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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years

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Chapter Six

You miss the party, which is no big deal. Really.

Nothing to worry about at all.

You were just going to go poking around to find all that juicy gossip to bring back home if you ever end up getting off this hellish planet. The glimmering black metal that holds your bathroom mirror is a little too well wielded for you to pull off for a makeshift weapon, you discover, as you try your damndest to wriggle one of the sharper points back and forth to snap off. Curse this excellent example of Lolth craftsmanship.

“Breakfast is ready, ma’am!”

“I’ll be out in a minute!” You stare at yourself in the mirror, trying to ignore the dark crescents beneath your eyes, despite however long you had managed to sleep. Given that the last thing you remember before waking up in your bed was being on the train with the prince, it probably means that you had been picked up by someone and brought to your room delicately enough to not be roused. You don’t know how you feel about that quite yet. Not disgusted, no, you don’t feel repulsed by the idea of his hands on you…. Which, in itself, is a new thought that you aren’t sure how to process.

When you leave your room, a familiar breakfast is laid out on the table. Human food, you think, looking over the spread as a pinch of hunger finally squeezes your stomach. You barely manage to thank the maid before you inhale it all, a dull throb in the front of your head reminiscent of a hangover. Whatever that demon doctor gave you yesterday left you feeling like you are starving.

“Blessings, ma’am,” the maid says, handing you a mug of something piping hot. “The keias’ assistant asked me to inform you that your servant is being put under surveillance and repairs.”

“Oh,” you say, a small ripple of relief running through your body. Also apprehension, that’s there, too, because you aren’t sure if what you have been doing is Starward Matchmaker’s Approved™. Issues might arise. “Thanks for letting me know.”

“Of course, my lady.”

You bite down, ignoring the shiver running down your spine at the maid’s words. My lady, she said like you were almost royalty. It feels strange, yes, but this time you think that the maid really believes what she says, rather than spitting out empty promises on the prince’s behalf. “I… I think after breakfast, I’ll just go back to my room and rest.”

“A wise choice, ma’am,” the maid responds, beginning the tedious process of washing dishes.

“I don’t want to be disturbed,” you add, shoveling something else into your mouth.

“Of course, ma’am.”

You finish the food, placing the dishes in the sink and rinsing them because you aren’t a fucking animal, and head back to your room. The lock is thick, you can hear it click as you turn the nob, but you don’t trust it. It’s an illusion of privacy, if someone wanted in your room, all they would have to do is either get one of those old fashioned keys or electronically request permission from someone with access. Easy. But still, you think that the drow maid respects your privacy enough not to come barging in when you’re worming your way through the ducts.

Because, you think, pushing the bookshelf back underneath the metal grate, any control freak would at the very least have some kind of way to monitor all entrances and exits, these bad boys included. Besides the sensor, you mean, quickly disabling it with a flick of your finger against the tablet. Anyone with common sense wouldn’t immediately assume that their charge has somehow hacked their way into their boss’ primary system.

It’s not that tight of a space for you, probably because drows are just a tad bit larger than the average humans, so it makes sense that you’re able to get around without feeling the oppressive feeling of being trapped by metal on all sides. For today, you think that you’re going to investigate that room with that matching serial number, the one on the lower floor, and for that, you will need to find a kind of maintenance tube, preferably one with a ladder. Despite all your other adventures in the atmo ducts from before, the metal in this one is warm. It isn’t distressing or anything; it’s just an odd, so you march on, pausing every so often to look over the map on your tablet. After a little while of floundering around in the breezy tunnel, you find a four-way junction, well, six-way, technically, since up and down are also options.

You wriggle your body around, sliding down feet first, going as slow as you can manage until your foot hits an indent in the metal. It probably isn’t smart to rush downward, but you do, hand over hand, moving downwards as quickly as you would risk. Falling and breaking something is going to be the least of your worries, honestly, because being found in an area where you aren’t supposed to be is high on that getting in trouble list that will not end nicely for you, shattered limbs or not.

It’s difficult trying to find the room without any of the numbers painted on the inside of the walls sucks, because you have to keep careful track of how many grates you’ve passed. Plus, the fact that might not even matter because different suites might have a different number of rooms and, therefore, a wonky set air filters. Still, though, you keep looking down at the numbers on the map, and comparing it to the numbers you’ve passed, and keep going. There- there! Just up ahead, you mentally calculate everything once more, then stop to peek into the room.

At first, it’s a bit difficult to make everything out, but there is definitely someone in there. Someone large, with eight, spindly legs, leaning over a tall desk piled high with tablets, quarry-stone paperwork, and royal stamps. You fidget, trying to find a more comfortable way to spy on your number neighbor without your tablet digging into your thigh. After a moment of absolutely silent struggling, you realize that there is something very much wrong with your friend down there. Namely that they aren’t working anymore, they’re staring right through the grate, head cocked, eyes narrow, and you finally get a good look at their- his face.

Okay, there are two ways this can go about. You can scurry back through the dark like a coward, then deal with the consequences of unwanted questions and tighter security measures, or you can take this situation by the throat and throttle it. Calmly, you kick the grate open, then wriggle your body through the opening, plopping down on your feet and trying to hide the fact that your super cool landing hurt a lot more than you had initially expected it to. But no doubt, it probably looked real wicked.

“Hey, how’s it going?” You ask a very confused prince.

“What were you doing up there?”

“Having a look around the palace?” You say, trying to stick to as much truth as possible.

“You know- you could have asked Elias for a tour.”

“I could have,” you say, thinking very quickly on your feet, “but I didn’t want to bother him.”

“It’s his job to be bothered.”

“Maybe so, but I wanted to bother you directly rather than bother someone else to bother you.”

You figured that admitting- truthfully, unfortunately- that you wanted to see him would at least swing the situation in your favor, and it appears that you are correct. He no longer looks like he’s worried about whether or not you were planning on ambushing him while he was working to take his, uh, stone figurines or something, but you’re definitely not out of the woods quite yet.

“How did you find where I was?” He asks.

Ugh, truth time now. Say goodbye to a loophole that’s undoubtedly going to be fixed in no time. “Maintenance map,” you say, turning your tablet’s screen around and showing him. “I was wondering why my number didn’t match everyone else’s on my floor. Guess I know the answer now.”

He lets out a huff of breath, one that isn’t quite disappointed, but also wouldn’t be labeled as positively thrilled. “I see. And if it wasn’t me who caught you? What if it was someone less… accepting of your species?”

“If it were, I wouldn’t have made such an astounding entrance, babe,” you say, hopping on the smooth petrified wood of his desk, “I ’d’ve scurried off into the dark like a phantom.”

“And you would have been reported,” he says, less convincingly than he was a moment ago. “The whole situation would have been difficult to cover up.”

“Sorry,” you finally give in, “I didn’t know that I was risking you as well as me; otherwise, I wouldn’t have tried anything.”

He remains silent for a moment, you see him mulling over whatever you had said over in his mind, mouth slightly pursed in thought. After a hot, thunderously quiet minute while you await his verdict, your palms start to sweat from stress. You have been pushing his boundaries, you realize, that can’t end well. Maybe you shouldn’t have gone this far, you think, picking at the ends of your nails, so you don’t begin panicking.

“I have something for you,” he says suddenly, and you almost jump out of your skin.

“Oh- um, what is it?” You ask, swallowing thickly, trying to destress yourself before your entire body freezes up and you have a panic attack.

“The human protocol would be not to ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it?” The prince says breezily, opening one of the drawers in his desk and pulling out an ornately decorated box. “What you told me yesterday while you were, er, rather intoxicated made me realize that this whole situation is rather unfair for you, especially given the amount of trust you would have to exhibit just to cross the border into my people’s territory.”

You can barely remember anything from the night before, just a hazy jumble of colors and voices… and that creature, the one with such a death toll on their hands that there’s order for all ship captains, civilian included, to shoot them on sight. Still, you must have said something for the prince to suddenly be so gentle with you all of a sudden. You accept the gift he holds out, running your fingers over the stone of the box, admiring the golden engravings across the top. Slowly, unsurely, you open it, finding a wickedly long, devastatingly sharp blade lying in a bed of velvet-like material, the hilt intricately shaped to look like a single, golden serpent.

“It’s a thiamas,” he quickly explains, “They were only made during the territorial wars, but the last skirmishes ended centuries ago. Now they collect dust as objects of decoration… but I thought you might appreciate learning to use one.”

“Territorial wars,” you echo, wrapping your fingers around the hilt, “so… they were used against driders?”

“Yes. I would have to train you to use it, of course, and it would be no small task, but you should at least have something to protect yourself with whe- if you decide to stay.”

You look at the knife, at the imperfect curves and bumps in the blade, the gleam of the tip in the low light, how deathly black the crystal looks in your hand. Out of all the gifts you’ve ever received, you’ll be honest, the weapons have always been the best. Tools for you to use as you will, for better or for worse. You don’t expect this to be any different.

“You’re smiling,” the prince observes, “you like it?”

“Yes,” you admit quietly, giving him a little nod.

“Perhaps, since you aren’t busy, we should start training now?”

“Yeah, one sec,” you say, placing the knife back in its case and setting the tablet beside it. “Hold still.”

“Should I be nervous?”

“Depends,” you arch your eyebrows, placing your hands onto his shoulders. “Maybe you should be.”

Then you pull him down, just a bit, enough for you to brush your mouth against his while balancing on the very tips of your toes. It has the desired effect, throwing the prince off whatever rhythm he had been on, his entire body going impossibly still against your mouth. When you part from him, it’s a quick, jerking movement. A soft, huff of breath escapes your lips as you look at his reaction, your heart beating much faster than should be considered healthy.

“That was a kiss,” he says, slowly, as if running through the logic of the action in his head.

“Yes.”

“It’s a sign of affection.”

“Yup.” Is he flustered?

“And… it is often used as a gesture of attraction.” He regards you once more, running his tongue over his bottom lip almost too quickly for your eye to catch.

“So it is,” you say, crossing your arms across your chest.

The very corner of his mouth twitches upward, just slight enough to be easily mistaken for literally anything but a smile. “I have a private training room that is reserved for my use only, we won’t be interrupted.”

You pick up the knife again, feeling the weight of it against your fingertips. “Lead the way.”

It’s a large room, better lit than his office, with sturdy mats covering the unforgiving stone floor. The stone itself isn’t what you would call cold, far from it, actually, but the mats must have some kind of cooling gel or whatever because they feel significantly less hot than everything else. The space is another thing, though, because it’s basically a warehouse. The ceiling towers over you like a cathedral’s, and you’re pretty sure that you’ll hear an echo if you shout. You suppose that driders do need a ridiculous amount of space to train, especially since they can jump a good amount higher than they are tall. It’s actually not bad to train on, you think, stretching your legs out, it’s better than that hellhole Clementine had you in, anyway.

“You can’t be afraid to get close,” the prince instructs, “the one flaw about fighting with a knife is that distance will not be your friend. But since you are so short-”

“Not short,” you can’t help but interrupt.

“My apologies,” he says, “I was under the assumption you’ve looked in the mirror recently.”

It takes you a hot minute to realize that the prince… is teasing you? You look at him, aghast, and then say, “I am perfectly not short where I come from.”

“Not being the shortest person in a species full of short people does not make you tall.”

You place your hands on your hips. “Okay, Mr. Tally McTallface from Tall People Land, how am I supposed to make up for the height difference?”

“You’re going to have to climb up me, whatever means necessary. Give it a try.”

Challenge accepted. You look over his body again, all angles, barely any softness. The joints of his many legs might offer you a decent foothold, but you’re going to have to use something else to haul yourself up. After pondering for a bit, your eyes zero in on the flaps of his clothing, open, begging for a small pair of human hands to grab on. So you give it a try, jumping up, grabbing the open neckline of his robe, and settling your foot up on the flattest bit of his leg, and press the dagger up against his throat.

“A fine start,” he says, clearly unconcerned with the weapon digging into his skin, “but that’s not where you want to aim.”

You slide back down, landing rather gracefully on your feet. “Where should I, then?”

“Here,” the prince places a hand on the very center of his chest, “you’ll manage to hit something vital if you aim here. This is a spot where two bones sit, fused together with collagen. The thiamas is sharp enough and strong enough to pierce through with little effort.”

So you try again, offering no words of warning as you snap into action, repeating your climb but sticking the point right where the prince had been pointing, mere seconds before.

“Better,” he allows, “though you may want to move a bit quicker. Anyone with the bare minimum of combat skills could see your movements before you even make them. Again.”

Finish him, a voice inside you hisses as you jump back down to the ground. So close, so close. Take his heart and leave him bleeding. You try a different approach, this time, leaping as high off the ground as you can manage, bracing your foot right where his hip ends and one of his legs begin, then gripping his shoulder to keep from falling back down. The tip of the dagger slices at his clothing with barely any force, you immediately yank it away in fear of nicking him.

“Again.”

He’s a good teacher, much better than Clementine or the matchmaker rep. You don’t think either would be particularly pleased to hear your observation, but it’s definitely true. While he does believe that skill takes practice, he isn’t nearly as unbearably harsh as the seasoned army vet put in charge of your brief combat training, nor is he fond of physical punishment for your ‘outrageous’ behavior. It’s… actually kind of nice, you realize, because a few hours fly by without you even noticing where the time was going.

Your focus isn’t on avoiding any untempered wack with a cane or an ungodly shock of electricity; it’s on how the prince’s skin feels against yours when you pull yourself up to his eye level, knife in hand. It’s on how his eyes seem to glitter in the low light when you manage to throw him only marginally off guard and nick just the smallest needlepoint of skin. As though you aren’t merely meeting the lowest expectations he’s set for you to accomplish, but like he’s- like he’s proud of what you are managing to do with the time you have had so far.

The idea of someone being proud of you… god, you don’t want to think about that right now. It’s doing something to your insides, making everything all melty, and your eyes begin stinging with something. Sweat, probably.

“Lunch?” He asks, letting you drop back down onto the mat, his hand on yours to slow your fall. “You seem hungry.”

“I feel hungry.” Your body is doing that thing where it vibrates due to a drop in blood sugar, which is basically its way of telling you to shovel food into mouth now please. “But I’m trying to acclimate to the two meal per day schedule you guys have here.”

“Nonsense,” he says briskly, “you shouldn’t starve yourself. I’ll order your maid to bring up some food while you clean yourself up. Unless, of course, you would rather return to your suite for the day?”

Do… do you want to go back to your room? Not really, especially with the matchmaker rep’s shell rotting wherever his assistant sent it. You do need to talk with the prince about what’s supposed to be done with that thing, but you had forgotten entirely about her just now. Plus, food does sound super-duper at the moment, and since you don’t think you can do much until you replenish all fuel gone with the training session, it’s pretty darn easy to decide that you would very much prefer to remain in the prince’s quarters for as long as he’d have you. If someone dares question your judgment… it was all for reconnaissance.

“If your bathtub is better than mine,” you threaten, waggling your fingers, “I warn you, I will only bathe there from now on.”

He seems amused. “I’ll allow you to judge the difference, then.”

The prince’s bathtub isn’t just better than yours, it’s much better. Like, you might have been just a tad bit put off by the luxury of your own apartment, but holy motherfuck, you don’t even know what to do with yourself when you step foot into his bathroom. Maybe wash your hands? Apologize to the polished marble for even looking at it? The bathtub is precisely the size you’d thought it would be, ridiculously large, big enough to fit the prince’s towering frame and then some. To you, it’s essentially a swimming pool, maybe one big enough to do some laps in, and your immediate thought at finally gauging its size was: bubble bath + big tub = bubble mountain.

“Is it better than yours?”

You barely manage to croak out a word in affirmation.

“I’ll leave you then. There should be something in my closet you can wear temporarily, feel free to look around.”

Bubble mountain bubble mountain bubble mountain bubble mountain. “Yeah, thanks.”

“Do you need help with anything?”

“Um,” you take in a shaking breath, “if you could turn on the water while I look for something to change into, yeah. I don’t know how to work the controls.”

“Of course.”

You make your way to the closet, and that almost feels like stumbling into some kind of otherworldly dimension. It’s… large, that’s for sure, and filled from wall to wall with clothing, jewels, weapons, and even armor, but you aren’t confident what exactly you can fit into without swimming in fabric. You pull open a drawer, rifling through different robes and tunics, until you find something that you can at least tighten around your waist so it doesn’t slip off your body like a silken tube.

When you emerge from his closet, the tub is only about marginally full, despite the water from the spout gushing like a goddamn waterfall. It’s… odd, you guess, seeing water used too liberally without any thoughts of conservation, but that isn’t needed here like it is up in space. Thousands of rivers run through the stone and metal, so it’s not like the prince is just showing off how much water he can afford to waste, either. It’s just a thing that’s normal.

You show him what you picked as if you expected him to be at all particular about the clothing you borrow. He only offers a nod, letting his eyebrows arch, and then saying, “I’ll leave, then, come out whenever you feel ready.”

“Right,” you say, reaching down and feeling the water’s temperature. Perfect. Huh. “Will do.”

The water feels glorious against the muscles you hadn’t even realized are sore until this exact moment. Everything melts down into a puddle of warmth, and after scrubbing some soap over your sweaty bits, you lean back and let yourself float. It’s almost like being adrift in space, in an endless void, surrounded by a vast nothingness that makes you feel like a blip in the eternity of the universe. There isn’t anything here to worry about, the matchmaker rep, the admiral, Clementine... even the prince fades away, bleeding out into the water. You take a long, deep breath, closing your eyes for just a moment, and pretend that you’re out doing a run for a local smuggler. Something external is damaged, so you just popped out of your ship to do a quick repair. Everything is fine. Everything is safe.

But it doesn’t last. The water begins to run cold, which you usually wouldn’t mind, except now you’re reminded that you’re here, grounded, and on a mission. The crushing feeling returns, the stress resuming to rest around your body like a smothering blanket. You don’t cry, though, because tears help no one, but you do let out a single, whimpering breath just to get a portion of it out of your system. Get up, get out, you tell yourself, hauling your soaking body out of the tub and onto the slick floor. Dressing isn’t as bad as your brain psyched it up to be since your arms are a tad sore, and you manage to wrap it around yourself enough to the point where, while not particularly attractive, serves its function as a temporary outfit.

You look at yourself in the mirror, taking a deep breath.

Don’t forget to smile, the matchmaker’s voice echoes in your ears.

You leave the solitary safety of the bathroom.

#drider #exophilia #monster lover #monster/reader #monster x reader

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queenbirbs · 5 years

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waiting game | Ethan Ramsey x MC

AN - Literally couldn’t get this oneshot out of my head last night, so therefore I spent most of my last day off before Easter Hell Week writing it out. Because of course, why not? WC 3701 There’s a special place in hell for Harper Emery.

It’s the fourth time the phrase has entered his head, but it hasn’t lost the fire behind it. He’s the leader of one of the country’s best diagnostics teams, he’s done a few tours with Doctors Without Borders. Last year, he even went back home for Christmas dinner with a family who would honestly rather receive more postcards from Mozambique in lieu of seeing him in person.

And yet, this is possibly the most stressful thing Ethan’s ever dealt with. Wading through feces and garbage in a rural country would be more preferable at this point.

The event room around him is gilded to the tee. Every table is draped in the finest cloth, the silverware sparkling in the light of the chandeliers, the plates filled with the highest quality catering. Extravagant centerpieces explode from the center of the tables, white orchids and white hydrangeas and white lilies spilling out from crystal vases. Some type of curly branch winds up toward the ceiling, breaking up the overwhelming glare of white.

In the beginning, he tried to position himself just so, hoping the floral arrangement would hide him. Sitting down only served to make him an easy target, though, where any of the sharks could circle his table and feast upon him at will.

Glancing down at the scotch in his hand, he wonders how many more metaphors he can make before he has to cut himself off.

His current strategy is to keep moving, keeping himself between them with large, immovable objects. He learned his lesson with George Kadinskee, who shoved a table and chairs out of the way to get to him. It’s like being in a furniture store or a car dealership, watching the sales people discreetly chase after him.

It’s all rather pathetic (and childish) of him, but he didn’t become a doctor to get hounded by insurance reps. And yet, here he was at a Banner Health function on a Friday evening, dressed in one of his finest suits, waiting for the earth to swallow him up.

He really just wants to go home to his dog and a documentary.

“Doctor Ramsey!” a voice calls from behind him.

Allotting himself a wince and a sip of his drink in preparation, he sucks in a breath and straightens his spine. It’s a good thing, too, because when he turns around he needs to cling to all the composure he can.

“Rookie,” he greets, taking another sip to wet his dry mouth, “what are you doing here?”

Sloane raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t comment on it.

“Doctor Emery invited me. She said that the hospital could use some... younger representation.”

It’s his turn to shoot her a look.

“Are you calling me old?”

“I think the polite term is ‘experienced’ now,” she responds with that low, pretty laugh of hers.

He doesn’t choke on his drink, but it’s a damn near thing. “I’m sorry I’m late, though,” she continues, saving him from responding, “I had to get cleaned up and get all…” she trails off, waving a hand over her ensemble. “And my post-op was having some complications. I wanted to stick around until he got settled.”

Clinging to the life-raft of shop talk she’s handed him, he asks her about the patient, relieved when he catches the glint in her eyes, that bright flicker of discussing something she loves. Hospital talk saves him from making the inevitable ‘you look nice’ comment, which would be a paltry choice of words. She looks absolutely gorgeous, wearing a royal purple gown with a deep vee neckline. The material looks soft to the touch, the rich color complementing the russet shade of her hair. She normally wears it up, but it’s nice to see it down. His eyes follow the soft curls to the waist of her dress, where a section of thin lace does little to cover her pale skin, before the rest of the skirt continues down.

“You should go get us another round.” At her stilted tone, he glances at the half-finished glasses they both hold.

“Why?” he drags the word out, blaming the alcohol for how playful it sounds.

“Because there’s a middle-aged man that’s been eyeing you across the room for the past two minutes.”

He’s definitely blaming the next sentence out of his mouth on the alcohol.

“Are you sure he isn’t eyeing you?”

Something akin to delight crosses her face, before she breaks into a chuckle and shakes her head.

“Oh, no, trust me. He’s definitely been admiring your backside this entire time, not mine.”

Ethan pointedly keeps his eyes up, because he’s a grown adult, and shouldn’t be tempted with the idea of admiring hers. (He’s done so before, but only from the comfort of the nurses’ station, and only when she’s distracted enough not to catch him. He is a grown adult, after all.)

“Does he look like he plays golf instead of attending mandatory meetings?”

“Oh, yeah,” she nods, her gaze narrowing just beyond his left shoulder. “And his idea of a good time is yelling at wait staff.”

He chuckles at the matter-of-fact tone.

“You can tell that from across the room?”

“I waited tables in the Upper East Side in college. A sizable chunk of my debt is from buying new white button-downs when people like him threw food at me. I can read people like him a mile away.” Her eyes widen when she adds in a rush, “And he’s headed this way. Here!”

He takes the glass she all but shoves at him, steps around her, and tucks himself into the crowd hovering around the bar. Chancing a glance back, he sees her intercept George with an enthusiastic handshake. He watches as she lets herself be pulled out to sea into the awaiting sharks.

The bar takes longer than anticipated, but Ethan manages to secure two fresh drinks (and seven new business cards, which he will promptly throw in the recycling bin when he gets home). Fifteen minutes is a long time in the world of work functions, though, and he has lost sight of Sloane by the time he makes it back to the dining area. Across the ballroom, a live band has replaced the jazz playlist, and couples are moving across the dance floor.

Scanning the crowd, he finally spots a flash of purple, then a curtain of red flickering between bodies. She’s dancing with Anthony Fenton, Banner’s HR assistant and owner of three Teslas, which Ethan only knows because Anthony told him four times within their twenty-minute conversation earlier.

The song that’s playing crescendos, then eases down, the couples slowing as it peters out to a calmer song. Anthony’s hand moves from her waist to the small of her back, gathering her close to sway with her. Sloane settles a hand onto his chest, pushing back to make some space between their bodies.

It’s funny, because Ethan doesn’t see the venue change the lighting, but everything goes red for a moment.

He moves closer to the dance floor, trying not to feel like a chaperone at a school dance. Sloane is an adult, and a smart one at that, and is capable of making her own decisions. So, if she wants to dance with annoying assistants, or flirt with visiting paramedics or the other diagnostic interns, then she’s perfectly free to do so.

It doesn’t matter to him at all. (It does.)

He’s glad he’s watching them, though, because he gets to see the moment Sloane notices him. It’s been a few months since she started at Edenbrook, but it still gives him that same little thrill, that bite of pleasure, when she comes across him in the hallway, or in the cafeteria, or at Donahue’s, and he gets to watch her face light up.

“S.O.S.!” she mouths, begging for a save.

After she rescued him from George, he can’t just leave her to fend for herself, right?

Setting the drinks down on a nearby table, Ethan moves through the dancers with ease and sidles up to tap Sloane on the shoulder.

“May I have this dance, Doctor McTavish?”

She unwraps herself from Anthony and takes his offered hand within the span of one beat. Ethan thinks he mutters a dismissal to Anthony, but isn’t entirely sure about it.

Because he clearly didn’t think this part through. Enjoying Sloane from a permitted distance was one thing, but having her in his arms is a whole different ball game. He wonders if she can feel his heightened pulse where her hand grips his. (She can’t -- her fingers aren’t on his pulse point, but the curve of her lips says otherwise.)

They move in tandem with the crowd, more swaying than actual dancing. The music is just low enough for murmured conversation, which Sloane starts up with a suggestion of turning his people-watching skills on the dancers around them.

He points out the divorcees, the slackers, the ones that should be promoted and the ones that should be demoted. They bicker about an older couple near the very edge (she thinks they’re married, he thinks they’re just business partners). The current song slows and the two men in question share a gentle kiss, the shorter nuzzling the taller’s chest.

He runs out of observations soon after, too caught up in his private thoughts about the woman in his arms to spin any more yarn.

“Wouldn’t you normally bring a date to a function like this?” she asks, honest curiosity in her voice.

He deploys his best weapon: deflection.

“Couldn’t I ask the same of you?”

She hums, tipping her head to the side as if in agreement. The action sends a cascade of curls to lay against her neck, that floral perfume of hers hitting him again.

“To be fair, I did ask someone, but he works fourth shift tonight and couldn’t make it.”

His brain doesn’t know how to handle that information; he gets a wave of disappointment that she tried to bring a date, then gets another wave of admonishment at himself for wanting her all to himself.

“You wouldn’t want to put anyone through this schmooze-fest, anyway,” he reasons.

“You’re right,” she says. “In the twenty minutes you were hiding at the bar, I was offered to go on three company cruises and seven golf trips. And I’m pretty sure one of those was a combination of the two.”

Ethan makes a face at the idea of a golf-cruise combo.

“I was not hiding. They only have two bartenders working for a full venue.”

“Your mouth is moving, but all I’m hearing are excuses, Ramsey,” she chides with a grin.

The tempo of the song they’re dancing to swells. Neither say anything, but both seem to know exactly what to do. He drops his hand from her waist and twirls her out, her dress floating out into the open space with her, before she comes back into his arms, holding tight to his hand.

There’s a callous on her right ring finger, resting just below the nail, from the way she holds her pen at work. The perfume he detected before drifts up to him, stronger now that her body has heated up. He spots the flush that blooms across her chest and neck, a result of the swing music the band has started up.

He does not consider what it would be like to lay his lips there at the base of her throat and have a taste of her, to see if that pretty flush of hers would follow the trail of his lips.

“Let’s get some air,” he suggests, once the song is over and Sloane is panting from exertion and he is not thinking about other ways she could become breathless in his presence.

More dancers have joined the floor since they did, making their path out difficult. Ethan puts a hand on the small of her back, keeping her close to his side as they maneuver their way out of the crowd. Her skin is pleasantly warm under his fingers and covered in a light sheen of sweat from their activities and the close quarters of the dance floor.

She heads for the open balcony across the way and he follows, a moth drawn to her flame.

Outside, the city stretches out before them. To the south, Back Bay is a faint glow, leading the eye to continue left, where downtown shines bright. Cars are small dots of light underneath them, moving right and left, heading in and out of the city. Just on the edge of the balcony, Longfellow Bridge casts out into the darkness of the river. Despite the heat of the day, the cool night air rushes up to meet them.

Ethan catches Sloane rubbing her arms to keep herself warm and gives her his suit jacket to combat the cold. She tries to protest, but he silences her with another look, and helps her slip into it.

“My dad used to be the handyman for the local hospital where I grew up,” she tells him as she moves to stand at the edge. “During Christmas, they’d put these trees on top of the roofs, and he’d take me and my brother up there every year. It was only five stories high, but to us, it might as well have been the Empire State Building.”

“That sounds nice.”

She tears her gaze from the view over to him. He resists the urge to straighten his shoulders, suddenly feeling as if he’s been appraised.

“It was.” She seems to shift, as if deciding something unknown, and smirks up at him. “And then, you know, I was sixteen and wanted to impress a girl, so I stole my dad’s keys and took her up there with some hot cocoa and Bailey’s and one thing led to another…” she tips her head to the side again, laughing when he clears his throat.

“Well,” he starts, then realizes he has nothing to say to that (at least nothing that won’t seem like he’s offering to perform a reenactment out on this very public balcony with her), so he tries again. “Well.”

Nope, he’s got nothing.

Sloane takes pity on him and reaches out, patting him on his arm that rests next to hers on the railing.

“I’m glad I came,” she says, her face turned towards the open air. “I had a good time.”

“Despite Anthony and his two Teslas?” he can’t help but tease.

“Don’t forget his third one, though, back at his house in the Hampton’s.”

“Ah, of course. How could I have forgotten.” Finishing his scotch, he charges ahead: “I’m glad you came, too.”

He’s very glad he limited his alcohol intake, because when Sloane turns to smile at him, he can’t help but note that her eyes rival the sparkle of the city. And if he’d been drunk, he might’ve actually told her that.

Instead, he offers his arm. “I think we’ve made a sufficient appearance. We should be able to escape from captivity now.”

Sloane sets her empty glass on a nearby table and links her arm through hers.

“If I’d had another three of these, I’d make a tiger noise right now.”

“Well, thank god for that.”

They make it to the elevator and down to the front lobby of the hotel without any incident. They, of course, have an argument at the curb about her borrowing his jacket for her trip home, since she forgot to bring a coat in her rush to get to the function.

“Here, at least let me get you a Lyft,” he offers as he hands off his ticket to the valet.

“Oh, no, that’s too much. It’s a nice night, despite the wind.” She slips free of his jacket, handing it back to him. “It’s only a few minutes from here to the T.”

“How far do you live from here?”

She glances back to the street, as if checking for something, before she answers, “I’m all the way across town, over near Fan Pier Park.”

He goes over her route home, recalling that the closest station to her is back on this side of the channel. Which means she’ll have to walk at least ten minutes to get home after her stop, all alone on a Friday night. “Don’t worry,” she continues, as if that’ll stop him, “I do it every night. We’re not that far from the hospital right now, and I make that walk at all hours of the evening.”

You’re usually with your roommates, he wants to point out.

She’s already angling her body towards the street, readying to make her journey home. “I’ll be okay, Ethan.”

“I’ll drive you home.”

“You live in the heart of downtown. You could throw a rock and hit City Hall.”

“It’s… on my way.”

He gets another eyebrow raise for that lie.

“It’s not even remotely on your way. You’d have to backtrack.”

“Barely over a mile. That’s not the end of the world.”

“Doctor Ramsey--” she tries, but the valet interrupts their argument, waving over to where another woman has brought his car around.

“Come on, McTavish.” He doesn’t glance back to see if she’s following -- he can see well enough in the lobby’s tall windows as she huffs out a sigh and trails after him.

“It’s nice here,” she comments as they wait at a stoplight somewhere along Congress Street.

He’d opted for the side streets, instead of taking a chance with the highway and its propensity for wrecks inside the tunnel. It certainly has nothing to do with the route taking longer the way he’s chosen, thus an increase in time of being in Sloane’s presence.

“In my heated seats? Of course it is. Beats the hard, plastic ones on the T any day.”

“I meant here as in the city, Boston. It’s a nice change of pace from the… constant-ness of New York City.”

“Constant-ness is not a word.”

“It is a word when I’ve gotten off a fifteen-hour shift, then had to walk around in these heels all night, and then was bullied into a car.”

“I did not bully you--”

“Okay, you didn’t bully me. How about: arrogantly demanded?”

He hums, as if in consideration.

“I’ll concede to arrogantly demanded.”

That sparks another chuckle from her, grinning over at him from his passenger seat.

“But yes, I lived in New York City. Therefore, I get to say what it was or was not.”

“It’s rather constant here, too,” he points out. A chorus of honks back up his statement as two cars blow through a red, blocking the intersection when the traffic ahead stops.

“New York was such a high turnover city to me. I had seventeen different roommates when I was living off-campus my third year of med school. People would come from all over the world to chase their dreams. By three weeks in, they came to the realization that it was going to be a lot harder than TV made it out to be. Why would they bother trying to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities being a temp or a waitress, when they could be back in Minneapolis or Nashville or Rochester doing the same thing.”

“That’s… rather depressing.”

She shrugs at his summation.

“It’s just how it was. And why I love living here in comparison. Here, everyone seems a lot more… rooted. I mean, barring unforeseen circumstances, I’ll be here for three years for residency. It’s nice to have that, to have friends who are in the same boat as me.”

His mind unwillingly travels three years ahead, when Sloane inevitably goes off to Johns Hopkins or Vanderbilt or Seattle Grace, and he never sees her again. “People come here to stay here,” she continues, unaware of his sobering thoughts. “I like it.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that, not trusting himself to ask if she can see herself staying here permanently. If she can see a place for herself on his team, because if she keeps at it like she has been, he can easily see her joining him.

He doesn’t want to hear her plans if her answer to that is no.

Instead, he flips on the radio. He taps along to the bass drums as she hums in time with the string instruments and he reminds himself that he cannot fall in love with her (not that it does any good).

“Nice place,” he says, and means it. The apartment building faces to the north, with a spectacular view of the harbor to the west. A doorman waves at Sloane as she starts to climb out.

“Thanks!”

“It might be rude of me to ask, but when I was in residency, I lived out of a shoebox. How did you all manage to secure a place like this?”

She glances over to the bay, biting at her lip, before meeting his curious gaze.

“We might have ganged up on the landlord and convinced him that our competition were communists.”

“Wow.”

“Well, ganged up is a strong term. But...yeah. First time I’ve ever been thankful I paid attention in that American History class in undergrad.”

“I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

“Oh, Doctor Ramsey,” she says with a shake of her head, that familiar smile making its appearance, “if you’re impressed by that, you should see what else I’m capable of.” With that, she grabs her purse from the floorboard, thanking him again for the ride, before rushing up to the double doors.

Ethan stays, wanting to make sure she gets inside safely, and watches her chat with the doorman for a moment. He can tell when she notices him still at the curb, and flicks a hand up at her when she waves to him. He waits a moment longer, watching her turn and head deeper into the lobby, until she disappears into a waiting elevator.

“I can’t wait to find out, Rookie.”

#ethan ramsey x mc #choices open heart #open heart #ethan ramsey x mc fanfiction #thought I was done with writing choices fic when most wanted 2 was declared DOA and I got bummed out #but here we are #Kaila writes things #metaphor series #f: the metaphor series

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pyrocicle · 7 years

Text

{ Ribbons }

Tap, tap, tap. Soft but distinct footsteps echoed across the antivoid. She didn't really need to walk, but it helped her feel more connected - unlike the first version, she wasn't immune to the disassociation caused by the emptiness of the whiteroom. It'd taken a while to find who she was looking for; there were any number of Errors, but only one Null.

"you're a difficult one to track down."

{ with guest star @errorinjudgment }

Null's hanging by his ankles when she locates him, swaying forward and back on his bright blue threads of magic with an absent, almost blissful look on his face. Something about that particular type of movement aids him in maintaining his calm, which is entirely necessary when he keeps finding himself back here without explanation. He doesn't want to be here, and has taken dissociation into the realm of meditation.

"h-h-hello." He chimes in that pleasant-if-not-so-distorted tone of his. "that is intentional." An eye cracks open for a good look at his latest guest, first traveling up and down the whole of her form, then settling on her face and staying there almost challengingly. "familiar. do you know crow and dove?"

Ribbons tilted her head at him, liquid-looking eyes seeming to splash with the movement.

"hiya! I know them, yes, though they don't know me. that's intentional, too." She laced her fingers together behind her back, rocking back on her heels, then up to her toes with the snarky grin so common to them. Short, dark green hair bounced with each movement. "a little birdy told me you've been having problems."

"problems? my wh-whole existence is a problem, lady." He lowers himself down onto the imaginary floor then gets to his feet to stand a respectful but already rather comfortable distance from the somewhat familiar woman. Her eyes hold his interest for a while then drift back down to what she's wearing, now commiting her appearance to memory.

"i ta-take it this is a business call, then?"

"I feel for you, glitchbean. friendly business!" She held out a hand. "you can call me Ribbons, for disambiguation. I'm... mm... here with proposal. not that kind, of course." Black coat, gray pants, cool, dusty green shirt and fur. Black boots with spiked soles. The pendant Dove wore had a bright red gem in it for Ribbons, and the lovely, complicated bow tied around her neck mimicked her eyes, the colors on it seeming to splash about like a liquid. She's small, and both sturdier than Dove and less squishy than Crow. A happy medium, perhaps. Her style certainly was a happy medium between the two!

"heh. gl-glitchbean." The use of the term of endearment is enough that Null feels comfortable brushing off his remaining paranoia. Ribbons has put him at ease, an advantage gained simply by being who she is and knowing what she does. He takes her hand and gives it a firm shake like a proper businessman, his hand radiating that same dry warmth her lesser alternates are familiar with.

"oh, not that kind of proposal. wh-what a shame. nevertheless, i am l-listening."

It's soothing. She's icy cold, fingers as short and stubby as ever. She tilted her head to one side with a giggle, another familiar gesture that proves she's who she appears to be, squeezing back firmly.

"keep sweet talkin' like that and it might turn into that kind." She stood up straighter, eyes focusing onto his. "you and I are beings with purpose. destruction's in your nature, salvation in mine. but we both know that there are some places that just can't be saved. all the LucK and determination in the multiverse couldn't set things right. and denying our nature is... unpleasant."

"you're c-cold." He notes aloud, shuffling closer to her upon realzing that he rather enjoys that contrast. His eyes match hers, focused and a little stubborn, comfortable but still rather serious. "your flirt game is just as st-strong as theirs, i see. you are correct. denying it has been... painful. are you asking me to destroy something beyond sa-sa-saving for you?"

"I'm always cold. you're warm." She scootched closer to him in return, resting her shoulder against his. With a jacket that thick and floofy she should be overheated, but she's just... icy. "well someone had to start the trend~"

Her expression changed from playful to grim in a blink. "I am. there is one that has become... painfully obvious. so much so my little Dove's flown the coop."

"i do believe that de-destruction can be an act of mercy." He tries to look grim, but fails. As much guilt as it comes with, he can't help smiling. What a confused monster, or glitch, he's become. "if there's really no helping them, why not give them a quick and pa-painless end? all the better if they're..." His eye socket twitches. "i-insulting to start with. you already know how i feel about the e-extent of widespread deviance."

"I do, yes. I don't always agree, but I certainly understand the sentiment and it's been known to factor into the choice to mark a timeline." She grinned back at him. "the proposal is for a partnership, in fact. I've uncovered a number of timelines where it would be more merciful to give them a clean and painless end. the little Doves can only do so much, if there's no hope then... why leave them to suffer?"

"y-you send dove to repair broken timelines? tha-that is admirable, and explains some things about her. if only i had the patience for it myself." He laughs a little. There was a time that he too would have preferred the route she's taken. Perhaps he'd still prefer it, were it not for his unique affliction.

"the answer is... ye-yes. i would love to help you. this is just the justification i need to stop putting off the inevitable. i know that i can't resist forever, not with this anger threatening to boil over every moment i spend pretending to be a pa-pa-pacifist."

Ribbons grinned broadly. "bingo, bingo, bingo! give the bean a prize!" she giggled and clapped. "good! excellent! far better to put destructive proclivities to a productive use than allow them to affect that best left alone, yes?"

"ye...-yes." He had to pause for a moment there, expression very thoughtful and slighlty pained. It's not easy to accept that he might not be entirely in control of himself if he fights too hard for too long, but such is life. He'd always been particularly good at going with the flow prior to his accident.

"would you care to give me the details on this world you want wiped clean?"

Ribbons smiled kindly, patting his shoulder lightly. "we all have ugly sides. alright, let me see..." She pulled out something that vaguely resembled a pair of short chopsticks, until she pulled them apart. Ribbons, like the one around her throat, stretched between it, before changing to an image of that particular world's Load Screen.

At the top left corner is a universe designation; below are profile pictures of the inhabitants. Dove is a question mark. Asgore's been Xed out, Sans and Papyrus have a green border. The others have red borders. There are five SOULs on the screen; Dove would have replaced Justice, and Chara hasn't fallen yet.

"wh-what in all the worlds..." The Error squints at the page. Asgore is gone that much is obvious at a chance, and Chara still isn't present? Toriel a single mother? And why the green border around himself and his brother? He shakes his head, trying not to think of it that way, trying to tell himself that he's not Sans anymore.

"interesting. please explain?"

The Patch giggled at his confusion.

"this is a universe designation. tells us what sort of variant it is, in this case, a 'swapped fell' timeline. that means Asgore's taken on Toriel's usual role, Mellow," she tapped the Sans, "has taken Papy's, and so on. The X means that she failed to befriend Asgore, the green borders mean she befriended Mellow and Papy. I believe... mm, yes, she'd reached Waterfall but gone no further. You see how there are only five souls? Dove was meant to replace the Justice child, but her soul is... unstable. I'm sure you've noticed. She needs a chance to heal before she dies, or her soul will simply shatter rather than being able to be collected. Evidently that wasn't possible here."

"i'm familiar with the variant and generally... not fond of the i-inhabitants. that explains why asgore is the first out of the picture." Predictably, he looks pleased, grin spreading and eyes brightening a touch as he looks and listens, piecing her method of illustrating the timeline's variables together. "fell and swap... two of the most abomination-prone iterations of our world. this will be rather fun."

"I think you'd rather like this one, but given they have no hope left... best to let them have a peaceful end. perhaps you'll get to see a happier iteration later." She looked grim, but managed a smile in return. "shall we, then?"

"no." He mutters, giving her a pat on the shoulder. "let me think this way. otherwise, i w-won't be able to do it. let me fuel my hate." And just like that, he's right back to the act. Is it an act? It's hard to tell and at this point in time even he's not entirely sure how he feels about this. "i'll consider it a te-te-test, on my part. i need to understand what's going on with me, and i... well i can't do that if i never try making a more. it's e-e-experiment time."

He clasps his hands together in front of himself and draws a deep breath. "we shall."

"fair." She nodded, taking a deep breath. They have to think different ways, but that's alright. It'll keep them more balanced if they're not simply an echo chamber for each other. "excellent. an experiment is just what the good doctor ordered." She clasped the... tablet? ribbontop? back together and returned it to her jacket, then held out her hand again.

Null takes her hand and gives it another firm shake before using it to pull her into a hug, complete with a soft, warm sort of laugh. He hadn't realized that he'd missed her half as much as he did. Well, he'd missed... others hers. Close enough. "tha-thank you. this should be beneficial to everyone involved. call me when you're ready."

#v; ribbons #v; virus 💚💛#errorinjudgement #glitchbean; null

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