're going to make sure that she stays in bed.

She has no strength to reproach you and the idea of you taking care of her starts to sound really appealing...

A couple of days off won't hurt anyone, and that's what Marcus is there for :)

From here she lets you tell her what to do, you have total control.

You send her to take a shower while you make her something warm to eat and prepare your bed and clothes for when she gets out.

Will take any medication you give her not before complaining about it but is willing to let you put a cold towel in her forehead and take her temperature.

She might be feeling weak but will still have enough energy to flirt with her new nurse.

Once she's settled down comfortable in bed you let her rest for a while, but not after long, you realize she's fallen asleep.

The best sleep she had that month.

She's not used to this kind of treatment, feels like she doesn't deserve it but takes all gratefully, knowing that if there was nobody else here she would have just gone to bed to sleep it off and pray that the next day it's gone.

Everyone need someone to take care of them, to allow them to feel weak. And don't doubt she'd do the same for you.

#grayson arcane #grayson imagine #grayson x reader #grayson #arcane headcanons #grayson headcanon #arcane Grayson #y'all have a type fr #i understand #ily for that #<3

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generallybrontidefeelings · 3 years

Text

Stressed

Rating: NC-17

A/N: Brought to you by this post. I'm tired and sleepy and don't want to make any decisions. The degree is an actual MS you can get from American University in DC. U of Tennessee’s anthropology dept. hosts what’s called a body farm. It's a lab for forensic pathology students. Do NOT I repeat DO NOT look up pictures.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader, Marcus Pike x you

Summary: Marcus Pike is an associate faculty member at your forensics college. You ask him to be your second reader for your thesis, even though you have a huge crush on him. Nothing is better than something, right? By the time you pass your exam, you're so pent up you could scream.

Warnings: cadaver talk, pining, age difference, some power dynamics?, annoying college talk, sex, dirty talk, a God awful metaphor curtesy of Blanche Devereaux, 39

“Take a deep breath.”

You huff in a small shallow breath. Then let it out, and take in a longer, fuller one.

“Now let it out.” You let your cheeks puff up as cool air streams past your lips. “You’ve made huge improvements, and you’ve studied hard. The paper exam will be easy, and the oral will be a cinch.”

You gulp. “I know. It’s just...pre-show jitters, you know?”

He gives you a full smile, and flips the document shut. You hand him the binder clip, accidentally brushing his fingers when you do.

"Anything else I can do for you?"

You swallow, fiddling with your paper edge. God you feel like a twelve year old. You're fucking twenty-seven and about to apply for the FBI, why are you such a sap? He’s not available. Not even remotely. He will be gone in a year, back to the Bureau. There is no reason to nurse a crush. And you curse yourself for asking a man you’re attracted to - you, idiot, idiot! - to spend more time with you. Even if it is reading your dull chapter.

"No, I have everything I need, thanks."

"Then scoot. I have to read like...thirty pages of Tanner's chapter before he gets here."

You pull your bag to your shoulder. "you're not going to get that far," you scoff. The tensing in your shoulders relaxes a little when you stand to leave.

"We'll see," he says. He opens the door of his office for you. You glance back once more, and he's still in the doorway watching you go. "See you tomorrow."

"See you." Your mind swirls back and forth between thoughts of Mr. Pike, your thesis, Pike, your oral defence, your paper exam in two days, Marcus crossing his ankles in his reading chair. And you walk. Straight ahead, not looking back. But when you get to the door handle you turn around. And he's still there. Watching.

You've never been so stressed in your life.

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

You met Marcus Pike on a muggy afternoon in August deep in the heart of Tennessee. The air warped off the pavement as you drove together to the School of Anthropology to visit your cadaver lying relaxed and prostrate in the middle of a fenced field. The air is already warm, then lightning flashes in the clouds to your right, and plopping rain drops scatter across the lawn, and dampens A-0017’s second hand suit. His raisinette hands lie against the grass almost like he’s communing with the earth. You watched the water hit his face, and permanently closed eyelids, and shaved head.

You had no business being so fidgety while kneeling next to a cadaver. Agent Marcus Pike and the facility director chat a couple feet away, leaving you to your business with A-0017. Pike had never been to the school’s mysterious forensics lab, even though he had plenty of time to when he was earning his own masters. That’s what he said in his email to you three weeks earlier. He’d heard a first-year student was running a fibrous material experiment and asked to tag along. And you said yes. Why not? He was faculty. It wasn’t unheard of. His email was so polite too, letting you know if you weren’t comfortable he understood. Pike. The name rattled a memory somewhere. So you emailed him back, and the next morning he sent you his itinerary: he would meet you in Tennessee. He’d even pay for the rental car.

You sent your advisor a quick text to ask if he was ‘crazy.’ She’d sent back the laughing emoji. No, she said, Marcus Pike isn’t a crazy. You’ll like him.

You did like him. He was waiting for you at the Hertz desk, and heat licked up your skin when you realized - he was striking. He was the type of man you’d make eyes at in a bar without any hope of even getting a number. His brown hair was neatly trimmed, and he had a softness brought on by a light scruff that didn’t hide his dimples. You barely registered that he was apologizing for not getting to introduce himself before flying out, but promised he was who he said he was. Even pulled out his credentials.

“Bureau?” you said to his badge. “I thought you were an associate professor?” You want to smack yourself.

Oh, “I am,” he replied. He dug in his wallet and pulled out a campus ID that matched yours. “I’m taking an interim year. I thought teaching would be a nice way to ease into DC life.”

Now he was here, sweating under the storm clouds while watching you unbutton A-0017’s shirt, and half listening to the director tell him all about how they kept the lawn looking green despite, ahem, fluids. You sternly told A-0017 to be on their best behavior while you pulled their shirt back to examine some fiber swatches stapled to his rubbery chest.

On the flight back Pike asked you all about your thesis plans. You stuttered as you began. He waited, patient. You were writing on how the FBI could contribute to cultural repatriation efforts internationally by returning art pieces. Do you know what it could do to boost scholarly opportunities? The doors it could open! Why put it in cold storage when it could revitalize movements? Art breathes, after all. You were exhausted by the time the plane landed. Both from answering questions, and from keeping a steadily building tension under wraps. You hoped he didn’t notice how you crossed your legs.

“I’d love to read it.” He handed your backpack down from the overhead bin.

“Maybe you should be my second reader.” You got serious when his face perked up. “I still need one.”

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

That was nine months ago.

Your exams are in a week, and instead of thinking about preparing, all you can think of is that once everything is turned in, you probably won’t see Marcus again. He’s been your anchor these last months, and you’ve gotten used to his solid presence and encouraging platitudes. You cup your hot cheeks because it’s a dirty thought.

He lets you work in his office for a couple hours a week every week. The crammed little space is tight quarters, but he makes room for your laptop anyway. Sometimes you worked together heads bent for full time. Sometimes he read pages from your thesis, and you help him grade some papers from his first-year art history course. And sometimes you drink three pm coffee together and don’t work at all. It’s your favorite time of the week. The glow his praise gives you is embarrassing. And he’s an easy companion - nope, colleague. Your heart beats and your mouth waters every time you’re fifteen feet from his office door. The cold door knob jolts you took. You harbor a secret. Keep it warm in your belly. It swirls hungrily deep in you.

But now it’s a problem. You’re so distracted. Every time you leave his office, you’re tense from want. Your body is already over-caffeinated and achy from sitting in hard library chairs so long. But you keep going. Every time an anxious heat lights up the alarms in your head your instinct is to ask him what to do. You have to rest your hands in your head and remind yourself: he isn’t your babysitter, he’s a grown man who doesn’t have boundless time to tell you what to do. You have to figure it out yourself. Even if you really just want him to tell you what this or that section needs, is the title here misleading, is it lunch time, do you think the tone here is condescending?

What do you think? What do you want it to look like?

You think you want to grab his dumb button down collars and bite his lip. You want it to look flushed and tousled and desperate. You want to ride him in his reading chair with the door locked. It just isn’t fair.

The night before your first exam you take z-quil, drink lavender tea, and read a chapter of your favorite book to relax. Your phone buzzes at nine. It’s Marcus: good luck! You’re going to do great! Well. Better take some more Z-quill now that your heart is palpitating.

You pass both tests in excellent standing - MS in International Relations: complete. Pike attends the oral exam. Your skin goes hot when he smiles at you when the committee declares you exceed expectations. He invites you for a celebratory drink in the next couple days, which means you have two days to sternly wrangle your crush back into the dirty corner she came from.

You fail miserably.

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

“Look,” he says, setting his beer down on the glass bar counter. “I know it’s not my business, but you still look stressed out. Are your grades bothering you?”

The rim of your gin and tonic is wet with condensation from where your finger circles it. “No, they’re great.”

He bumps your shoulder with his. “Then what’s the damage? You’re jumpier than a…” he trails off thinking a good metaphor. He squints at you a little.

“A virgin at a prison rodeo?” you supply. He inhales sharply, eyes wide. “You can laugh.”

“I didn’t know you watched ‘The Golden Girls,” he says. His tone is admiring. “I was going to say jumpier than a graduate student giving their defense.” You purse your lips when he raises his eyebrows at you. “Can I help at all?”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he takes another sip of his beer. The soft orange lights in the bar spill around his jaw and throat, they flicker in his irises. His face in three quarter profile is august. You’re utterly exhausted from the polite ‘student mentor’ dance you’ve had to do for months while keeping your desire at bay. And more than that, you didn’t want to answer. You wanted to show him and let him decide. The sultry washboard and piano music give you that last boost.

You make sure he’s watching you, then you slowly reach out and wrap your fingers around his wrist.

Then you wait.

Marcus pauses from lifting his beer bottle, eyes glued to your hand on his wrist. It’s petite against him. He stares at your baby blue fingernails pairing beautifully with his Stirling watch - and he feels himself harden.

All the skin on your body stands at attention when he meets your eyes. Everything in them tells you he wants you just as bad. There’s a hesitant curve above his eyebrow though. You get it. You were his student - he’s such a sweet man he wouldn’t even dream of using a power dynamic like that to get laid. Your breath comes in short heaves.

“The semester ended thirty-six minutes ago,” you say over the music. He takes a deep breath. You aren’t his student anymore. Not according to the school, anyway.

You want him to decide. If he doesn’t, you’ll go home and fall apart under your fingertips thinking about how hot it would have been to lift your dress and sit on his cock while wearing your thigh highs.

“Do you want to leave?” You nod, resisting the urge to bite your lip.

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

Marcus’s apartment is homey. Streetlights flood the floor of the living room through the street facing windows. You turn this way and that to inspect the dark areas that look like bookshelves while he hangs up your coat. You squeeze your hands at your sides, because this is happening. You’re in his house. The hardwood floor is cold under your stocking feet.

You jump when he puts his hands on your shoulders from behind you, holding you a mere inch from his body. You bite your lip when his nose bumps into the back of your head.

“Are you sure about this?”

“You already asked me that,” you reply, letting your head fall back on his shoulder. You want so badly to tell him to tell you what to do. That you don’t want to make any decisions. Brain is worn out. That you want to please him, and not think. Oh, to be a freshmen simply sponging up information.

“I know,” he slides his hands to your biceps and turns you around. “I can check in again, can’t I? He cups your face when you nod. “Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, please,” you have to stop yourself from saying something incriminating, like mister Pike, or sir, or professor.

You clutch the front of his button down to anchor yourself when his lips brush yours. His mouth is soft. It coaxes you to open so he can dive into you, his tongue swipes your bottom lip, and you respond by pressing into him. You stay pliant under him, letting him lead. Your legs feel on the verge of collapse when you break away. You can’t stand it anymore.

“I want to suck your cock.”

Both of you freeze. For a second you wonder if you’ve given him a heart attack. But you watched his thighs on the car ride back and couldn’t stop thinking about kneeling between them. Your mouth waters. Marcus can’t breathe. He’s straining against his zipper. After your declaration he wants it too.

“Okay, honey,” he breathes. He brushes your ear with his thumb. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do that.”

He tries to draw you backward toward his room where he can turn on a lamp and properly pay tribute to your body, but you pull him back. You tug him to his mid-century armchair - he has the twin to it in his office. His mouth goes dry. You have to know. He looks into your face, and from the way you’ve averted your eyes, you know.

“Please?” you say. It sounds like a sob.

From this close you can smell the vanilla and bergamot of his soap. He sits, waiting for you. When you don’t move he holds his hand out for you to take.

“Come here, honey,” he draws you close. The top of your dress swings a little and he groans when he sees the break of your dress to what he thought were tights. Marcus studies your face in the second hand street light - your mouth parted, your eyes blown wide. Your hand in his is hot. “Hey, if this is overwhelming, or not what you want-”

“It is,” you correct him.

“Tell me what’s wrong then,” he requests. You feel pained. If you don’t say it now you never will.

“Tell me what to do.” Your head aches from the stress of carrying it for so long. “I’ve had to make my own decisions for months, and I don’t want to anymore. Just - for five minutes-” you bring your hands to your cheeks and press them against your hot skin. You watch as he realizes what you want. He nods in slow motion.

“Okay,” he says. “Kneel for me.” He gets even harder when you sink to your knees. Your hands rest in your lap. Waiting. He can’t believe this is happening. Thank goodness he’s going back to the Bureau in three months. He couldn’t face the other faculty - fuck, your advisor - after this. Leaning forward he cups your chin and kisses you. You squeeze your thighs together. He kisses your ear and says lowly, “take my cock out, honey. I want you to suck me off.”

When you take him in your mouth as far as you can, you look into his face. His mouth has fallen open. His ears have turned red from flushing. It’s indescribable. It makes your mouth water further around his hard length. It’s heavy on your tongue. You move up and down his shaft leisurely, trying to savor it. Letting saliva run down onto his skin as your tongue works the spongy head. You reach up to work the base with your hand when he tells you ‘no’.

“Just your mouth.” Fuck. You moan around him as a ripple pulls from deep in your core. The vibrations of you moaning make him jolt and heave. For a few moments he apologies while you breathe deeply, then resume. You take a mouthful of him. It’s feasting. It’s mindless.

His fingers brush the side of your face, and tenderly cups the back of your head. You want to make him understand this is what you want. So you slide down as far as you can comfortably, and wait. Swallowing thickly around his length

“Fuck, honey,” he groans. He gets it, taking both hands and moving your head the pace he wants. You can tell he hasn’t been asked for this often. Maybe ever. You close your eyes and just feel. His cock filling your mouth. Aches forming around your jaw. Tears leaking out of your eyes from your concentration. Your pussy wetting through your underwear. Marcus pulling your hair. You swallow hard, then he stops. And pushes you off.

You whine in protest.

“I hear you, honey,” he says softly. His voice is hoarse. “Another time. I want you to unwind right now.” Your pussy clenches.

He takes you back to his bedroom and helps you undress. He lifts your dress over your head, and kneels to help you out of your thigh highs. One day, if you’ll let him, he’ll fuck you with them on, but he likes to see all of a woman the first time he does anything to her. He kisses the bit of skin above the waistband of your panties before standing to kiss your lips. Your help him push them down your hips until they fall to your ankles. The soft gasp he lets out at the sight of your underwear and bare body is nothing short of gluttonous.

“Lay down.”

He strips while you watch. He does it without taking his eyes off of you. There’s hunger in them. This man has an appetite, you know it. The fabric rustles pleasantly between the sound of both of you breathing. Far away, ambulance sirens blare in another neighborhood, but here in his apartment the wet sound of cars passing in the rainy street are the closest accompaniment.

“I want to touch you here,” he tells you, palming your sex and making you squeak. It’s so forward.

“Do it,” you breathe, and part your legs further for him. He leans in and kisses your temple, murmuring ‘good girl’ and you swear you could black out.

You’re already so wet when his fingers part your folds to greet the new territory. “Did sucking my cock get you wet?” He sounds amazed. He tastes one fingertip before putting it back to tease your folds. “I wonder how wet you would be just holding it in your mouth while you read.”

“Oh-” a ripple works down your spine. He smirks. The tip of his finger brushes just inside your lips to tease your entrance.

“I’m going to put my fingers in you. You,” he pauses to kiss your cheek, “relax. You earned it.” He rubs his nose up and down yours, and you nudge him back just as he slips one long finger into you. You’re glad he’s being sweet like this. It’s the perfect blend of firmness and care. You want him to dominate you one someday, maybe, but right here and now, the combination of his low voice and steady fingers is ideal. Marcus kisses your cheek and mouth as he works his finger in and out of you. It’s thick and reaches further than you ever could. You spread your legs even further to tell him, more.

Without removing his hand he moves down your body to lick your clit. He sucks and flicks it as he coaxes more wetness out of your leaking cunt. Carefully he pulls the finger out and presses his wet hand to the inside of your thigh to keep you open. He laps into you, covering the muscles with lubricant because you’re going to need it. You see his face just as he decides you’re ready; it’s contemplative, like he’s concentrating. Then he slides two fingers deep into you.

“Oh, fuck, that’s so fucking good,” your voice crescendos. You reach for his shoulder as he comes up to lie beside you. His skin is warm under your palm. You buck your hips looking for something else, seeking, wanting-

“Stay still.” You still immediately. “Just feel it, baby. I want you to be ready for me.” You know what he means. His cock is thick and smearing against your hip. He was big in your mouth, he’s going to be big while pushing into you. His fingers keep moving while he kisses the tips of your nipples. When he takes one between his teeth and tugs you break. Your mouth opens, and your legs clamp reflexively around his wrist. Your pussy gushes around his fingers - you can feel it. You can feel how his movements change from a drag as a slide. He keeps pumping. He doesn’t give up until he’s sure you’ve felt every aftershock. He’d love to take his time and work a third in one day - if he can - but tonight, he wants to move on. After you swallowed his cock in his sitting room chair he’s been thinking of rewarding you.

You feel him slip his fingers out, and roll away to the nightstand. He looks back at you, and his eyes soften a little before he asks, “do you want me to use a condom?”

“No,” you say and reach for his bicep to pull him back toward you. He comes willingly. “I have an IUD. And I’m clean.” He smiles, flinging the packet over his shoulder. It makes you giggle, but it sounds hysterical to your ears. You watch him reach down and pump his cock with the hand that was just inside you. You close your eyes and take a deep breath.

“Look at me,” he orders. Your eyes snap open. Marcus crashes his lips on yours. The hand not dripping from your cunt cups the back of your head. “I want to see your eyes while I fuck you.”

His blunt head breaks into you, you lose all thought. He sinks further in, until you’re squirming on his length because he’s stretching you. You suck air in and will your body will stay still like he suggested for his fingers. You look into Marcus’s eyes the whole time, trying to tell him how good he feels. You can’t make the words leave your throat. He pulls your head to him, kisses your mouth until you compose yourself and lie still. Then he gets to work. The breadth of him stills you anew. For the first time in months you fully relax, hardly making a sound as he thrusts steadily. You stare into Marcus’s eyes while your mouth falls open as he slides into you, and listen to the wet sounds of your pussy and the bed frame creaking.

Then he starts talking.

“Do you know how good you look in those blue trousers? I want to grab your ass every time you wear them,” he rumbles. His pace picks up a hair, and he feels harder in you somehow. He drops to his forearm. “I love watching it when you walk out of my office.” You knew it. “And that damn cardigan you never wear a shirt under? Those buttons slip right open, don’t they?” He punctuates it with a deep thrust that makes you squeak. “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“Wear it over for dinner. I’ll bite your tits through it.”

He fucks into you harder, sending shivers up your spine with every thrust. It moves you up the bed until you have to reach a hand up and press back against the headboard. You clutch him with the other, looping around his shoulder to feel the muscles in his arms pull and tug as he moves in you, working you up to another release Soon enough, the coil in your belly tightens and he reaches to worry your clit with deft fingers. His eyes never leave you. You think this man could make the hardest fuck feel like making love.

“I need more,” you tell him. You’re too embarrassed to ask for what you want. A tear leaks out of your eye because his thickness is so good, but you want something else too. You always underestimate him. He grins because he knows - he’s a detective. He figured it out. He leans down to rest his forehead on your temple.

“You’re doing so well,” he says. You arch up into him, your breasts brush his chest. “Your wet pussy is so sweet. It’s taking me so well. Are you gonna be respectful? Gonna listen?” You have to hold your breath as your hips tense. “Be good and come on my cock.” Oh fuck. “Say it.”

Your voice is wet with joy. “Yes, sir.”

“Such a good girl.”

Sparks lick up your back and through your cunt, forcing Marcus deeper into when you lift your lips. He slows to let you enjoy all your release. He kisses your neck, your jaw, your lips. Then when he hears your content sigh, he buries his face in your neck and chases his own release. He comes with an accompanying rumble from deep in his chest. You moan in return and lift your lips to catch him as he slumps, barely holding his weight off of you.

Water runs in the washroom as you tug the sheets back. The light clicks off, and Marcus appears with a washcloth. His dimple appears when you lean back and let him clean your tender flesh. He sits on the edge of the bed next to your hips, running his knuckles on the soft side of your breast.

“Stay the night,” says. “I’ll cook you breakfast.”

“Hm,” you say, mock contemplative. You run your fingers down his chest. He preens under the affection. “I will. I feel really good.” Your cheeks tingle at the admission. He smiles wide and bright.

He comes back from putting the cloth in the hamper. You roll so he can run his hands the length of your side

“Thank you,” you murmur. He lifts his face from where he’s been peppering your waist with kisses. His brow is furrowed in amused confusion. “For being good to me. For caring about what happened to me.” You’ll tell him the horror stories your friends have from their college another time.

He sighs and cups your cheek. “I like doing it. You’re bright. Supporting you is a privilege. Especially when I know that brain is going to put us all to shame one day.” You could cry.

“I’ve liked you since the body farm,” you admit. He wrinkles his nose. “I know. Not very romantic.”

“I liked you since you thought my campus ID was more official than my FBI badge.”

“I didn’t think that!”

“Get some sleep,” he says. A wicked glint comes to his eye. “I am going to wear you out before lunch.” You wiggle to get comfortable in the sheets and he curls over your back to hold you to his chest.

Orange light peeks through the gap in his blackout drapes. You eye him over your shoulder then settle into the pillow. All the tension in your shoulders is gone.

part 2

#marcus pike #marcus pike fanfiction #the mentalist #marcus pike x reader #marcus pike x you #reader insert #fanfiction #writing #the mentalist fanfiction #I took some liberties with UT's school of anthros forensics lab #it does exist #DO NOT LOOK UP PICTURES #IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH #DON'T DO IT #I AM NOT SQUEAMISH AND DO RESEARCH WITH CADAVERS #BUT IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH #DONT #DO #IT

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marvel-and-mischief · 3 years

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Show Me Warmth

Pairing: Marcus Pike x GN!Reader Words: 3000 Warnings: pining, couple of swear words, two idiots in love, pure fluff Synopsis: When the heating goes out in your apartment building you end up with unexpected company in the form of the neighbor you have a slight crush on

Masterlist

The day had been too long and you were looking forward to a shower, changing into your comfiest pajamas, and binge-watching your latest obsession on Netflix. The weather had taken a turn for the worse somewhere between entering work in the morning and leaving in the evening. So instead of being prepared for a cold snap, you were left to face the onslaught of wind and rain in just your cheaply made uniform. Your teeth were chattering loudly and your fingertips, already numb from the heavy plastic bags of groceries you were carrying, were icy cold from the frosty chill in the air.

You made it to your apartment building in one piece but froze at the sight of the handle, or the lack thereof. A golf-ball sized lump of smooth, shiny metal, no grooves to dig your elbow into, no mechanism to lean your weight on. You'd have to drop your groceries and turn it with fingers that currently had no feeling in them.

Then you heard a clearing of a throat and your body swerved around of its own accord to face Marcus, your endlessly kind, thoughtful neighbor, who went out of his way to give you a lift to the vets last month because Sprinkles, your cat, had cut her paw trying to climb behind the television. The very same Marcus who gave you his only phone charger four days in a row because yours had caught fire (you still have no idea how he charged his own phone during that time). He was now pointing to the door over your shoulder, indicating the handle you were having trouble with.

"Want me to get that?"

You stumbled over your words before finally nodding and stepping aside.

"You okay?" he asked, a look of genuine concern pinching at his brow. You could tell him the truth, that his never-ending kindness made you flustered and unable to grasp the English language, that you wished your heart wouldn't thump inside your chest so much you could hear it loud enough to cause permanent ear damage.

But instead, you shot him a reassuring smile. "Tired. And hungry," you aimed for humor, raising your arms to indicate the grocery bags but all that did was exasperate the ache in your arms, making you grimace at the action.

"Here, let me help you with those," but instead of simply taking a couple of bags from you, he took all of them and lead you towards the elevator before you could object.

"Thank you. I thought my arms were going to drop off," you huffed a short laugh, pressing the elevator button once you realized Marcus was unable to.

"Y'know, if you need a ride to pick up groceries, I'm happy to take you."

You wondered briefly if Marcus' generosity extended to anyone else in the building. You imagined him collecting dear old Mr Jenner's pills from the pharmacy, or walking Carol's chihuahua at the weekends when she worked the day shifts at the nursing home. It's exactly the kind of thing Marcus would do. Or perhaps you were special?

The elevator door opened and you stepped over the threshold the same time Marcus did, earning you a knock to the hip from a tin can in one of the bags he was carrying.

"Sorry, I should let you-"

"You first, I insist-"

Feeling the heat of embarrassment licking up your body you passed him to enter the elevator. You prodded the buttons on the inside, missing your floor number twice before lighting it up, muttering a curse word under your breath.

"So, did you have a good day at work?"

"Erm," you bit at the cracked skin of your lower lip as you remembered mopping up the pile of sick five minutes after clocking into your shift at the ER, "it was like any other day at work." Marcus didn't need to know you'd cleaned up someones vomit this morning. "And you? Any new art thefts to report?"

A toothy smile paired with a twinkle in his eye conveyed his excitement at your question. It was the look of a man who thoroughly enjoyed his job and loved to talk about it, as much as he legally could.

"I closed a big case today. It's going to be all over the news this week and knowing I had a part in catching the gang, there's no feeling like it."

If he hadn't been weighed down by your groceries Marcus probably would have been bouncing on his toes like an excitable puppy. It was adorable. No wonder you'd fallen so ridiculously in love with him.

The elevator came to a juddering stop, the doors opened with a clang and a ding, and it was then you realized you had traveled up to your apartment floor.

"I'll go first this time," you remarked, stepping out of the elevator and leading Marcus to your apartment door. You spent the walk rummaging through every pocket in your uniform until you found your keys. You couldn't imagine what kind of disorganized mess you looked like to Marcus, but a quick glance in his direction and he seemed to be as un-judgemental as always.

"I can take the bags-"

"I can bring them in... if that's okay with you? I don't want to overstep..."

"No, no," you rushed to reassure him, "it's a mess in here, just don't look at anything."

Marcus barked out a laugh.

"I'll keep my eyes on you, and only you."

You don't know if you were imagining it, but it sounded like Marcus was flirting with you. You didn't have time to think too much about it before you opened the door and bounded through, passing the tiny kitchen to your right to enter the living room in front of you.

"You can put the bags on the counter, thanks Marcus," you smiled warmly, genuinely thankful that you could now feel the blood pumping around your fingertips again.

"I was serious, about what I said earlier. If you need a ride, I'm more than happy to help you."

You heard the sincerity in his words, saw the softness in his gaze, and relaxed. Your body was tired, so that probably helped to knock down your defenses, but you liked this man, and you wanted to hope that he liked you too. He'd given you all the signs after all. Helping you in your times of need, being considerate by asking before overstepping boundaries.

Your thoughts were interrupted by a loud clap of thunder rumbling overhead. The weather had worsened since you were outside. It was raining heavily and the force of the wind was enough to blow stones and litter through the air.

"Do you think it'll get worse?" you asked, turning to see Marcus had joined you to watch the oncoming storm.

"Nah," Marcus sounded convincing but when you looked at his expression it was unreadable, "but maybe we'll get a day off tomorrow."

"You love your job."

"I also love sleeping in," Marcus remarked, clapping his hands, "I should get going."

"Yes," you exclaimed, aware of how eager you sounded to get rid of him, "I mean... I need to unpack the bags, and I have to jump in the shower."

"That's all good, I'll see you around. Knock on my door if you need anything." With a parting wave, Marcus politely closed the door behind him, leaving you standing there hoping and praying for the wind to reach through the walls and blow you far away, to another universe preferably. How had you grown into a financially, independent adult who can barely hold a conversation with your hot neighbor? Maybe you'll never know.

Your shower was the first indication that your day was only going to get worse. Thankfully you'd done all you could with your hair and was about to wash the suds off your body when the warm water changed to cold, leaving you a cursing, shivering mess as you hurried to jump out of the shower.

The bedroom, which you'd made sure was heated to a high enough temperature so you could comfortably dry yourself off, was not as warm as you remembered. But you shrugged it off, putting it down to the shock of the ice cold water you'd been left with. You scoffed at the pajamas laid out on the bed; baggy and figure-hiding, colors faded to mute pastel shades over time, letters barely visible anymore. But they felt so good against your cold skin and aching muscles.

Sprinkles jumped onto the bed, pawing at the comforter and meowing for fuss.

"Good girl," you whispered, scratching under her chin until she'd decided that was enough and moved to settle down at the end of the bed.

Padding into the silent living room you scrutinized the blank television. You were sure you had switched it on before heading to the shower. It was your routine, to fill in the background noise of your apartment that would otherwise be deafening silence. You remembered the news reporter, a middle-aged guy with a receding hairline and crows feet in the corners of his eyes, talking to the camera and looking very serious doing so. You have no clue what he was talking about but you know he was there.

You grabbed the remote from the coffee table and pushed the red on/off button. Nothing.

The storm was worsening outside, the wind whistled through the minute gaps in the badly maintained wood around the window. A lost, upturned umbrella flew into a flickering lamppost on the street below. You could only guess that the television had something to do with the storm.

You were brought out of your thoughts by a knock on the door. Looking down at your raggedy pajamas you thought about quickly changing into something else, mindful that it could be Marcus at the door. But by the time you did that he might have left so you opted for grabbing a large, tartan printed blanket from the back of your couch and wrapping it around your shoulders.

Of course it was Marcus, who else could it be? Sporting a blanket just as large as yours around his broad frame, holding up two metallic flasks with a shake as if they were a pair of maracas.

"My kettle boiled just as everything went out. So I made hot chocolate. I thought we could share and keep warm together?"

Your heart leaped at the idea. Marcus wanted to spend the cold, dark evening with you? Images of snuggling underneath a mountain of blankets, drinking hot cocoa as the storm marched on outside, safe in the arms of the man you had an immense crush on flashed through your mind like the final shot of a cheesy romcom.

"I'd love that," you agreed, waving him through the door into your apartment. You noticed the bottom of his blanket dragged across the floor as he walked, and only then did you see the patterns that adorned it.

"Are those pizzas?"

His bark of laughter took you by surprise as he gave a twirl of his makeshift cape.

"Hawaiian, extra pineapple, just how I like it."

You remembered to shut your apartment door, shaking your head in disbelief.

"I knew you were too good to be true," you mumbled, only realizing what you'd said once you plonked yourself down on the couch.

"You thought that?"

The conversation had shifted elsewhere, the laughter fading out to something more serious and frighteningly uncomfortable. You tried to dismiss the comment but Marcus was insistent.

"I just mean-"

"I know what you meant. I'm asking if you actually thought that."

You frowned at Marcus, who stood in the gap between the kitchen counter and the second-hand rug that marked the edge of the living space. He must have noticed how intimidating he looked and took two large steps to sit on the other end of the couch, the blanket covering everything but his head.

"You're always so kind. Offering to help with my shopping, or give me lifts to work. I appreciate it, I do..."

"Look, you can tell me the truth. If I'm being too forward, I can back off."

"You're not, it's just..." your mouth was dry and you were struggling to say the words that you needed to say because you didn't want to mess this up. You hadn't been in a long-term relationship in so long you'd forgotten how useless you were at this bit. When you had a crush on someone and you didn't know if you liked them back and you had to navigate around the awkwardness of 'do they like me too or are they just after friendship?'.

"Marcus, do you like me?"

Marcus started smiling but it didn't ease your worries because it wasn't quite what you wanted to ask; it didn't encapsulate all the feelings welling up inside of you, all the uncertainties and questions you needed answering before you made a huge fool of yourself.

"Yeah, I thought I'd made myself clear."

"No, Marcus, I know you like me, what I mean is, do you like like me?"

You were mostly keeping your eyes on the horribly stained coffee table you'd gotten from a garage sale for ten dollars last June, but a small glance to Marcus told you he was biting his bottom lip and trying to keep from laughing. You groaned in despair and shoved your face in your hands.

"Alright, come on, turn around. I'm not going to bite, you don't need to be afraid of me," he said with a chuckle, hands softly resting on your forearms to guide you into a sidewards position to face him.

"This all feels very high school," you mumbled, shucking your blanket off your shoulders, the embarrassment you felt making you warm all over.

"It's not. We're adults. Adults with too many feelings, not always good. But no one told us how these things work, did they? We just get thrown into the world and are expected to know everything."

"Exactly. It's made even worse when you see other people and they seem to have their shit together. And you wonder, how do they do it?"

"Yeah, and I feel like my flirting's been subpar."

You scoffed, smacking a hand to your mouth as if it would take back the unattractive sound.

"Wow," Marcus feigned a look of shock, "you're not supposed to agree with me."

"Marcus," you felt your earlier embarrassment fading away to something much more comfortable like you were two old friends settling into familiarity, "I've been so confused lately. I wasn't sure if you were like this with everyone." you motioned to him with a vague wave of your hand. Marcus' response was to raise a sharp eyebrow in amusement.

"What? Did you think I was trying to make Mr Jenner fall for me too?"

"No, but I didn't think it was all just for me either," you shrugged.

"That's my fault, and I apologize. I'll make it up to you. Until then, I'll make my intentions clear, right now," and with that Marcus pushed away his blanket and got down on one knee in front of you.

You giggled at the sight, partly from shock and partly because you didn't see your evening going quite like this. You felt that all too familiar heat of embarrassment whenever you were around Marcus. He said your name sincerely, hands clasped over your blanket covered ones as he looked up at you from the floor.

"Will you do me the honor of going out with me? Will you let me hold open elevator doors for you, take your cat to the vets if you need me to, or bring over flasks of cocoa and an abundance of blankets and let me hold you in my arms on stormy nights, in the knowledge that I won't extend such goodwill to anyone else in the apartment building?"

By the end your cheeks hurt from grinning so widely, but you gathered yourself together enough to nod your agreement.

"I will do you the honor. I think it's only fair, with how painstakingly oblivious I've been."

"I'm happy to share the blame," he agreed, a twinkle of mirth in his eyes and a calmness coming over his expression. You sighed, a happy and hopeful sound, and leaned in to press your forehead to his. You weren't expecting anything more, and you weren't sure whether Marcus would want to give anything more, but it didn't matter because you jumped away from each other as a loud bang resounded around the room. Quickly scanning the window you saw an object had hit the glass, leaving a smudge of mud across the pane. Marcus' hands moved up and down your arms in a soothing motion.

"Do you have a flashlight?"

It took you a moment to hear what he'd said, instead noticing how much darker the sky looked outside. Was it the storm or had you and Marcus been talking for longer than you initially thought?

"Maybe under the sink. But I have candles in the bedroom."

"Great, get them, we'll set them up on the table and get under the blankets. Is that okay?"

You smiled and nodded.

Once the candles were lit and you'd situated yourselves underneath a pile of blankets, arms around each other and your head resting on his chest, your breaths evened out and you fell into a restful sleep.

When you woke the next morning, the storm was still raging on, and Marcus was still curled up around you on the couch keeping you warm. You let yourself have this moment to imagine the mornings to come where this would be the norm. You found yourself sighing happily at the thought.

"Are you watching me?" his sleep filled voice rasped, a smirk lazily tugging at his lips.

"Maybe," you whispered, not daring to move despite how much you wanted to run your fingers along his laughter lines.

"Go to sleep."

"Do you have work?"

"No. D'you?"

"No."

"So go to sleep."

So you did. And you'd never fallen asleep happier.

Permanent Tag List: @autumnleaves1991-blog @phoenixhalliwell

#Marcus Pike #Marcus Pike x reader #The Mentalist #Pedro Pascal #Marcus Pike fic #Show Me Warmth

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ficsilike-reblogged · 3 years

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What’s in a Name? Pt. II

A/N: So I know I said that the first part was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done...but this takes the cake. The softest, cheesiest thing I’ve ever written and I will apologize for nothing.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader (no y/n)

Rating: PG for mention of guns??? A few smooches or two.

Word Count: 4.2k

Summary: The five times Marcus Pike tries to propose and the one time he actually does.

(Beautiful art by my bb @bucketheadredacted)

Read part one!

Marcus Pike was finally a man lucky in love.

Maybe. Hopefully. God, he really needed to be lucky. Just this once.

He had bought the diamond ring three months after she had moved in—that was him moving slowly! Honestly! He had felt the urge to look at rings only a month after she had kissed him in the park but had refrained, his past failed relationships whispering at the back of his mind. He didn’t want to push her away. Didn’t want to scare her by moving too fast. Didn’t want to break his own heart again. It had been a strange uphill battle to just learn her name—and now he wanted to give her his name, too.

But he loved her. Truly.

And he knew that within a month of stealing kisses and slipping into overpriced hotel rooms between briefings and meetings and auctions across the country. And Marcus hadn’t been able to stop himself from asking her if she wanted to move into his Washington D.C. apartment six months later.

The words had tumbled out of his mouth while they were still half asleep, his alarm blaring in the background, alerting them both that she needed to get up to fly back to New Orleans.

And she…giggled and rolled over to press a kiss to his lips, uncaring of his morning breath. “Yeah. That sounds perfect.”

And it had been perfect. It had been good to come home and see her jacket slung over the back of the chair, to smell her perfume lingering in the bathroom as she dashed out the door, to wake up next to her when they both had a reprieve from their chaotic jobs and not have to worry that they would have to separate again within a handful of hours. It was good even when she tried a new recipe and the entire apartment smelled like burnt noodles for two days.

But he wanted to call her his wife and he wanted to be her husband. He wanted to have a family with her and maybe buy a house a little further outside the city—she had mentioned that she wanted a dog and a cat. “With room for them to run around!” She said with a smile.

And that all circled back to the ring. The platinum ring with the princess cut diamond. The ring he had been hiding for ages. The ring he wanted to put on her finger—if she said yes. Or he would have to tuck his metaphorical tail between his legs (again) and nurse a broken heart (again) and listen to his coworkers well-meaning condolences (again).

“When are you gonna ask her, man?” One of his fellow agents asked as they parked the agency-assigned SUV in the underground lot. Marcus had made the mistake of mentioning how he had a ring waiting at the back of his sock drawer and this agent—and honestly? Marcus couldn’t even remember his name—latched onto that and had spent the last three hours trying to ‘help’ Marcus come up with a plan on how to propose.

Marcus had a plan already. Thank you very much.

“I am going to take her to see the fireworks over the river.”

“Romantic. Good choice.”

Marcus felt himself puff up a bit at that. It was romantic, wasn’t it? This would be fine.

It was not fine.

The spot Marcus had picked was already crowded by the time they arrived—he was still grumbling about the flat tire he had to fix on the way there but his mood shift when he heard her sigh. It was a happy sound that had a smile pushing at his own lips.

“This is a good spot. Good choice.” She leaned over and pressed a kiss to his warm cheek before turning and grabbing the cooler from the back of his car.

Marcus quickly patted his pocket and felt the ring safely in its confines. This could work, right? He just needed to wait for the fireworks. He set a checkered blanket on the warm grass and helped her unload their cooler, filled with her favorite picnic foods and maybe a bit of alcohol too, hidden away in two tumblers. The wind off the river was nice, keeping them from getting too overheated and someone further down the bank had set up a radio, letting music provide a backdrop to the quiet lapping water and the conversations from the strangers around them. He was not the best conversationalist, Marcus had to admit, he was busy rehearsing what he was going to say in his head over and over, trying to imagine if she would cry or smile—or just…say yes. But he made her laugh and earned a few more kisses when he managed to contribute to the conversation and fed her a few of the grapes from the cooler.

It was good…it was fine…until it wasn’t.

It started with her swatting at something on her arm just as the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. That wasn’t uncommon; the East Coast was notoriously buggy during the summer. It was probably a mosquito.

But then it happened again and again and again until she was standing up with a shriek, wildly hitting at herself. “Marcus! Marcus!”

“Honey?”

“There’s ants everywhere!”

He glanced down and…yes, there were ants everywhere. And then he felt his first bite.

They quickly gained more than their fair share of attention as they both scrambled to get the hundreds of ants off of them, knocking over their food and cooler with unpleasant groans and gasps as they gained more ant bites.

In a rushed haze, still swatting at themselves, they gathered up their belongings and all but dumped them in the back of the car. When their tires hit highway, they heard the first boom of the fireworks.

“How’re you feeling?” She whispered as she rubbed a bit more cream onto Marcus’s back. It had been almost a week since the ant incident and his body was still covered in small red bumps. A testament to his failure.

He reached back, a little awkwardly from his angle on his stomach, and grasped her hand. “I’m okay, honey.” He hummed when he felt her pressed a kiss to his shoulder. Marcus turned his head just a bit and looked at her hand. Her ring finger was still bare. The ring had been tucked away in his bedside drawer after they both scrubbed themselves clean and then all but bathed in calamine lotion. But Marcus was a man on a mission. Having brunch, just to the two of them, all calm and relaxed, was just as good as fireworks.

When she’d been showering earlier, he had called in a delivery from her favorite breakfast restaurant, the florist down the block, and snuck around the apartment to try to tidy up a bit. Not that the apartment needed much. He had set a new set of candles in two overly-priced candle holders and lit them…and then quickly snuffed them out, deeming it too early for candles. He had slipped back into bed just as she emerged in a puff of lavender steam from the bathroom, looking much more comfortable than she had in days.

He rolled over and sat up to steal a kiss against her smiling mouth before coaxing her down onto the bed to apply her share of the strangely scented lotion to her matching set of bumps and bites.

“You know,” she started, face squished in the pillow, “for what it’s worth, I did have a really good time.”

“Yeah?”

“You know I always like spending time with you.”

“Even if you get eaten alive by fire ants?” He asked, a smile pushing at his mouth as his fingers trailed down her back.

She laughed. “Even then.”

He leaned down to press a kiss behind her ear before finishing her layer of lotion and his smile only grew when he heard the familiar, satisfied hum rumble in her throat. A knock at the door had him rising. “I’ll be right back.” Marcus pulled on a shirt as he moved toward the door and opened it, happily seeing two delivery men. He paid them both quickly and moved to the kitchen to set everything up as he heard one of his least favorite sounds.

Her cellphone ringing.

Marcus placed the flowers in her favorite vase but didn’t even move to plate the food he’d had delivered. What was the point?

She came out of the bedroom, rubbing at her temples and her phone in her pocket. “I-”

“You have to go,” he said, finishing for her. “Where to this time?”

She grimaced. “Nowhere fun. But apparently a Pollock has surfaced at an auction set for tomorrow night.” Her eyes darted to the flowers and her grimace softened. “Are these for me?”

Marcus smiled and handed them to her, chuckling as she all but shoved her face into the blooms to inhale their scent. He tightened the knot on the top of the takeout and handed that to her, too. “Here, you can eat this on the road.” And when she opened her mouth to apologize, he kissed the words away. Marcus would never fault her for her job and its uneven schedule, just as she never held his strange hours against him. “Home by Wednesday?” He murmured against her lips.

“Home by Wednesday. I promise.”

When he closed the door to her taxi and waved as he watched the yellow car disappear around the corner, Marcus sighed. Strike two.

Patrick Jane was not who Marcus wanted to see right now. And neither was Lisbon. But that was beside the point. The point was that Marcus hadn’t seen his Honey in almost three weeks because of a demanding client wanting more and more art work so she was flown all over Europe to different auctions and private sales.

He had remembered how he heard her sniffle over the phone when she told him that this client was asking her to pick up more art. “It is good money, really good. I can probably take a few months off after I do this but I…” she hiccupped and his heart broke. “But I just really miss you.”

And that was why he had booked a table at this beautiful and romantic restaurant after she had managed to sleep off her jet lag and rinse the grime of the plane from her skin.

Marcus ordered expensive wine that she knew she only ordered when she closed a big deal and asked the chef to place the ring on the top of the tiramisu he had scheduled to be brought out in exactly 47 minutes.

But that plan had been fantastically derailed when that obnoxious blond man spotted him from across the restaurant and then had the gall to ask the hostess to seat them near each other. (What were they even doing in DC?) For her part, Lisbon looked uncomfortable, too, as they made small talk.

With each passing word and each forced anecdote, Marcus felt himself deflate. There was no way he was going to propose to the love of his life in front of his ex-fiancée and her husband.

“You know,” Jane started and Marcus felt his teeth grind, “Marcus always struck me as a family man.”

She smiled and reached out to wrap her fingers around Marcus’ and squeezed. “He is.”

“Oh?” Jane continued, leaning forward in his seat. “Is a congratulations in order?”

Marcus could hear his teeth grinding but her grip tightened on his hand while her smile remained steady. “That is none of your business. I am sure you can fill your time poking and prodding into other people’s lives. Now, please, you have interrupted my long overdue date with the love of my life with your prattle. I’m sure you’re lovely, but I am done entertaining you.” She raised her other hand and asked for the check which was quickly given. The hostess, for her part, did glance to Marcus to make sure it was okay before he subtly nodded. The ring was slipped back into his hand by a sly waiter.

“Marcus,” Lisbon murmured, “we didn’t mean-”

Marcus stood and buttoned his jacket before helping his Honey into her coat. “Have a good night, Lisbon.”

And they left the restaurant, flagging down a taxi as thunder rolled overhead. Marcus made sure to open the taxi’s door for her and let her slide in before joining her in the backseat. The pair was quiet for a moment, and then two before she started to giggle. The giggle grew into a full-belly laugh that had tears gathering in her eyes and Marcus had to laugh, too. She always made him laugh.

“God!” She said. “He’s so full of himself. And truly, Marcus, I’m sure Teresa is lovely but she has terrible taste in men. Choosing that over you? I would never.”

Marcus felt a selfish bloom of pride swell in his chest. “Yeah?”

She leaned over to rest her head on his shoulder. “Yeah. I don’t plan on ever letting you go.”

And you know? That made Marcus smile just as much as putting a shiny ring on her finger. She wanted him forever.

He could propose tomorrow.

He did not propose tomorrow.

Or any day after that for the next three months. There just…wasn’t the right time. The ring he now kept in his suit jacket pocket seemed heavier by the day. Even his fellow agents seemed to pick up on the fact that something was bothering him.

“Fighting with your lady, Pike?” One of them asked as they were huddled around a table in the art storage room, trying to devise a plan to catch a thief who had managed to disappear with fourteen million dollars’ worth of some blueblood’s family heirlooms which included an Artemisia Gentileschi original. It was a brazen heist and obviously a huge case that needed to be their sole focus.

But sometimes his group of agents were a little nosey.

“We don’t really fight,” Marcus muttered as he looked over the blueprints of the family’s home, trying to find a way that the thief had come in and out. The official police report said a downstairs window was open but he didn’t believe that. “We have our disagreements but she is the most levelheaded person I know. The most heated conversation we had was over which diner had the best waffles.”

Another agent gagged. “You two are disgusting.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘perfect,’ actually.”

Marcus shook his head and bit back a laugh—they really needed to focus on this case. “We’re not perfect.” And they weren’t. No one was. But that didn’t mean he loved her any less.

“Still haven’t proposed, eh?”

“Shut up, man.” There was no heat to his tone as Marcus scrubbed a hand down his face before looking at his watch. It was almost eleven at night. “Go home. It’s late. We can pick this up in the morning.”

The rest of the group grumbled their thanks and disappeared to the upper levels of the building, probably in search of their forgotten dinners before going home. Marcus tapped his pencil on the blueprints, his eyes constantly moving to the door leading into the ‘piano room’ which then led down to the wine cellar. He wasn’t sure why, but something in his gut just told him the answer led to that set of rooms.

“Marcus?”

He jumped at the sudden noise but quickly righted himself as he saw her entering the fenced off storage area, carefully skirting around a prized Greco-Roman statue they had just recovered in Philadelphia. It was no longer a surprise to see her down here, the front desk guards knew her by face and name and all but gave her security clearance, easily letting her through when they knew Marcus was working late. He stood and walked over to her, pressing a kiss to her lips and then forehead in greeting, listening to her hum in contentment as her hands wound around his waist. “What are you doing here, Honey?”

She smiled as she looked at him and shrugged. “I knew you were working late. Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d keep you company instead of tossing and turning.”

“You know I’m always happy to see you.” He led her over to the table and told her a little about the case, as much as he could without truly getting in trouble, and let her look over his notes.

She frowned as she turned the blueprints around and looked at them. “These people are like…billionaires, right?”

Marcus confirmed it with a frown but let her continue.

“Right. So, last time I was in LA, I was at that big, private auction at one of the gaudiest homes I’ve ever visited. Remember me telling you about that? The host got so drunk that he demanded he show everyone his three panic rooms and the private tunnel he had requested be dug behind his laundry room in the basement. Apparently he bribed the city inspector to keep it off the official blueprints so that a thief couldn’t use that tunnel.” She held up the blueprints and tapped at the wine cellar. “Ten bucks says there’s more to this wine cellar than just some ridiculous vintages.”

Marcus could feel his face lighting up. She was amazing.

They spoke a little longer, about possible suspects and how there was probably more than one thief—or at least a getaway driver—before their conversations shifted.

“The guys upstairs said something funny.”

“Hm?”

“They called me Mrs. Pike.”

His next breath nearly choked him. He was going to kill the guards upstairs. “O-oh? Really?”

“I think it sounds nice,” she said, her tone a little embarrassed. “Not that I haven’t thought about it before.” She smiled a bit, almost nervous. “We’ve talked about it, me and you, but to hear someone else say it…makes it sound…really nice.” She hid her embarrassment behind her hand and shook her head.

“I think it sounds nice, too.” He could do it. Right now. He could do it. They were surrounded by beautiful art. All by themselves. There was a light in her eyes that made his heart squeeze. His hand patted the pocket where he kept the ring and-

-it was gone.

“Marcus?” Her tone was filled with worry and she reached out to trail a finger over the crease that had erupted between his eyebrows, a gesture she did often when he brought work home with him. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah. I’m fine, honey.”

He most certainly was not but it wasn’t like he could tell her that or propose. ‘Yes, honey. I lost your engagement ring. Will you marry me?’ Fuck.

The next day Marcus was stopped by the man at the front desk as he headed toward his office. “Everyone’s been telling me about your big plans. Can’t do it without this.” He handed over a small bag and inside…was the ring.

“Where’d you find it?” Marcus asked, stashing the ring in his briefcase this time.

Apparently his pocket couldn’t be trusted.

“Parking lot.”

Marcus could only sigh.

This was it. This had to be it.

If it wasn’t? He was sure the universe was telling him to just give up. They were happy, right? In love? Maybe they didn’t have to be married. Maybe…

No. No, he wanted to be her husband and he wanted her to be his wife. And that was why the ring was (safely and securely) stowed away in his wallet. He just needed the right time.

She was sitting across from him at their favorite diner, a stack of pancakes and a plateful of waffles between them and half-finished milkshakes abandoned near the saltshakers as they tried to guess which type of syrup was in each little carafe from a single bite. It was a game they played a few times before—one they had played on their first official date, actually. It had lasted well past the dinner and museum visit he had planned and into the morning where they had landed at the diner as the sun rose.

“This has to be strawberry,” she said as she finished her bite. “What do you think?” She asked, holding out the fork for him to take.

He took his bite and nodded. “Strawberry, definitely.”

She lifted the carafe and smiled as she read the tape on the bottom. “Point for us!” They high-fived across the table, laughing. The waitress who always served them shook her head with a smile from her place at the counter, knowing their game too well.

Marcus poured the syrup on their next bite and guessed its flavor before letting her take a guess.

“Um…blueberry?” She licked her lips, contemplating. “Maybe?” As Marcus lifted the carafe and confirmed that it was indeed blueberry, she continued. “Oh, a display of Alphonse Mucha is coming to Georgetown.”

Marcus smiled. Over an hour of their first date had been filled with soft whispers and shy smiles in front of a wall of Mucha sketches. They had been asked to leave by a polite but tired museum guard, not realizing they were there past closing. It was one of his fondest memories. One of the first times he realized she was truly special. He fell a little (more) in love with her that night. “We should go.”

“I’ll get tickets!”

This was the time. This was the moment. He pulled his wallet out under the table and curled his finger around the ring and watched as she smiled, wiping a bit of syrup from her chin. “I love you.”

She paused and looked at him, smile continuing to grow. “And you know I love you, too.”

“And I’ve loved you for a long time. You make my life better, make me better. I know our jobs are crazy. But they’re beautiful. Filled with art and excitement. But you’ve really…made my life a masterpiece.”

“Marcus?” Her voice was soft, eyes narrowing just slightly.

But Marcus pressed forward. “And I know that’s cheesy but I-”

And his phone was ringing. Why of all times was his phone ringing? And worst of all, it was the ringtone he had set for his boss. He had to answer. And she knew it, nodding just once with a fading smile.

He stood from his seat and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmured before slipping away with his phone pressed to his ear.

Marcus was tired. Tired.

He had been to New York to Miami to Orlando to Atlanta and then finally to Rio. The band of thieves, making a run for it with millions of dollars of art—including a da Vinci sketch. But he and his team caught them before they disappeared into the wind and the art was lost to the black market.

But he was tired.

He yawned as he drove through the mostly-quiet streets, ready to slip back into his apartment and pull his honey into his arms and then…sleep for three days.

That sounded wonderful.

But then his phone rang again.

And he had to answer it.

Thankfully, it was a short call. Someone had just broken in to one of the smaller museums in Georgetown and they wanted Pike to catch the thief in the act. Marcus sighed as he tossed his phone in the passenger seat. If this went well, it meant less paperwork. And then he could sleep.

The museum was dark when he arrived. There was only a faint bit of life coming from around of one the corners and he slunk around in the shadows, a hand on his gun. He was ready. He could stop a theft before it happened. He could-

Marcus stopped dead in his tracks as he realized what he was looking at.

Standing in the center of the hall, surrounded by (electronic) candles and priceless Mucha originals, was his Honey. His Venus.

“Hi Marcus.”

He took one step forward and then two and then three-

And she dropped to one knee and gently grasped his hands in hers, tears filling her beautiful eyes. “You make me smile every day. Even when I feel the need to hide all your socks after you make me mad. You have given me a new way of seeing art, appreciating it. You, Marcus Pike, have helped me grow, helped me breathe when I thought the world was just too much, helped me learn what strawberry syrup tastes like.”

Marcus had to laugh at that, feeling tears start to gather in his eyes. “And pecan, too.”

“And pecan syrup, too.” She squeezed his hands again with a growing smile. “I’ve never known love like this. And I never want to be without it. I never want to be without you. I just…” she hiccupped, a few tears falling down her cheeks. “I just love you. Will you marry me? Can I be Mrs. Pike?”

Marcus pulled his hands from hers and quickly pulled his wallet from his back pocket, pulling the ring (finally), from its depths. “Can I ask you, too?”

She all but tackled him to the sparkling marble floors and pressed kiss after kiss to his cheeks, chin, brow, and lips, a laugh on her tear-stained lips. “Ask me.”

“Will you marry me?” The words finally came out in a rush, his heart beating wildly behind his ribs as he watched her smile. Her beautiful smile.

“Yes.”

A/N: Please let me know what you think!

#marcus pike x reader #marcus pike imagine #marcus pike #the mentalist

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