#i miss when i was a little kid sick with pneumonia she was so gentle then

[cozy-fantasy-corner]

Band of Idiots Pt. 1: July

Pairing: Stucky x Reader

Warnings: Mentions of abuse and illness

Word Count: 1K ish

Summary: Y/n and Steve Rogers have been best friends since they were babies. One day, Steve is taken ill and Y/n has to find someone else to play with. This encounter will change all three of their lives forever. 

Author’s Note: This is my first fic, but I’ve put a lot of love into it. I really hope you fall in love with this story as much as I have! 

I was a runty little kid growing up, just like my neighbor, Stevie. I was always sick, and I was so skinny that it scared my mama. My poor health and my small size did nothing for me, but it never stopped me. If you asked anyone that knew me, I was ten times more stubborn than my Stevie. Thick as thieves, us two. We did anything and everything together. 

Our mamas both worked at the hospital together. I stayed with Stevie most nights because they had late shifts, not to mention Papa was a mean drunk. He would never watch us, just wake up and yell, maybe slap us around a bit. I’d do all of my work with Stevie, play on the fire escape with him, and curl up in his bed at the end of every day. It was nice, it just being us two. 

Everything was wonderful as it could be. Every day was the same things, but they never got old. A case of pneumonia or the flu here and there spiced things up, not to mention the random asthma attacks. But sometimes I craved a little more. I know, it sounds silly. I wanted more adventure, maybe even a new friend to add to our duo. 

Stevie got really sick the night after he turned 7. He had come down with something that could kill both of us if we weren’t careful. Mama said I had to stay home until he got better. This left me real uneasy. He was my best guy, we were never apart, and all of a sudden I couldn’t see him at all. I hated it. 

I sulked around the apartment for 4 days before Papa got sick of my long face. He got so annoyed with me that he put me on the fire escape and locked the window up tight. Boy, did that grind my gears. I just missed my Stevie, and then Papa wanted rid of me. 

I sat on the landing for 2 hours with my arms hugged tight to my chest and a scowl across my face before something jerked me out of my brooding. A girl, about the same age as me, with steely blue eyes, plopped down beside me. She had this quizzical look on her face and her eyes shone bright in the Brooklyn heat. 

“My name’s Rebecca Barnes, but Buck and Mama call me Becca. You can call me Becca, too. What’s your name, Grumpy-pants?” she teased gently, poking my side. 

I rolled my eyes at her remark, but I softened at her touch. I looked her up and down, taking in her bright energy and her curly brown hair. I unfurled my arms and smiled shyly at her. My fingers brushed the trousers I’d stolen from Stevie, plucking at a string without noticing. All I could do is be scared she wouldn’t want a loser like me to play with. Stevie woulda told me to go for it. Woulda said I needed a new friends anyways. I decided to go for it. 

“I’m Y/n. Mama and my Stevie call me Minnie, not Grumpy-pants. Wanna play?” I asked hesitantly. I didn’t meet her eyes entirely. 

I fully expected her to say no, and much to my surprise, she didn’t say anything. In fact, she just nodded excitedly and grabbed my hand. She yanked me to my feet and set off up the fire escape. I followed behind her, stumbling every couple of steps. Jeez, she moved quickly. All I could see were her curls bouncing as she raced up the steps. She came to a stop suddenly, and I slumped onto the landing, wheezing a little bit.  

I put my hands on the metal and tugged myself up the last step. Mama doesn’t let me climb much because it takes so much out of me. I could feel the energy leaving my body. The heat just sucked it right outta me. I shuffled into a seated position, breathing heavily. I put my hand up as if to ask for a second, and Becca looked at me with a deep concern in her eyes. 

She settled on the floor next to me, and studied me carefully. She could hear my chest rattling and wheezing. Most people would pity me, but Becca just waited for me to settle my lungs. She wasn’t rude or impatient. She just sat and made sure that I was okay. My heart felt funny. No one but Stevie or Mama was this nice to me, ever. 

“Are you okay, Minnie?” she prompted, snapping me out of my thoughts. 

I just nodded and gave her a weak smile. My breathing was still a little funny, but not too bad. Not enough to worry. I straightened my spine a little and placed my hands on my thighs. I rocked forward a little to try and stand, but Becca had already shot up and held out her arm for me. I hoarsely whispered my thanks and leaned into her. She guided me to the window of her cool apartment and took me to the couch. I flopped gracelessly and pressed my wrist to my forehead. 

“Got asthma” I weakly explained, pressing my eyes closed tightly. 

She nodded like she knew already. She shuffled off past me. I heard a glass clink and the faucet running. She came back with a wet rag and a glass of water. She nudged my arm away from my face, replacing it with the rag, and set the water in my hand. I sipped silently as she studied me. It was almost as if she did this often. I shooed the thought from my head when I heard the tip tap of shoes on the floor. 

“Bex? That you?” called the boy in the doorway. His eyes shifted between us girls, curious as to who was on his couch. 

Becca gave him a “leave it alone” look and his features softened. He was very pretty. I could tell that he was a little bit older by his height and how he spoke to her. His arms were crossed over his chest casually. His eyes were the same piercing blue as Becca’s and his dark hair was perfectly styled. They must be brother and sister. 

My study of him was interrupted by his voice floating over the room. He was introducing himself. Something about James. I didn’t really catch it. My head was too fuzzy. I blinked dumbly and just from that he knew I hadn’t heard anything he said. He waved his hand up to snap me out of my daze. My attention was fully on him. 

“The name is James Buchanan Barnes. I hate James and Buchanan. Call me Bucky, please” he said with a soft sort of arrogance in his tone. He was gentle, but full of himself. A real brother. 

That one moment, unbeknownst to any of us, had changed all of our lives for good. 

------------------

Author’s Note: I really hope you guys liked this first chapter. I’m going to start working on the next one ASAP!

#Band of Idiots #Part 1 #July #Marvel #MCU #Stucky x Reader #1920's!AU #Kid!Reader #Kid!Steve Rogers #Kid!Bucky Barnes #james buchanan barnes #Steven grant rogers #captain america #winter soldier #MJ Writes

[therosegoldwriter]

Ghost Flight | Liv Archer | 2020

There’s a global pandemic. The world has gone crazy, about to tip off its axis. A virus, wide-spread, but not nearly as deadly as the media makes it out to be, has frightened government leaders around the world into closing schools, small businesses, air travel, restaurants, and church buildings.

America’s stock markets are down, the economy’s going into recession, and the prohibition has been reinstated, all thanks to a new strain of pneumonia.

She hopes she gets sick. There’s a chance the virus would be too much for her immune system. She pays little attention to the advice of the CDC.

Contracting and succumbing to the virus brought hope to her restless mind.

She makes her way through the airport that is so dead she doesn’t recognize it. She’s never heard it so quiet – her heeled boots make the only sound and she’s self-conscious.

An angel stands back against a news stand, watching. She’s calmer than usual. She glides past check stations and through security, no sign of shaking, sweaty hands or an ever-deepening fear in the background of her thoughts. She’s almost frighteningly peaceful.

The TSA agent appreciates her quiet manner and clear-spoken ‘yes sir’, ‘thank you, sir’ as he instructs her though security. She passes through without delay and swiftly gathers her things off the conveyor belt before anyone can be impatient with her.

There’s no rush. There’s no one in line behind her.

Is there a difference between peace and acceptance? There’s certainly something worse about being in the mindset to be accepting.

Angel pulls her back just before a man with a cart of trays runs into her, but she just waves away his apology and offers one of her own.

The waiting area at the gate hosts no more than twelve people, and none of them are coming within ten feet of each other. Half of them are wearing masks and gloves.

She takes no such precautions, unconcerned with the dangers of contamination. She feels free to occupy two chairs, one for her carry-on and one for herself, pleased with the promise of personal space.

Angel sits on the seatback above her carry-on, glancing down as she plugged in her headphones and proceeds to stare at the black screen of her phone as though watching something.

She’s thinking too hard to watch anything.

A few yards away, a young girl – no older than seventeen – sits down, turns her music up, and stares out the window.

Only Angel can see the two figures who linger behind her. One of them looks grief-stricken, burdened with the weight of failure. His companion places his hand on the kid’s shoulders and her eyes close weakly.

Angel feels a pang of pity – and another of dread.

He’d hate to be where the other angels are, but he knows his time will come. His watchful eyes return to the woman next to him. She seems okay, smiling genuinely at the face that just popped into her head – a young man, the star of her softest dreams.

She’s gotten better over the past few days, being mindful of the way she prays. Among her prayers, Angel has heard her stop asking for things and rather thanking the Father for everything in her life. The young man is always first on her list.

Time ticks by, the woman’s mood becoming less comprehensive as she zones out. The empty, thousand-yard stares have become more frequent over the past few weeks, Angel has noticed. She used to have such a lively mind, always firing with creativity and imagination.

A few seats away, a man sits down silently and gets a good look at the few people around him. He’s accompanied by a coal-black presence, shrouded in smoke-like gray.

Angel stares at his fallen brother, heavy-hearted.

The other angel catches his gaze and looks away, lurking around the man like a dark cloud.

Angel edges closer to the woman. He leans closer, whispers, ‘Not long now. We’ll get a change of scenery soon enough.’

She has no idea of the world behind the veil. The forces at work, working to aid her. Her heart is heavy with the silence. She perceives that she is alone in the world, and cannot see the host of Heaven seeking to guide her.

  This is the third time she’s flown into Texas in the past two weeks. She stares out the window, bored. The plane is nearly empty. Everyone on board has a row all to themselves, and most of the rows are empty entirely.

She is slumped in her seat, sleeping lightly. When she wakes she is tired.

Life has continued and she is disappointed, but she accepts it.

“Not yet,” Angel whispers.

She closes her eyes again, weighed down with sadness.

She doesn’t pray on planes anymore, to Angel’s dismay. All her life, she’s been frightened by turbulence, praying a hundred times for safety.

She’s not afraid anymore.

The plane hits a pocket of air and drops violently. Her heart doesn’t change its pace, and her only reaction is to hope it keeps falling.

  She hasn’t eaten all day. She just orders coffee and keeps ordering until she’s downed three cups.

“Remember when he told you he missed you?” Angel whispers.

At the memory of the man she cares deeply for expressing lightly his displeasure of the absence of her company, she smiles out the window.

She’s grown in the past few days; Angel has noticed her increased efforts to stay on top of the heaviness in her heart. He knows it hasn’t quite worked, but he commends her all the same. He’s proud of her – the way she clings to the thinnest of hopes, the way she envisions her future and keeps working for it.

He knows what she thinks of her future, how bleak it looks, how lonely she feels, and knows how she has stepped outside of herself to prepare for it anyway.

Angel looks a few rows down and sees the kid sitting alone, the two angels sitting beside her.

The looks on both of the angels’ faces says it clearly: the child has let go of hope. Her heart has closed, and she cares for nothing.

Angel feels the woman’s smile fade.

Her thoughts have returned to her unanswered message to the young man. Her throat tightens and her chest clenches; she is ignored and unappreciated.

Angel hears her praying. She’s pleading for help, for release. He reaches for her to comfort her, but in this moment she is far from him.

Her pain has shut him out.

Angel lays a warm hand on her forehead and she drifts off to sleep. He wipes the tears from her face and sings calming dreams of winter into her ear.

She hasn’t slept through the night in five days. Angel is there at all hours to return her to slumber, but no matter how many pleasant dreams he gives her, she persists in awakening.

He worries for her body.

  When the seventeen-year-old girl gets up to go to the bathroom at the back of the plane, the angel Death follows her in.

Neither of them return.

The child’s guardian angel lowers his head hopelessly. He’d lost contact with her days ago; there was nothing he could have done.

Farther down the cabin, the fallen angel laughs. He has killed his own remorse and does not feel the agony that all three of the other angels suffer.

  Despite Angel’s best efforts to deepen her sleep, the woman awakens the moment one of the other passengers begins screaming.

The seventeen-year-old’s body has fallen out of the bathroom at the feet of the stewardess who had gone to investigate the lengthy duration of her time within.

Angel watches the face of the woman who sits next to him. She’s straining to see the reason for the panic that has overtaken the plane, her sleepy expression flashing from confused to shocked in seconds.

The child’s angel crouches over the body.

The soul is gone, the heart is still. The angel, distraught by the selfish panic of the passengers, stands and wails for silence, pleading for respect for the loss.

No one hears him, but they all fall silent.

He is gone with a prayer, vanished without another word.

Angel is sorrowful as he feels the woman’s envy.

 The plane is quick to land after the body is found, and the passengers are herded off-board. Angel keeps the woman close, murmuring gentle words of comfort as she sits to wait for another flight to take her the rest of the way.

Angel doesn’t know which of them is more disturbed over the suicide. He keeps seeing the other guardian angel’s face, empathetically feeling the terror of his human being entirely unresponsive to his efforts. He kept feeling the unshakeable belief that one day he’d experience exactly the same thing.

She kept seeing that lifeless body on the airplane carpet, blood pooling from the arms of one so young. Her face had been so relaxed, so peaceful. She didn’t look dead, she just appeared to be sleeping. She wishes she knew what that was like.

Angel is broken out of his thoughts as his fallen brother meanders closer, a black smile breeding unease.

The fallen angel seizes the woman’s chin in a cold hand and turns her head towards the tiny liquor store across the terminal. “You could always drink yourself to death,” He taunts.

She stares at the store, heart racing.

Angel slaps the tempting spirit away angrily, and she looks away from the shop.

The fallen angel chortles. “Come on, sweetheart, you know you want to try it. You could go into the bathroom, hang yourself with your scarf. Or you could break the mirror and barricade yourself in a stall, do it the same way the kid did.”

She’s considering it.

Angel feels her unhappiness rush in like a tidal wave, the hope of peace bobbing to the surface. He rises, flaming with fury.

Angel burns brightly, and his fallen brother puts more space between them. He laughs joyously, innocently. “Don’t get mad at me, brother,” He glances down at the suffering woman. “I’m not the first one to suggest it.”

Angel’s eyes snap with fire, and he feels the woman’s ambition fade. He is fueled in his efforts. “Be gone, tempter. She belongs to the Father, and she is under my protection.”

The fallen angel recognizes his loss, but is not so quick to take his leave. “And you’ve done a fine job so far. Even I can see her soul searching for darkness.”

“Her soul searches for peace, brother. Unlike you, she will find it.”

When the tempter returns to his sorry victim, Angel kneels gently before the woman. She is tormented and conflicted, tears spilling over her cheeks, eyes resting achingly on the sign for the restrooms.

Angel draws her close, warming her cold hands. “Breathe, child,” He whispers. “The pain will pass. There is work for you yet.”

She can’t feel him, can’t hear him, but her mind quiets.

Angel smiles proudly and touches her phone.

It emits a unique chime and flashes a notification.

The woman hurries to wipe her face, her heart alighting.

The message is from the one she loves, the first of a short string of conversation.

Angel gazes around the airport, sorrow-ridden, praying for the day she regains her fear of flying.

#short story #fiction #depression #angel #sad #angst #tragedy #2020 #corona #writing #novel #author #writer #book #story

[vernonfielding]

Carnival: Trial by Fire

This story was written for @vic-kovac for the @b99fandomevents Fall 2019 Fic Exchange. Vic-kovac, I was SO EXCITED to get you as my prompter because I love your writing so much and your prompts were all fantastic (in fact, there may be a second story coming along...). I hope you like this!

Thank you to my always amazing beta, @fezzle. I don’t want to think about what I’d do without you, Z.

The prompt I chose: The Santiagos have an annual family tradition and Amy takes Jake along (fluff, early established relationship). To the story! (Or read on A03!)

Part 1: Amy

Jake had splurged on express delivery but the new mattress still wasn’t scheduled to arrive until the weekend, so they were at Amy’s apartment, in Amy’s bed, under Amy’s floral comforter when she dropped the bomb.

“I talked to my mom today,” Amy said, casual-like, her nose in a crossword puzzle. Maybe too casual-like.

“Hm,” Jake said. He was playing a game on his phone. Amy peeped over his shoulder at the screen. It looked like it involved harvesting pumpkins, which was season-appropriate, at least.

“I told her about us.”

Jake gave her a side glance, then set his phone in his lap. “You did?”

“I did.”

Jake waited while Amy pretended to return to her puzzle, tapping the cap of her pen against her lower lip. Finally he chuckled and tore the paper out of her hands.

“Jake-”

“What did she say? Are we in the clear or is this going to be a Romeo and Juliet situation?”

“For the last time, we’re never going to be a Romeo and Juliet situation.” Amy said, scowling at him. “Do you still not remember how that play ends?”

“No, and stop trying to avoid the question.”

“Jake, it’s a double suici-” But she noted the stormy look on Jake’s face and caved. “She’s happy for me – for us. She’s only disappointed that she can’t be here for Thanksgiving so my dad’s going to get to meet you before she does.”

Jake chuckled. “Is everything in your family a competition?”

“Yes.”

Jake gave her a slow nod at that, the look on his face part bemused, part concerned – Amy figured she was going to see a lot more of that when it came to her family – but then he smiled. And it was a smile that made his whole face go soft, his eyes wide and warm, and she couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss his mouth.

“Thank you,” Jake said, gentle and sincere, when she’d pulled away.

“You’re welcome,” Amy said.

They both sat back against the headboard again, phone and puzzle in hands. Amy bit her lip and glanced at his profile. He looked so relaxed, so content, that she almost felt bad. 

“Mom also said this means you have to come to the annual carnival.”

Jake hummed his acknowledgment again, then his brows knit in bemusement and he said,  “What now?”

“It’s a Santiago tradition,” Amy said. “You’re going to love it.”

In truth, she thought he might hate it. There was a slim but real chance their relationship might not survive it.

“A carnival,” Jake said. He nodded to himself and then grinned at her. “Sounds fun, babe.”

She did not correct him.

 Part 2: Nick

The carnival was really more of a neighborhood block party, started by Victor Santiago back when he was a sergeant in the 103rd precinct. The Santiago children had been enlisted as volunteers since the very first carnival, when it was just a barbecue and some folding chairs and kids kicking rotten Halloween pumpkins in the street. Over the years it had become a neighborhood institution, with hundreds of people turning out over the afternoon and into the evening – it was a way for families old and new to reconnect, for residents to take pride in their community, and for the local cops to show their soft underbellies and let kids throw pies in their faces.

Victor and Camila had moved away years ago, but the Santiago siblings by unspoken agreement had kept up their participation. Though the Santiagos no longer organized the event and none of them lived in the neighborhood anymore, they always attended, along with a growing cadre of Amy’s nieces and nephews and associated girlfriends and boyfriends and in-laws. Not one sibling had missed a single carnival – not Amy when she’d been sick with pneumonia, or Ivan when his wife had given birth two days before, or David, who had turned down a commendation from the mayor so he could attend the 2012 fair. (He got the medal anyway, in a private ceremony at the mayor’s own home. Bruce Willis had been there. It was a long story. Amy planned to never tell Jake.)

Some might say it had become a competition among Amy and her brothers to see who would attend the most carnivals. Amy just called it a nice family tradition.

As she walked hand in hand with Jake up the subway stairs, she could hear the screeches of small children and the familiar strains of Cuban salsa coming from above. The exit deposited them half a block from the carnival, which was just getting started, volunteers hustling around with arms full of raffle tickets and platters of meat to be barbecued even as the first families with young children began meandering among the booths. Autumn-colored streamers were strung between tents and someone had dusted the ground with straw to add to the seasonal effect. Amy could already smell the odd but intoxicating aroma of roasting meat and pumpkin spice.

She insisted on paying the $5 entry for each of them, then paused to take a deep breath and smile at the familiarity of it all. She turned to Jake to ask what he thought, and his eyes were warm and bright as he took it in. She took his left arm in both her hands and snuggled in close to him, suddenly so happy to have him here in this place like home.

And then he was tugged right out of her hands and she looked up to find Nick with an arm slung around Jake’s shoulders – or more like his neck – in a fairly aggressive way.

“Nick!”

“Sorry, sis, this is Jake, right? I need to borrow him for a minute. Jake, I’m Nick, Amy’s favorite little brother.”

“Uh-” Jake said.

As he was dragged away, Jake looked back over his shoulder at Amy, all the warmth from just a moment before replaced by wide-eyed fear. Amy waved at him and called after Nick, “You’d better not break him! Nick!”

An hour later, after helping one of the neighborhood abuelitas sell raffle tickets, Amy excused herself and went hunting for her boyfriend. She found him in a booth amid the snack tents. He was grinning madly as he handed an enormous pile of cotton candy, wound precariously atop a cardboard stick, to a girl who couldn’t have been older than 5, and whose mother looked horrified. The spun sugar was bright pink and larger than the child’s head.

Jake saw Amy and his eyes went wide and he frantically looked all around the tent, then mouthed “help me.” He had wisps of pink and blue sugar in his hair and the wild-eyed look of a man who’d been eating samples of pure sugar for an hour. Amy grabbed his sticky hand and hissed, “come with me,” and snuck him out the back, right under Nick’s nose.

 Part 3: Omar

She took him to one of the family restrooms to wash up, though there wasn’t much they could do for his hair – the sugar seemed to have embedded itself in his curls. Amy had only the faintest memories of eating cotton candy as a child, of the way it melted on her tongue like something ephemeral and unnatural, not entirely of this world. She was afraid that some kind of chemical reaction had taken place on Jake’s head.

“I’m sorry about that. I don’t know what Nick was thinking putting you on cotton candy duty right out of the gate,” Amy said, as they left the bathroom, Jake still scrubbing his hair with a paper towel.

He shrugged and smiled at her easily enough. “I love cotton, and I love candy, I just had no idea that when you put them together things got so…sticky.”

“You know that cotton candy isn’t cotton.”

“You’re so cute when you’re wrong,” Jake said, and kissed her on the forehead. “Anyway, Nick was nice.”

“Nice? Nick?”

“Sure,” Jake said, shooting her a bemused look. “Is he not nice?”

“He’s not not-nice,” Amy said, which seemed to confuse Jake even more. “He’s just-”

But then Omar sprung up between them, as if out of thin air, and slid his arms around both of their shoulders.

“Amy! I can’t believe you haven’t introduced me yet!”

Amy rolled her eyes and said to Jake, “Jake, this is my brother Omar. Omar, Jake.”

“Much better. Now off you go, Amy. Mrs. Hernandes was asking for you over at the cake walk,” Omar said, and began to push Amy away, definitely with more force than a cake walk required.

She reached for Jake’s hand, but Omar batted her away. “I’ve got your boy,” he said. “Jake, you look like a man who knows a thing or two about ring tossing…” And they faded into the crowd.

When Mrs. Hernandes released her from the cake walk – “Uptown Funk” was going to be playing in her head for the rest of her life – Amy wandered back over to the game booths, and found Jake easily enough. The ring toss was surrounded by kids five or six deep, and when she squirmed her way to the front she couldn’t even manage surprise at what she saw. Jake and Omar stood side by side, fire in their eyes and plastic rings in hand as a bedraggled looking volunteer straightened the lines of two-liter bottles they would be aiming for.

“Best of ten tosses,” Omar said.

Jake narrowed his eyes and smirked, and Amy instantly recognized his game face. “I win, I get to date your sister.”

“Hey!” Amy said.

“Oh hey, babe,” Jake said cheerfully, grinning at her before returning his stony stare to Omar.

Omar glowered and said, “I win, you still get to date my sister and you have to play Santa Claus at my kids’ Christmas pageant.”

They shook on it, and Amy honestly was so embarrassed for both of them that she couldn’t bear to watch.

“The trophy is going to see if they need any help with the puppet show,” Amy said, and squeezed her way back through the crowd. She rolled her eyes as the kids erupted into cheers when someone scored a point.

 Part 4: Ivan

Amy ate lunch with a few of her old neighbors, laughing over plates of carnitas as she got caught up on all the gossip on the kids she’d grown up with. After, she figured it was about time to hunt down Jake again and make sure he hadn’t been handcuffed to a lamppost by one of her brothers as a prank. She shivered at the recollection of the Carnival ‘03 Incident.

She’d gone two circuits of the carnival, and was starting to get concerned that he’d been smuggled off-site, before she found him – and did an immediate double-take. He was in the face-painting booth, eyes narrowed as he carefully traced the delicate, unmistakable lines of a butterfly wing on the cheek of a little boy. Jake was intensely focused, his tongue stuck in one corner of his mouth, hand holding the child’s head in place while he worked. It was sweet to see him so attentive, but that wasn’t what had caught Amy’s eye.

It was the pink unicorn painted on one of Jake’s cheeks, with a rainbow of poop shooting out of its butt and across his forehead.

Amy smacked her hand over her mouth to keep from laughing out loud. Her only option was a hasty retreat. She backed up a few steps, careful not to draw his attention, then spun on her heel and prepared to make a run for it. Only she ran smack into Ivan, the tallest and widest of her brothers. He caught her around the forearms and steadied her when she bounced right of his chest.

“Whoa, where you off to so fast?” Ivan said.

Amy looked back over her shoulder at Jake, but he was still working on his butterfly. Her eyes watered from the effort of not laughing.

“I have to help with the, uh, thing,” Amy said, waving her hand vaguely. She was glad Ivan was not the brightest of her brothers.

“Okay, just look where you’re going,” he said, and Amy nodded vigorously.

She started to walk away, but turned after a moment and said, “Ivan, what do you think about Jake?”

Ivan looked back into the tent at Jake, and shrugged. “Seems like a good guy. He’s kind of a shitty face painter, though.”

 Part 5: Tony

“Amy! Hey, Amy! Santiago!”

Amy looked up from the table where she was making beaded friendship bracelets with a group of 9-year-old girls. Tony was poking his head through the back of the craft tent.

“What’s up?”

“Your boyfriend, does he have any allergies?”

Amy frowned and narrowed her eyes at him. “Bees,” she said.

“Okay, but no, like, food allergies?”

“Not that I know of,” Amy said.

“Does he have a heart condition?” Amy shook her head. “What about phobias? Fear of heights? Enclosed spaces? How is he with spiders?”

“Tony-”

“Oh! There he is. Later, sis!”

Tony disappeared and Amy wondered if she should follow him.

“I think your boyfriend might be in trouble,” one of the 9-year-olds said.

Amy propped her chin in her hand and nodded.

“Do you think he’ll break up with you if he gets bit by a spider?” another 9-year-old said.

“No, he’d probably think that’s really cool,” Amy said.

The girls all nodded sagely.

“Boys,” one said.

“Men,” Amy said, and knotted a new bracelet for Jake.

 Part 6: Eddie

She wasn’t dumb or naïve. She’d expected her brothers to run Jake through the gauntlet at the annual carnival. She just hadn’t expected to see him sitting atop a pony that her 3-year-old nephew was pulling along by a rope.

“Isn’t he a little big for the pony?” Amy said to Eddie, who was leaning against the fenced enclosure and chewing on a blade of hay.

“Mason was scared so Jake offered to show him it was no big deal,” Eddie said.

Amy nodded and hoped that Mason didn’t noticed the white-knuckled grip Jake had on the saddle horn. At least it was a large pony – she thought it might actually be a small horse – so Jake probably wasn’t going to break its back. That would really freak out the children. Amy dug her phone out of her jacket pocket and debated briefly over whether to take photos or video, before deciding on both.

“Jake’s all right,” Eddie said, after the pony had trotted a few loops.

Amy slipped her phone back in her pocket and crossed her arms over the top of the fence, and hummed her agreement. Jake was the first boyfriend she’d brought to one of these carnivals, and though she’d been nervous for him because her brothers were all competitive jerks (she loved them, really), she hadn’t doubted for a second that they would like him. Her parents were going to be the real test.

When Mason finally called the pony to a stop with a very firm “whoa,” Jake slid off the animal’s back and walked a bit bow-legged to where they were watching.

“Nice riding, cowboy,” Amy said, grinning up at him. The pooping unicorn paint-job was still in remarkably good shape.

Jake kissed her on the cheek and tilted his head to one side to say in her ear, “If you tell anyone-”

“I already sent the photos to Gina.”

She kissed the corner of his mouth and backed up with a little wave.

“You’re a demon!” Jake called after her. “A harvest demon! That’s a thing!”

Amy blew him a kiss as Eddie threw an arm over his shoulder and pulled him back to the ponies.

 Part 7: David

Amy was sipping Mexican hot chocolate, watching the older couples dancing as the sun started to set and everything was turning golden and a little fuzzy around the edges, when Manny sidled up next to her and gave her a one-armed hug. She knew they were both thinking about their parents, and how they’d always closed down the carnival dancing, until they were the only couple left on the floor. When Amy was a child, the carnival wasn’t over until Victor dipped Camila and kissed her in front of everyone, and all the old men and women whistled and cheered and the kids groaned, and finally the last of the colored lights strung up and down the blocks were turned off.

“Where’s Jake?” she said to Manny, after they’d watched in silence for a while.

Manny fumbled in his jeans pocket and pulled out his phone. “According to the group text, he’s in the first aid tent with David.”

“Group text?” Amy said with a frown. “I haven’t had anything on the group text all day.”

“Oh, right.” Manny scratched the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Uh-”

“Oh my god. I’m not on this group text,” Amy said, a cold realization washing over her. “You guys really are trying to break my boyfriend.”

“Not break!” Manny said, throwing his hands up. “Just, you know, bend. A little.”

Amy groaned and rolled her eyes. “You guys are aware that it’s 2015 and I’m in my 30s and basically half of you are younger than me, right?”

“Yeah, we know-”

“Also, Jake can handle whatever you losers throw at him so bring it,” Amy said, and downed the rest of her hot chocolate. “And yes, I know I’m being a hypocrite but I’ve got the moral high ground here.”

She gave Manny a quick hug and punched him – hard – in the shoulder and took off for the first aid tent. Though David was probably the least likely of her brothers to cause physical damage to Jake, she was still deeply unsettled by the idea of them spending time alone together. Amy knew she was being just a little bit hysterical, but still: What if Jake liked David more than he liked her?

As Amy neared the back of the tent, she heard David before she saw him. “And now you peel off the plastic strip – no, not both sides at once! Wait, here, let me-”

“I know how to put on a Band-Aid,” said Jake.

“But there’s the correct way and there’s the way that lets flesh-eating bacteria fester,” said David.

The sudden loud sob of a child cut off the rest of their conversation. Amy smirked to herself and poked her head into a break between tent flaps. Jake was crouched beside a chair, and a curly-haired little boy was clinging to him like a monkey, face buried in Jake’s shoulder. David stood over them, cleaning his hands with a disinfectant wipe.

“I’ll radio the on-duty officers and see if they’ve had any luck finding his mom,” David said and headed toward the front of the tent.

“Yeah, you do that,” Jake muttered. He stood with the child still hanging off him, then settled himself in the chair and arranged the kid so he was curled on his lap. The boy looked like he was 4 or 5, and he had a fresh bandage on one knee and tears smudging the tiger stripes painted on his face.

“What’s flesh-eating bacteria?” the boy said with a hiccup.

Jake stroked a palm over the boy’s hair and said, “It’s like cooties, but for adults. And don’t tell anyone, okay, but that guy? He’s covered in flesh-eating bacteria.”

“Is that why his face looks so stuck up?” the boy said. Amy had to stuff her fist in her mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

“Yep,” Jake said, patting the kid on top of the head. “You’ve got it.”

Jake and the kid made up a long, complicated, very detailed story about the origin of flesh-eating bacteria and how David got it. Amy watched them until the boy’s mom showed up, and he gave Jake a hug and made Jake kiss his knee. Both of her legs were asleep by the time she stood up and limped off to her next volunteer assignment. It was worth it.

 Part 8: Manny

“There’s no way I can do this, Ames. I give up!”

“Oh- well, okay. You want to go home then?” Amy tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. He’d been doing so well.

“What? No! I meant how am I supposed to pick a winner when they all look the same?” He gestured desperately at the costumed kids lining up on the parade route. “There are like 20 Jedi knights out there!”

“Oh yeah,” Amy said, peering over his shoulder.

Jake had been “randomly selected” as the sole judge of this year’s costume contest – the main event of the carnival for the neighborhood kids. (It was one of the holdovers from the earliest carnivals, which had always taken place around Halloween. The year they’d moved the carnival into mid-November they’d canceled the contest, and the kids had revolted. Nick, the youngest of the Santiagos and the only one still dressing up for Halloween, had led the riots.) Manny had told Jake that costume judge was a position of high honor as he placed the paper crown on Jake’s head. But Amy could tell Jake wasn’t buying it.

Indeed, it was a vastly unenviable job. There were three dozen eager, doe-eyed 3- to 10-year-olds vying for the prize. And 11 of them were Santiagos.

“You know, back when I was a kid we valued creativity,” Jake said, still staring down the Jedis.

“Oh yeah?” said Manny, who was half-heartedly trying to get the kids to line up by height. “And what’d you dress up for Halloween?”

“Are you sure you weren’t John McClane very year?” Amy said.

“I will give you ages 7 through 14,” Jake said.

“Fourteen?” Amy said, horrified.

“I meant 10,” Jake said. “Anyway. Before that I was a scarecrow-”

“Cute,” Amy said.

“E.T.”

“Adorable,” Manny said.

“Airline pilot.”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Amy said.

“Yeah. Then the next year I was George Michael.”

“Wait-” Amy said. “What?” Manny said.

“I was 6 and my mom was going through some stuff and listening to a lot of ‘Careless Whisper’ and you know what, never mind,” Jake said.

Someone blew a whistle then, loud enough to make a bunch of kids start crying. Amy wasn’t surprised to see David was the source – he was waving his arms wildly at Manny, clearly annoyed by the chaos on the parade line. Amy kissed Jake on the (non-unicorn) cheek and wished him good luck, and took her place with the rest of the volunteers wrangling kids. Jake sat alone on a folding chair that had been draped in fake orange velvet, with crepe-paper autumn leaves stapled all over. The costume judge was also deemed the carnival king (or queen), though Amy didn’t think anyone had told Jake that. They also probably hadn’t told him that when the judging was over he’d be manhandled to the official pie-throwing wall, which was sort of self-explanatory. Amy quickly checked her phone to make sure she had plenty of storage.

“Monster Mash” suddenly blasted out over the speakers mounted around the parade block and the first kids marched off in front of Jake. Amy stepped back and watched with a grin as Jake sat straight in his chair, the same focus in his eyes that she’d seen a hundred times when he was surveying a crime scene, not missing a thing. Manny came up on one side of her and Omar on the other, and she felt more than saw them make eye contact over the top of her head.

“Stop talking about me,” she said, nudging them both with her elbows.

“I’m just saying, if he doesn’t pick Matthew, your boy’s in trouble,” Omar said.

“Oh please,” Amy said, “that little Taylor Swift’s got it in the bag.”

 Part 9: Amy

Amy toed off her sneakers and climbed through the flap of the bounce house. It was well past dark, but in the dim, checkered light cast by the streetlamps, she had no problem making out Jake, sprawled spread eagle in the middle of the plastic floor. His eyes were closed, and tufts of whipped cream still clung to his curls, and though most of the painted unicorn was long gone she could still make out a smudge of rainbow poop across his brow.

She smiled to herself and crawled toward him, the inflated structure squeaking and wobbling under her weight. She stretched out beside him, and rested her head against his chest. He smelled like ponies and apple cider and sweet-rotten pumpkin and barbecue – like all of her best childhood memories. When he lifted a hand to stroke back her hair, she saw that he had about a dozen friendship bracelets on his arm, and a gauze bandage wrapped carelessly around his palm.

“Did I pass?” he said, voice still a bit croaky after all the yelling during the pie-throwing.

“With flying colors,” Amy said, and snuggled deeper into his side. She took his hand and kissed the palm, not sure if she wanted to know what had happened there. “Are you okay?”

“Hm,” he hummed, and she glanced up to see that he was smiling.

Amy let them lie there for a while, listening to the faint, familiar strains of bossa nova and imagining the couples dancing under the fairy lights. Maybe one day she and Jake would be one of those old couples, closing down the carnival while their sleepy children watched quietly and drank the last of the hot chocolate. She knew she was getting way ahead of herself – they’d only been dating a couple of months, after all – but she let herself indulge in the fantasy, just for now.

When she finally started to get cold, and she could hear the calls of volunteers tearing down tents, she sat up slowly and kissed Jake on a clean spot on his forehead, and then again on the mouth. She couldn’t resist lingering there, lips parting without a thought. She felt his sigh as he opened his mouth to her, letting her in. She was just starting to get warmed up when she went to run her fingers through his hair and got caught in a sticky tangle of sugar-coated curls. Amy chuckled into his mouth and pulled away.

“Come on,” she said, wiping her hand on her jeans, “let’s go home.”

He groaned sleepily and said, “This bounce house is home, Ames. I live here now.”

Amy laughed and tugged on both of his hands until he reluctantly sat up. “That new mattress isn’t going to break itself in, you know.”

At that Jake ducked his head and laughed, and they both clambered awkwardly out of the house, and crouched to slide their shoes back on. Amy took his hand again and led him away from the lights and the noise of the clean-up crews – she figured they’d earned an early exit.

“Next year I think I’ll just stick with the ring toss. Maybe face-painting if I can get Ivan to teach me how to do a dragon,” Jake said.

“Next year?” Amy said.

“Yeah,” Jake said, looping his arm over her shoulders. “And next year, David is carnival king.”

THE END

#b99 fic #peraltiago #so much fluff #santiagos #fall fic exchange

[lovelylogans]

where you lead, i will follow

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start from the beginning!

ao3 | read my other fics | coffee?

warnings: hospitals, needle/ivs, coughing, fever, sick stuff, pneumonia, arguing, classism, pregnancy scare (in a flashback), mentions of dysphoria, death mentions (only mentions, don’t worry!) please let me know if i’ve missed any!

pairings: moxiety, logince

word count: 22,124

notes: hoo boy this chapter was a DOOZY and i’m v curious to know how it’s gonna go over, so, fingers crossed y’all like it!

virgil hates hospitals. well, arguably, patton hates them more, he always hates going to the doctor even if it's just for a check-up, but the fact that patton is alone back there and delirious and in a place he's afraid of without anyone who knows him to comfort him kind of makes virgil want to put his fist through a wall, so he doesn't think about that, and instead he keeps pacing this stupidly tiny waiting room, clutching his hoodie, not even putting it on properly, because he'd given it to patton when he started shivering and shaking and succumbing to his chills and not breathing a word of complaint about the cold he must have been feeling and virgil had given him his hoodie and patton had sniffled and looked at virgil like he'd made everything okay, so he can't put it on until everything's okay again. right? (it makes sense to him.)

he keeps thinking about patton. not even worrying about him, though there's plenty of that, but memories keep flashing through his head, and it's almost unbearable, to think about patton happy and healthy when the memory of patton lying on his face in his dark house is right there and virgil left him, he left him—

("i've figured it out," patton says triumphantly. he's twenty-two, and virgil's twenty-eight, and logan's freshly six, on his way to the diner to meet with patton after school, when he'll decide if he wants to stay and do homework at virgil's or go with patton to the inn.

"figured out what?" virgil asks, amused despite himself, seeing how smug and satisfied with himself patton is right now.

"The Hugging Problem," patton says, and his grin grows wider. "i've figured it out."

ah, yes. The Hugging Problem. it had been discussed between virgil and patton so often that it warranted the capital letters. The Hugging Problem was that logan had decided he was a big boy now, and didn't need hugs or comfort, even when he was upset and clearly really, really needed a hug and some comfort.

"you did?" virgil says, intrigued despite himself. "how?"

patton taps his finger to his lips, grinning. "that'd be telling."

"patton," virgil whines, "you can't just tell me you have a solution to The Hugging Problem and not tell me what it is—"

"well, i can't just tell you the solution to The Hugging Problem," patton says conspiratorially. "i'll show you. when he needs it.")

"virgil!"

virgil pivots, then, to see logan, in an exquisite, bespoke, expensive suit, rushing toward him, face drawn and tight and worried.

"is he—?"

virgil's already shaking his head, crossing his arms tight over his stomach. "no news. they took him back there to run some tests, or get the fever down, or both, but—"

logan's nodding, and then brushing past him, immediately, to the welcome desk, staffed by a nurse or at least a someone in scrubs.

"excuse me," logan says, voice threaded through with a sense of authority that reminds virgil so strongly of the first time he met emily sanders that it sends a chill up his spine, "my father's been admitted here, patton sanders, would you happen to have any information on him, a room number, maybe, or what tests are being run on him?"

the nurse checks something, glances at virgil (who'd filled out patton's paperwork when they'd gotten there, and he knows all of patton's insurance info because virgil helped him set his up back in the day and virgil's been his emergency contact since that time patton thought he had appendicitis but it was really just a terrible stomach ache because he got food poisoning from al's pancake world) and nods.

"i'll have someone check on that for you," she says, in the tone that means maybe, eventually.

"do," logan says tightly, and comes back toward virgil. virgil reaches out and carefully squeezes his shoulder. for some reason, he feels like something is missing. he dismisses that thought, because the something is probably behind the doors he's forbidden to cross into, it’s the something that he just left behind and he can't—

"hey," he says, and squeezes again. "look at me."

logan looks him in the eyes—tormented and worried and anxious in a way a kid never really should have to be, ever.

"your dad's gonna be fine," he says, trying to make his voice sound gentle, but with some kind of authority.

"you can't know—" logan begins, adam's apple bobbing.

"logan," virgil says, holds both his shoulders now. "look at me. i'm saying that. me, who always thinks every worse scenario is one thousand percent guaranteed to happen. i am. and patton's gonna be okay."

logan takes in a shuddering breath. "but—you're panicking."

"i'm always panicking," virgil says softly. "and i'm panicking right now because we don't know what's going on, not because i think there's any chance of something happening to your dad."

logan surveys him for a few seconds, eyes sweeping up and down his face, staring into his eyes, and virgil's expression must present the answer he's looking for because he relaxes, just a little, slumping into virgil's touch, and virgil knows better than to pull him into a hug right now so he just compensates by squeezing his shoulders a little harder before letting go. logan's arms cross in front of his stomach, too.

"not because i think anything's—going to go wrong," logan says, haltingly, "but... dad has a will, doesn't he?"

"yes," virgil says cautiously.

logan licks his lips nervously, before he says, "if something—if dad didn't—look. i'd want my guardian to be you."

virgil's arms drop from where they're wrapped around his stomach, and he turns to face logan more fully, mouth hanging open in awe, just a little.

"it has to be you," logan says. "if something happens."

"nothing's happening."

"i know," logan says, and he sounds like he really does know it, the way he knows nellie bly had her pencil confiscated from her in blackwell's and was told she never brought one, the way he knows anne royall blackmailed president adams into an interview by catching him skinny-dipping, the way he knows the new york times printed, the day after the launch of the apollo 11, a retraction of an article about no rocket conceivably leaving the atmosphere and reaching the moon. just fact. "just... so you know."

virgil swallows past the sudden lump in his throat.

(—dead on his feet, even as patton pushes a mug of (plain) coffee into his hands, leaning against the counter.

"thanks for helping me with him," patton says wearily. "i love him, he's so smart, he just gets so... nervous. you know?"

"i know," virgil says dryly, and patton winces a little. virgil waves it off. "and you don't need to say thank you, anyway, not when it comes to helping logan. i'll always try and help him. i know he's yours but—" barely a pause, and then, a sleepless tumble of a confession—"i always thought he was a little mine, too."

patton doesn't take offense. he just smiles, a secretive little thing, and takes a sip of coffee.

"well," patton says. "of course he's a little yours. you're a little ours too, you know.")

"yeah," virgil croaks, and clears his throat. "yeah, okay."

"good," logan says stiffly.

"right, good," virgil echoes.

they'd probably stand there saying "good" "good" back and forth and back and forth until a nurse finally appeared to wave them back into patton's room if it wasn't for the burst of noise a good way down the hall.

"but why can't i see him?!"

"they're running some tests."

"well, we would like to meet this doctor who's testing him."

"you will."

"some strange man is working on our son, we have a right to meet this person!"

"you will."

"and i want to see the room you're going to put him in."

"you will."

"and stop saying 'you will,' put together a proper sentence, for god's sake!"

"ma'am, sir, please just wait here."

—and a harried nurse leads emily and richard sanders into the waiting room.

oh. great. just what he needs. patton's fucking parents.

(—patton's eighteen, virgil's nearly twenty-four, and logan's nearly two, and patton has given logan over for virgil to babysit for a while with a written list of instructions and a packed bag, and virgil's only a little terrified, partially because logan's never spent the night at virgil's before without patton there and partially because logan is pre-emptively putting the terrible in 'terrible twos' and partially because patton got his top surgery today and he's being looked after by his parents, and virgil certainly has some Opinions after hearing about the way patton was raised and the environment that surrounded him until he ran away to sideshire.

everything's going fine until virgil realizes that logan's favorite jupiter toy isn't in the bag.

he has seen the meltdowns logan has without that thing. he needs to get it. he can only really hope that the room's empty and he can go right in, go right out, and logan will be reunited with his toy and no one will be any the wiser.

fucking alas.

he walks into the room juggling logan and the duffle bag and the spare key maria gave him, because patton had panickedly rented a room rather than let his parents have any idea about him living in the poolhouse, only to walk in to two very finely-dressed people turning from the bed where patton's lying to see the door.

"papapapapapapapapapa," logan babbles happily as soon as he sees patton, reaching out and opening and closing his chubby little fists, as if to say to virgil hand me over immediately! and virgil can't help but smile a little at the sound of it. logan's been doing this thing lately where he adds thirty more syllables to a word than is necessary, if he's excited about it. it's real cute.

"who are you?" demands the woman suspiciously, the woman who must be patton's mother. patton looks nothing like her. or the tall man with the tie on, who must be patton's father.

"virgil danes," virgil bites out. "i'm babysitting logan, just need to grab a toy of his, so. i'll be right out of your hair."

"oh, well, that's not necessary," emily says briskly, walking forward and holding out her arms expectantly. "we can look after him."

without thinking, virgil shifts so that he's more clearly between her and logan, so that she would have to step around him to grab logan. her eyes narrow.

"yeah, well, patton told me to watch him," virgil says. "so i'm gonna watch him."

"papa," logan says, and tugs at virgil's hoodie. "virgil, papa."

virgil winces. "i know, kid, sorry. he's taking a nap right now, okay? we gotta be quiet. shhhh."

logan frowns at him. if there is one thing he doesn't like (the things logan doesn't like are very numerous) it's being told to be quiet. which is fair, really, virgil doesn't like it much either.

virgil spies the jupiter toy, half-hidden under the wardrobe, and goes over to grab it, handing it over to logan, who takes it with a pacified, cheery little babble and immediately sticks it into his mouth. god, virgil dreads the day a toy won't work as a distraction for him anymore.

"don't be ridiculous," emily tells him. "he's our grandson."

"no offense, lady," virgil says, "but you could be the queen of england. patton told me to watch him, so i'm gonna watch him. end of story. besides, patton's going to be a handful medicine-wise and i don't particularly trust you very much anyway."

"i beg your pardon?!" richard says, flabbergasted.

"consider it begged," virgil says. "and to be perfectly honest, knowing you're patton's parents doesn't endear me to you, like, at all, knowing what i know, so."

"how dare you," emily snarls.

"yeah, i'll dare, because your son is one of the best people i've ever met, and you don't seem to understand that whatsoever—")

virgil's violently yanked from his reverie when emily starts up, again.

"my great-uncle founded this hospital! his portrait is hanging in the lobby, go look, it's right above the sign that says 'founder!'"

"holy shit," virgil says, and quickly steps between emily and the nurse that she's harassing. "i'm so sorry about her, seriously, you're doing a great job and any news whatsoever would be appreciated, please ignore her."

the nurse spares a look for emily, gives him a grateful look, and they hurry off.

"ignore me?!" she fumes. "ignore me?!"

"yeah," virgil says, pivoting, "i know you're pretty good at ignoring any of your kid's boundaries, but you also seem to like flooring over them without any regard for his welfare, so i'm sure treating people like they're actual people instead of like they're scum beneath your shoe is gonna be a great big moral dilemma for you. i'd say i live in hope that you'll let people be on their own, but you seem to have a lot of trouble letting people exist on their own terms, so."

oh shit. okay, so, he's started it. fuck. patton's gonna hate that.

"how dare you speak to my wife in that way," richard begins indignantly, puffing himself up like a bullfrog.

"yeah, i got plenty for you too, buddy," virgil begins heatedly, but he sees a flash of a brand new, costly suit, and forces himself to fucking cool it, jesus christ, "but that's not helping right now, none of this is helping, i get that i snapped and i'm a hypocrite, my bad, but can we put aside tearing each other apart the way i know we all want to until we know what's wrong with patton?"

virgil punctuates it with a very significant glance toward logan, who was not old enough to retain and remember the first round of this particular throwdown. emily seethes, richard glowers, but they cluster off together, in their own little corner.

emily reaches to make logan a part of that, make it sanders family vs random diner outsider, but quicker than a flash and slicker than oil, logan slips from her grasp and goes to stand at virgil's side. sideshire vs grandparents.

and suddenly, virgil's brain catches up to where logan's made the logical leap. patton has a will. he must have outlined who logan's guardian or guardians would be in case of his untimely demise. and since patton asks him whenever he involves virgil in anything legal—being made an emergency contact, for example—and he'd definitely ask virgil before penning him down for something so significant without so much as virgil's say-so.

and if virgil wouldn't be logan's guardian...

"and for god's sake, don't harass them for doing their jobs," virgil can't help but tack on, and turns to look away from—them.

("—virgil, did you, um?"

"yeah?" virgil asks, struggling to hand over logan, the duffle bag, and patton's to-go order of hot cocoa/coffee without spilling or dropping anything or anyone. logan's really mostly squirming to get back to his dad, anyway, and patton quickly takes him before he can squirm himself straight to the ground.

"i just," patton says, and frowns, shifting logan so he's on his hip. "i thought you came over when i was recovering. i dunno, it was probably an anesthesia dream, or something."

it wasn't, virgil thinks, but, well. what good would that do? he dressed down patton's parents, they tried to dress him down back, patton had cracked his eyes open enough to, in his drugged haze, coo at logan, who bopped him softly on the nose with a closed, slobbery fist, before virgil booked it before the sanders' shouting could wake patton up permanently. what good would it do to tell him all that? he'd hate that he was being argued over, anyway. so virgil just makes sure that everything's all handed over and doesn't say anything about it.

"you recovered all okay, then?" virgil says.

patton puffs himself up proudly. "yep," he says happily. "all cleared to work and lift logan," he tilts the hip with logan on it, trying not to wince, as logan has started tugging his hair, "as long as i'm careful about it."

virgil smiles. "good."

"it is, isn't it?" patton says, looking down at his own chest, finally flat without any help from a binder, and virgil reaches out to clap his shoulder. logan takes the opportunity to start babbling for attention at virgil, tugging his hoodie sleeve, as if virgil hasn't been waiting on logan's every whim for the past three days.

"lookin' good, man," virgil says, sincere, and patton beams at him. it just solidifies the belief virgil's had since the first night he met him: that patton's parents don't deserve him.)

"patton sanders?" a nurse calls, and, identically, all four of them advance on him.

"we've gotten the fever down to a point where seizures are less of a concern, but he's still pretty out of it," the nurse says, brusque. "he's in a test room right now, but we'll take him to his room shortly. we've run an x-ray and we're waiting on those results and some culture results before we—"

"pneumonia," logan says hollowly. "you think it's pneumonia."

virgil hadn't known what any of it could be, hadn't even remotely thought to prepare himself for it, but it still hits him like a blow to the chest.

("—they could give you some medicine to keep that fever down," virgil says. "make sure it isn't anything worse."

"virgil," patton says patiently, "it isn't anything worse."

"how do you know?"

"because i just feel sick, not like i'm at death's door," patton says, and sneezes into his kleenex. "crummy but not crumbling—")

i am literally never listening to your refusals about going to a doctor to see if it's anything worse ever again, virgil thinks, half furious, half scared-out-of-his-mind. left him, you left him, something in his brain hisses at him, accusatory, he’d left patton and now he’s in the hospital with fucking pneumonia—

"it's the most likely result, but it hasn't been confirmed yet," the nurse says. logan sways a little.

"can we see him?" virgil asks, putting his hand on logan's shoulder again, trying to steady him.

"we're still running a test, but once that's done—"

"well, can we see his room, then?" emily says. 

the nurse gestures them forward, and virgil's about to follow when logan swivels to face him, eyes wild.

"i need to do something," he says.

"do what?" virgil says stupidly.

"i don't know, anything," logan says, clearly about .05 seconds from tearing his hair out. "get coffee or make phone calls or do something that isn't just—standing here."

"okay," virgil says, getting it, a little. logan's not exactly patient, virgil's known this for years, and logan's about as well-suited to fretting as he is to smiling and demurring during a debate (that is, not at all.) "okay, um—you got your phone?" 

logan nods.

"call some people at the inn and let them know that patton's gonna be out sick for a bit. after that, get some—" he nearly says coffee but he takes stock of himself and how fast his heart's racing and also remembers half of patton's favorite drink and can't, "—tea, peppermint, preferably. and then go get a paper."

logan's brow creases in confusion, and virgil tries for a smile.

"every morning at breakfast, your dad's been complaining you're not there to interpret current events for him," virgil explains. "he likes it when you do that. maybe get something with a comic section, he likes those."

logan breathes, shoulders slumping a little with the relief of a series of set tasks. "okay. got it."

"right," virgil says. "i'll text you the room number as soon as i've got it, okay?"

logan nods, and sets off at a brisk pace down the hall, woe betide anyone who gets in his way.

virgil picks up the pace so he can catch up, and spots the nurse, who bustles after him, looking even more harried. 

"where's...?"

"your in-laws are currently seeing to it that your husband gets the room with the good view," she says, and virgil shakes himself.

"oh, he's not my—"

then something catches up to him and he realizes that if they think he's patton's husband, he'll have the same family visiting rights as the rest of them.

"—uh, i mean, sorry. yeah. how long until they bring him back?"

"very soon," she promises. "i can appreciate that this is hard for you, sir."

you have no idea, virgil thinks, catching onto what kind of wrath emily sanders might bring down upon this hospital if she realizes that the nurses think her son's married to someone without the right pedigree or a summer house by the coast or an aspiring career as a senator or something. 

"thanks so much for all your hard work," virgil says instead.

emily sweeps down the hall, nearly bowling over some poor man on a gurney.

"we've secured him the room but those pillows are completely unacceptable," she declares. "i'm going to see if i can find him some down ones and some slippers, richard is ensuring the room stays private—" she frowns, as if realizing he's the sole member of her audience right now. "where's logan?"

"he wanted to be useful, so he's going to get his dad a paper and call some people," virgil says. "is patton in the room yet?"

"they're bringing him back very soon, which is an incredible indefinite timespan," emily says. "i'll be back."

off she goes, and virgil thinks down pillows?! with only a slight amount of hysteria. he turns back to the nurse. "which room?"

"202," she says, and he texts logan the room number on the way there, and—

oh, huh. it does have a nice view, all lit up at night like this. there's no bed in the room, though, which virgil thinks is kinda weird, and richard's standing silently at the window, which virgil thinks is also kinda weird.

virgil coughs awkwardly to announce his presence.

"oh," richard says, "it's you."

"uh, yeah," virgil says.

"emily went to get pillows."

"i ran into her on the way here," virgil says, and offers, "logan went to get some tea and a paper, i can text him if you want coffee, or something."

"oh," richard says. "thank you, but no. that won't be necessary."

("—dad wants to take logan to some kind of take-your-kid-to-work-day thing next week, so i'm guessing we'll probably be in here for an early breakfast before i drop him off."

virgil spins patton's plate so that his untouched pile of leafy greens is now directly in front of him. he hopes that logan's eating whatever balanced meal isadora prince has decided to cook up for her son and his new bestest friend without too much complaint.

"what, seven’s just the right age to be introduced to the thrilling world of the insurance business?"

"i guess," patton says with a shrug. "i dunno, dad's always been very—" he adopts a sterner facial expression. "go to work, come home, read the paper, go to bed kinda guy. whereas i, you know. snuck out the window as soon as he was distracted."

virgil hands patton his fork. patton rolls his eyes and obligingly stabs his salad.

"he lives his life the way he thinks he's supposed to," patton says. "worked hard, bought a nice house, provided for my mom. very by-the-numbers guy and i've never been good at numbers. think it gave him the shock of a lifetime that i ended up, well. the way i am."

"but you get along with him better than your mom?"

"dad's disapproval tends to be a lot less shouty than mom's," patton says, with a little sigh. "but yeah, i guess i get along with him better than i get along with my mom.")

"your meatloaf was quite good."

virgil startles, grabbing for the hoodie he's tied around his waist like it's falling to cover for it.

"oh," virgil says, remembering logan's phone call that feels like a century ago. back when patton was healthy enough to pop by the diner and he was conscious and before virgil left him alone when he was sick. "um. thanks. i guess."

richard peers at him. "i know we've met before all this, but i can't quite recall when."

"uh," virgil says. "i mean, i egged your car."

("—oh. it's you."

virgil's spine stiffens, and he turns from where he's been handing over a coffee at the stall of the town-wide easter festival.

"yep," virgil says to emily and richard fucking sanders, who have parked their very fancy car right over there and have decided to come to his stall. "it's me. is there a particular reason you're here, or...?"

she sniffs. "patton said to meet him and logan by the gazebo." she gestures to the gazebo, just to the right of his stall, where the railings are lined with pastel wicker baskets of fresh-painted eggs are waiting to be hidden for all the kiddos to run after and hunt.

"right," virgil says. "well. i've got work to do, so."

"we can wait," richard says.

they wait for about a minute.

"so, you're still acquaintances with my son," emily says, and virgil scoffs without meaning to.

"if you mean we're best friends, sure," virgil says, stacking cups and wondering if he should send one of the part-timers back to the diner to get some more. "then i'm acquaintances with your son."

"don't you think that logan should have a," richard says, casts a discerning eye over virgil's stall, "a better role model?"

virgil, calmly, sets down his cups, and says, "what do you mean by that?"

"well, it's all well and good he comes by the diner sometimes," richard says. "but don't you think he, well."

"don't i think he what?" virgil asks, interlocking his fingers and calmly, calmly presses outward, cracking his knuckles.

"don't you think you might influence him to a, well," he says, "substandard way of life."

virgil's blood's roaring in his ears. "substandard," he repeats.

"well, patton's has done an all right job with him so far, but logan certainly has enough negative influence on that side of things," richard says.

"what, you think patton is a bad influence?" virgil asks disbelievingly.

"when it comes to certain delinquent behaviors, yes," richard says. "he has a history."

delinquent. virgil wants to grab him by his fancy bowtie and yank him close and and choke him, how could he possibly think that patton, whose idea of a fun past-time is walking rescue dogs at the local shelter, is a bad influence?

"so," virgil says, "let's get one thing straight. you know nothing about me, and you know nothing about the influence that patton has on logan, because logan's a good kid and patton is a good man."

virgil's eyes slide to the nearest pastel basket. almost as an afterthought, he snags the handle, which has a pretty ribbon woven around it.

"but you know what? you think i'm some kind of devil on logan's shoulder, pushing him to become a delinquent? i can show you fucking delinquent."

before he can even think, he has two of the eggs in his hands, and with an aim he didn't know he possessed, he lobs them both straight for their fancy, fancy car.

they smack and shatter against the windshield with a satisfying thwack. they aren't quite as messy as regular eggs, being hardboiled, but the paint smears, and the egg remnants litter the trunk of his car, and virgil can't help but laugh at the looks on their faces, and he grabs another egg and throws, and again, and again—

"cool!" logan shouts, from where he's emerged from the prince studio, roman in tow, and patton stares, slack-jawed, and it startles emily into wailing into action.

"richard—richard, stop him, richard—!")

"oh," richard says. "oh, dear me."

virgil's not sure what richard's going to say—i'll send you an old receipt for the cleaning, how did such a delinquent continue to be friends with my son, what kind of example are you setting for my grandson—when the door opens, and there's a rattle of wheels, and—

and there he is. there's patton.

the absence of a bed makes sense now, because they're wheeling him in on one—he's all tucked into too-white, too-starched sheets, with a feeble little blue fleecey thing tossed over the top. he's wearing one of those hospital shirts with the blue dots, and he has on an oxygen mask and an iv and one of those things that clamps down on his pointer finger, and he's—

"is he okay?"

virgil's somehow right beside the orderly, staring down at patton's face. when had he moved?

"he's out of it, right now," the orderly says patiently, "he'll be groggy when he wakes up."

"when's that going to happen?" virgil asks, voice a bit too high-pitched. "the tests? did the tests end up—?"

"the doctor's going to have to tell you that, i'm just the transport guy," the orderly demurs, parking patton's bed and checking on his iv and god, patton looks so pale, so small, the bags under eyes massive, his skin too pale for comfort with the only exception being the flush of his fever high in his cheeks, sweating, his his curls tousled and somehow flatter than usual.

"when's the doctor coming?" virgil asks, digging his fingernails into the hoodie at his waist to keep himself from reaching out and touching patton, from getting in the orderly's way.

"i'm not sure, but she'll come right to the room when she gets here," the orderly says, and, with one last check of patton's vitals, he's off, and virgil—

"i'm going to go find emily and logan and tell them he's here," richard says, and virgil just barely manages to tear his eyes away from patton's face to look at him.

richard looks—faint, he guesses, would be the right word. pale and unsettled and spooked, generally. virgil guesses he understands—if he had to see logan or roman in a hospital bed, he'd be pretty spooked, too.

and not in the way he likes to be spooked. not in the fun halloween way of spooking. the genuinely really fucking scary kind of spooked.

"right," virgil says, and turns back to patton's bed, staring at him. he wants to push his hair back. he wants to hold his hand. he wants—

"i'll, um, i'll be here."

you weren’t, the voice in his head rumbles, you weren’t here, you weren’t here, now look at him—

(and now we hit rewind to see what logan has been doing in the hospital. in a tv show this would be cut scenes, but this is a fic, so. you're getting it in a big chunk.)

logan, meanwhile, has skulked the halls of the hospital. he has been successful finding various newspapers with a funnies section (six separate editions, actually) and successful in finding virgil's tea, but it's—

well, it's the phone calls that are giving him trouble.

see, first he called michel, who's the... you know what, logan's not fully sure what michel does at the inn, he just knows that he's the one who presents dour disapproval to any troublemaking clients and employees who aren't quite up to snuff. he's the bad cop to patton's good cop. michel, unsurprisingly, does not answer. logan really doesn't know what he expected.

then he calls sookie st. james, who's the chef at the inn, and waits impatiently for her glad tidings of a good holiday and at her "how's it going?" he says "dad's in the hospital with pneumonia," and then he has to try to comfort her, which is... something he's Not Good At.

then he calls drella, the harpist, for most of the reason that drella is the only person at the inn scarier than michel, and somehow michel picks up her phone, which is something he doesn't want to contemplate, so he hangs up immediately.

and then...

"you've reached roman prince. i'm so very sorry that you're going to have to settle for my recorded dulcet tones, but leave a message and you'll get the live rendition soon."

"um, hey," logan says, wincing at the sound of his own voice. "i know that you're—that you're probably at the first show of the nutcracker. i nearly forgot that it's still thanksgiving. good luck on all that, by the way, not that you need it, i'm sure you're doing wonderfully. or, well, by the time you listen to this, i'm sure you did wonderfully, but, um, i—"

he takes in a deep breath, glances around to ensure the hallway behind him is still empty, and presses his forehead against the wall.

"dad's in the hospital," he says, and his voice wobbles, just a bit. "i—my dad's in the hospital, roman. they think it's pneumonia. virgil found him on the floor and he couldn't breathe and i just—" he forces himself to breathe.

"i just—dad's going to be back at the room any minute, but i haven't seen him, and i just. can't. so i'm calling people as an excuse not to. which is—foolish. i'm going to have to see him eventually. he'd be confused and upset if i just refused to see him. and it's foolish that i'm leaving you such a long message at all, but i just... i don't know. i don't know, roman."

i don't know what's happening, he doesn't say. i don't know what happened to him, it was a cold, i don't know what happened when he was unconscious, i don't know how he's going to recover, i didn't know until virgil called me, how could i have possibly not known?!

i need my best friend, he doesn't say. i need you. i want to hear your voice. 

what he does say is, "but, um. call me back, whenever you can? you can tell me all about the performance, and i... i don't know what i'll do."

i don't know what i'm doing right now, he thinks to himself in a kind of hiss. what benefit can come from this?!

"sorry," he blurts out. "i'm—apologies. i know you can't do anything about it. i—i'm going to hang up now. bye."

logan removes his head from the wall, "accidentally" spills virgil's tea, and goes to find him a new cup. as well as a snack. and maybe another newspaper.

just. just to be prepared.

(and now we're back to a hospital room where virgil's dragged a chair by patton's bedside, and sits hunched over and staring and worrying the sleeve of his still unworn hoodie between the fingers of one hand and holding patton's hand in the other, pressed against virgil's chest, and he waits and waits and waits to see if he'll wake up. patton doesn't do much more than wrinkle his nose and make soft snuffling noises in his sleep and try to knock off his oxygen mask.)

there's the sound of footsteps behind him, and virgil doesn't turn to look.

"has the doctor come yet?" richard asks.

"no, not yet," virgil says, squeezing patton's hand. they've never actually held hands before, he doesn't think. he wishes this was happening under a different circumstance. it's kind of funny and kind of terrible, when he thinks about how he's known patton for sixteen goddamn years and has only ever held his hand once. 

"richard, i've gotten joshua on the way," emily says, and then they fall into talking about joshua, who is—god, virgil doesn't know, some kind of family doctor or physician or something, but if this joshua dude is going to be able to help patton virgil is absolutely ten thousand percent for joshua getting here, go joshua, go rich people stuff, as long as patton recovers as quickly and painlessly as possible.

patton has fluid in his lungs right now. or something. virgil's not super clear on what pneumonia actually does, but he's pretty sure fluid in the lungs is part of it, and he does not want that for patton. he doesn’t want patton to be here, in a hospital bed, right now. he wants a time machine to be able to go back and slap himself for leaving patton when he was so clearly sick. 

virgil's fully resigned to whatever rich people nonsense has gotta happen for that to no longer be anything close to what's going on with patton's health. god, virgil should really learn more about this. which—

virgil turns enough to see patton's parents. emily has set two pillows on a counter, but they're standing close next to each other, still in their holiday best, and virgil feels absurdly out of place in his jeans and t-shirt and abandoned hoodie. he asks, "have either of you seen logan?"

they exchange looks—one of those Married Couple looks that is so clearly a conversation that no one else in the room can understand—and richard says, "i believe he was going to find some more newspapers."

something in virgil's brain wars with leaving patton alone with these people, the way it did fourteen years ago, or leaving him at all, when the last time virgil left him it turned out like this, but the same thing wins out that won then. the same someone, really. 

he clears his throat, getting to his feet. he squeezes patton's hand, hard, before carefully lying it back down on the mattress.

"i'll get him," virgil says. "just—let me know if there's any change. text logan or something."

"right," emily says, and virgil walks out of the room, trying his hardest not to glance back at him over his shoulder.

he doesn't succeed.

...

patton's nose. has something. on it. he snuffles experimentally and when that doesn't move it, he reaches to move it himself.

"oh, for heaven's sake," a familiar voice tuts, and a hand closes around his wrist. 

patton blinks, and narrows his eyes. ugh, it's so bright. 

wait. it definitely hadn't been bright the last place he'd been. he'd been... home. hadn't he? he'd been home. he'd been hot and it had hurt and he'd wanted hot chocolate and he'd been home. and he's not now. so where is he? 

he tunes in with the rest of his body, then. head like a bowling ball, chest like a whole rack of bowling balls is resting on it, thoughts... for some reason not really able to keep a thread. or keeping too much of a thread. bowling balls. weird. he's so sweaty and uncomfortable that he figures he'll give himself a bit of a pass on making much sense, though. it's probably the cold medicine. oh, a cold shower sounded wonderful, get him all nice and cooled down and get rid of all this sweat and—

ugh, he's so... icky.

"oh," the voice says, startled, "oh, richard, he's waking up!"

and patton swivels his head a little to squint at where his mother is standing, his father bustling in to stand beside her.

"where?" patton rasps at his parents, and his mother sits on the edge of his bed, wide-eyed.

"you're at st. luke's," his mother says. "joshua's on his way, so is the doctor here, and dr. reynolds, you remember her."

gosh, joshua plus dr. reynolds plus the hospital for a cough? that seems kinda excessive.

"mkay," patton murmurs, and closes his eyes again.

"patton, do you think you can lift your head at all?" his mother asks. "i found you some decent pillows. they're not down, but they at least give a little."

ooh, pillows. patton likes pillows. virgil keeps joking that he collects them. virgil doesn't understand interior design. they give pops of color.

there's a cool, moisturized hand at the nape of his neck, though, urging him up, and ouch that rack of bowling balls on his chest, before he's settled back onto the nice new cool pillow.

"better, yes?" his mother asks, and patton hums sleepily. he's ready to go back to sleep. sleep sounds awesome.

"and one more time."

ouch oh ooh nice.

"now if we could just find you some different sheets," his mom says.

oh. these sheets are kinda nice, though. a bit stiff but not bad. he doesn't wanna move. and if she gets him new sheets he's gonna have to move.

"s'okay, mom," patton murmurs.

"maybe you could get dava to bring some from home," his dad suggests.

"s'really okay," patton says. 

"oh, of course," emily says. "why didn't i think of that?"

"don't need new sheets," patton tries to insist.

"they're completely unacceptable," emily says.

oh, now she's done it, patton's gotta open his eyes now.

"the sheets are fine," patton says, a little louder, or he tries to, because he breaks down into coughs when he says fine, harsh and loud, and patton tries to sit up or curl on his side but that same cool hand's at his shoulder, fluttering nervously, before he sucks in a breath and there's that pain in his chest that's been there for the past—however long?—and patton tries to catch his breath.

"—call button must be broken or something—"

"m'okay," patton wheezes.

"don't be ridiculous," richard says.

"i'm not," patton says. "m'an adult, i can handle it."

"it's the fever talking," emily says. "they really don't have that down, whatever that nurse said, feel how warm he is."

a different but still-cool hand, dry and wrinkled, rests on his forehead.

"i don't have a fever," patton sulks.

"you were at risk for seizures," his father says.

sounds fake, but okay.

"i really am okay," patton murmurs, eyes slipping shut again.

"no," emily tells him. "no, you are not."

"i'm fine," patton says, and yawns. "you can go home, you don't have to deal with me anymore."

there's a silence but it doesn't feel like the end of a conversation. patton doesn't wanna open his eyes again, though. he's so tired. but he can't go to sleep yet. but he really wants to. so he'll just let his eyelids rest. that'll work. right? he'll just keep his eyes nice and closed and explain it and they can get on home. 

"fine?" his mother repeats, strangled.

"it's just a cold," patton mumbles.

she sighs, irritated. "patton—"

"know we fought last week," patton says, trying to talk as loud as he can without risking a cough, or without having to breathe too deep. "and m'sorry i made life so hard on you then, n'm'sorry i'm such a disappointment, an' i'm'sorry i took logan away, an'—"

"oh, patton, hush," his mother says, sounding a little strange. "it's hardly the time for all—"

"and i'm sorry, okay," patton insists, cracking his eyes open, because that's important, "m'sorry i can't fix it. but m'an adult now and i can handle things and stuff. so you don't gotta stay jus' for a cold."

"young man, you have pneumonia," his father says gruffly.

"oh," patton says, startled. "do i?"

"well, we're waiting for the doctor to confirm it."

"oh," patton repeats, quiet. pneumonia. that's not good. that's always the illness that kills people in old timey books. that's the illness that they always look out for when things go bad for old people. that's... that sounds serious. really serious.

that's scary.

"patton?" his mother asks, sounding slightly alarmed, and patton tries to inhale a shaky breath, and then another one. he might be panicking, he thinks. 

"i—" he swallows, hard, and says, "is logan okay?"

"what?" she asks, distracted. "yes, of course. he's getting some newspapers and some tea."

"are you sure?" he asks, because logan has to be okay—logan has to be okay. logan's got to be taken care of, he has to be okay.

"yes, of course i'm sure," she says.

"you have to make sure he's going to be okay," he insists.

"he's fine."

"logan's—logan always acts fine, that's his default state," patton says. "but he always hides his emotions. so he'll always get snappy, and sometimes you just have to let him let off steam, and sometimes you kind of have to poke him into it, but after he rants for a while it helps calm him down enough that he can talk about what's really bothering him and—"

"patton," she says, awkwardly, a little helplessly, and patton swallows hard.

"he always overworks himself," he tells her intently. "so you gotta lure him out with new books, or an opportunity to shred the courant or just a newspaper or a publication in general, or a trip to a planetarium or a museum, preferably a science one but if he goes with roman he likes art ones too, or you gotta sit him down with a crofter's jam sandwich and tell him to take a break, because he always ignores it if he needs a break, because he thinks he's a lean mean study machine who doesn't need to do fun things, but he does, because he's—"

"patton, you don't need to tell us all this—" his father tries to intercede.

he ignores him. they need to know these things about him, in case patton isn't in a place to take care of him, they need to be able to take care of him. 

"—i know that you know logan pretty well, especially over the past couple months, but i think that virgil's the best source on all things logan, especially if he's ever confusing or if he's moping or needs anything, so if you're ever lost, and i know you've had your differences, but virgil knows logan just about better than anyone else, except me, and virgil's always happy to help logan, and sometimes logan just needs to talk to someone who isn't related to him so he'll usually go to virgil or roman and that's a-okay, because they're his best friends, and you have to make sure that he gets to stay in contact with them because i never ever want logan to feel lonely or unloved, never ever ever, and if i die—"

"patton, stop!" she snaps, and patton shuts his mouth, immediate, shrinking into his pillows as she looms over his bed.

"now," she says, "there may be many things happening in this hospital tonight, but your dying is not one of them, am i clear?!"

"i—"

"no!" she snarls. "i did not sign onto your dying when i became your mother, so it is not going to happen. not tonight, not for a very long time. i demand to go first. of all the things you have done to us, you will not put us through burying you first, do i make myself clear?"

patton stares up at his mom, and oh. oh, this isn't just scary for him. this is scary for all of them. and patton freaking out isn't helping things.

"okay," he says, very quiet. "okay, mom. i promise i won't die."

she nods, swallows. "good."

patton reaches over and, hesitantly, takes her hand. her free hand flutters up to her mouth, and his mom looks like she's about to cry, and patton squeezes a little, and closes his eyes. things drop off and go a little dark and blurry around the edges before everything goes dark and blurry and—

...

this hospital is a maze, but it doesn't take him nearly as long as he thought it would to find a mostly-empty hall containing just who he's looking for.

"hey," virgil says, coming to a stop next to him, and logan shudders out of whatever train of thought he'd locked himself into.

"hi," logan says, and passes over a to-go cup. "tea. peppermint, even. i found some newspapers and i called sookie. well, i called michel too, but he didn't answer, and then i called drella, and then michel answered. did you know that was—?"

virgil's already reflexively pulling a face.

"thought not," logan murmurs. not quite as smugly as he might be on a normal day after figuring out some kind of secret.

"okay," virgil says. "well, thanks. they brought your dad back and a doctor's due at any minute."

logan nods. virgil hesitates, before he fiddles with the little heat-protecting cardboard ring on the cup for something to do with his hands.

("—hate doctors, hate them, hate them, hate them," patton says, pulling a face.

"i'm the one going to a doctor," eight-year-old logan eludicates. "and it's just a check-up."

"and i have hated going to all of your check-ups since the time you were born," patton says, ruffling his hair.

"he has," virgil says dryly. "i've heard this series of complaints since your six-week check-up. eat your eggs." 

"tell him he could just wait in the waiting room," logan says, but he spears some eggs on his fork anyway. "i keep telling him to stay in the waiting room."

patton looks aghast. "and miss any health updates?!"

"but you hate the doctor," logan says. "wouldn't it be better if you just... didn't? since all of that scares you?"

"me being scared isn't the point," patton says. "it's about me being there for you."

"you don't need to be," logan says.

"yeah, but i want to be," patton says. "that's what a dad does—")

"you can't avoid going in the room forever," he says gently, and logan rears back.

"i'm not," he says.

"it's okay to be a bit freaked out right now—"

"i'm not."

"logan," virgil says, keeping his voice gentle and soft and calm. 

logan slumps. just a little.

"thank you for getting tea and making those calls and getting all those newspapers," virgil says, making his voice keep the same tone. "but your dad's in the room now and the doctor's due any minute. i know it'll probably make you feel a bit more at ease to hear what's going on. right?"

logan hesitates, before he nods.

"okay," virgil says. "so. if you really really want, you can wait outside the room until the doctor gets here. we just want to know where you are."

logan nods, and then he follows virgil back, where he comes to a stop just by the door.

("—not scared," twelve-year-old logan sulks at the counter of the diner. "honestly. me, scared."

"well," virgil says, leaning forward on his elbows, "it'd be okay if you were scared of snakes, you know."

"roman's not scared of snakes," he says. "it's not about me being scared, anyway, it's about—"

"why are we talking about snakes?" patton asks, sitting back down in his counter chair.

"tell your son it's okay to be afraid of snakes," virgil says.

"it's not about me being scared, which i'm not," logan says. "i just don't want to hold a massive boa constrictor on the field trip."

"and no one can make you do anything you don't want to do," patton says firmly. "if a teacher bugs you about it at the zoo tomorrow, you tell them i said that—")

"you sure?" virgil checks, and logan only holds out a pile of newspapers for virgil to take in.

he sighs but takes them and goes in, to where emily is sitting on the bed and caressing back patton's hair with—

it shouldn't shock virgil that she's doing it with maternal fondness. patton is her son, after all, but after all these years of seeing their fighting and patton falling apart after each of them, it feels like... virgil doesn't know. it feels like she should be just as stern and cold now as virgil knows she can be.

"he woke up," richard says, and virgil's eyes snap to him, and to the now-definitely-unconscious patton. "just for a little while."

"was he—" virgil struggles to find words. of course something happened when virgil left. of course. but at least this one seems to be a good thing.

"not quite lucid," richard says.

"a bit more lucid than we'd like him to be, you mean," emily says archly, and turns to frown at virgil. "where's logan?"

"just outside," virgil says. "keeping an eye out for the—"

"—but he's going to be here for how long?" logan asks a doctor who comes in with a short little man in a suit, and virgil can't help but take a step closer. 

"well," the doctor says to the room at large. "the cultures we took and his chest x-ray came back, and i'm afraid that it is pneumonia. he'll have to stay at the hospital for a couple days to ensure that fever stays down and to get him started on some antibiotics."

"how long?" logan repeats.

"difficult to say at this point," she says. "two or three days, at least, maybe longer if it's necessary. but," she says, and turns to virgil. "i believe you managed to catch him before his condition could have gotten much worse. you certainly brought him in before the fever could do any permanent damage."

virgil does not feel like this is particularly praise-worthy. it had mostly just been a terrifying experience. if virgil hadn’t left patton never would have gotten to this state at all.

"but he'll be just fine," the doctor says. "i'm sure it was a bit of a scare, but once he gets started on antibiotics, he'll be okay."

it's like the whole room breathes a sigh of relief.

"now," the doctor says, "i hear he woke up?"

"a little while ago," emily says, and moves aside a little so the doctor can get a closer look at patton. "he went right back to sleep, though."

"that'll be common," she says. "he'll be in and out of sleep, at varying levels of lucidity—"

virgil sees the flash of a bespoke, expensive suit jacket flutter around the door frame.

("—logan," virgil gasps, and scoops him up into his arms. "oh, my god, we were worried sick about you, you can't just run off like that, buddy—"

logan blinks too-big, watery three-year-old eyes up at him, clutching at virgil's shirt contentedly. "didn't run off."

"yeah, okay, nice try, kid," virgil says, trying to hug him close without looking like he was hugging him close. god, that had been the most terrifying five minutes of his whole life. "when we tell you to stay somewhere and you do not stay in that somewhere, that's running off."

"didn't," logan insists, kicking his bare feet. "i was following—"

"logan!" patton shout-sobs, and rushes over, and before virgil can even make a move to hand him over patton crashes into them both, hugging logan between their bodies, hugging virgil by extension, and—

"oh, my god, honey, you can't do that," patton says, semi-hysterically, pushing logan's hair back from his forehead so he could lean in and kiss him on the forehead. "i was so scared something happened to you, you can't just run away like that!"

"didn't!" logan insists again. "i was following a star bug!"

"star bug?" virgil mouths at patton.

"logan," patton says, high-pitched, "if you want to go follow the fireflies, you gotta tell one of us, okay? something could have happened to you!"

"nothing woulda happened," logan says, and, with all the belief of a three-year-old, "virgil was lookin' after me, i was okay the whole time."

patton lets out a sigh, one of the we're not done talking about this but i'll accept it for now ones, and presses his lips against logan's head again, looking up at virgil as he did, and virgil tries to pretend like logan's absolute faith in him hasn't moved him to the core—)

logan's slumped against a wall, hand over his eyes.

"hey," virgil says, soft, and logan sniffs, standing up straight, trying to pretend like he wasn't five seconds from starting to cry.

"so, um, he's gonna be okay."

"yeah," logan says, and swallows hard, fiddling with his fancy new suit coat.

"they're gonna keep him for a couple days, but he's gonna be fine."

"yeah," logan repeats.

an idea occurs to virgil. a really fucking stupid idea.

("—you might have to see The Hugging Solution put into action today," patton says grimly.

"oh, god," virgil says, freezing and turning from where he's wiping down one of the booth tables. "what happened?!"

"apparently logan found out about the library of alexandria today at school," patton says, "and mrs. donnely called to tell me logan was really upset about it."

"how does a six-year-old even find out about—?!"

"picture book, i guess," patton says with a helpless little shrug. "but, just—play along, okay?"

"uh, okay?" virgil says, but then the door opens and a familiar tiny boy sulks his way to the booth, lip trapped under teeth, probably to keep it from trembling, and eyes watery.

another familiar tiny boy has followed after him, loyally toting two pairs of backpacks.

"hello, mister prince," virgil says, snatching both backpacks and setting them by patton in the booth, where—patton has slumped over, and he lets out an overexaggerated, sad sigh, staring forlornly at the grilled cheese he'd been eagerly eating thirty seconds ago.

"i'm supposta go home," roman says, "but logan was really sad boutta book so i decided to walk him here!"

"well, that's really nice of you," virgil says seriously. 

roman puffs up his small chest. "m'bein—shiv-all—shiv-all-rus!"

"wow," virgil says, trying not to laugh. "that's really cool of you, roman. do you want an after-school snack?"

"please!" roman sings, and patton helps lift him into the booth so he's opposite logan, and then sits back down with another long, sad sigh.

"how about you, logan?" virgil asks.

"no," logan sulks in the corner.

"not even a crofter's sandwich?" virgil cajoles.

logan wavers.

"tell you what," virgil says. "i'll make one for you, and one for roman, and if you decide you don't want it, i can send it home with your dad for later, yeah?"

"...fine," logan says, arms crossed, still staring at the wall. patton, mimicking him, crosses his arms and stares at the wall, too.

"i'll let your mom know you're on the way in a bit, roman," virgil says, and reaches out to ruffle his hair mostly because of the tiny squawk of indignation when he does.

by the time virgil comes out with two plates of crofter's sandwiches, patton has progressed to sniffling with his head down on the table, roman petting his hair, and logan looking grudgingly curious from where he's still sitting with his arms crossed.

"okay, i've got two crofter's sandwiches here," virgil starts, but roman looks up at him.

"leave us alone, can't you see he's having a day," roman scolds.

"where'd you learn that?" virgil says, bemused, and roman grins.

"mrs. torres," he says—one of the old women who frequents the studio for sunrise yoga. "did i do it right?"

"you'd do her proud," virgil says, and remembers patton's play along, and pats patton's hair, too. "i know. he's been very sad since he got here."

logan's arms loosen. just a little. "he has?"

"he has," virgil confirms, somber as the grave. 

"oh," logan says.

"mr. patton," roman says, still petting his hair, "is there anything we can do?"

"oh," patton says, and affects a mopey look on his face when he lifts his head from his arms. "well... mayy-be. but i don't know if you three would want to."

"we'll do it!" roman declares immediately.

patton sighs, and shakes his head.

"i dunno, it might be a little silly."

"well," virgil says, a little louder, conscious of how logan's staring, "i think a little silly's okay, if it makes you not as sad."

patton nods, and slides out of the booth.

"virgil," he says, and spreads his arms. "can i have a hug? to make me feel better?"

all at once, patton's plan coalesces in virgil's head.

"oh, yeah, sure thing," virgil says, when he realizes he hesitated a moment too long. he opens his arms. "get in here."

patton steps forward, and virgil wraps his arms around him, a little awkwardly—but patton's warm and soft and he fits neatly against virgil, and he smells nice, so it's not like it's the worst hug he's ever gotten. pretty far from it, actually.

he steps back, and pats patton on the shoulder, for good measure.

"did that help?" virgil asks.

"i think so," patton says, and turns. "i might need another—"

patton is very nearly tackled to the floor by a pint-sized blur of white and red and gold.

"isthishelpingmisterpatton?!" roman demands, and patton lets out a little "oof, gosh, you're so strong!"

roman squeezes patton harder, as if squeezing hard enough will get rid of all the sadness in the world.

patton pats him on the shoulder, and says, "that was very helpful, thank you. you should eat your crofter's as a reward."

"okay!" roman says brightly, and clambers back up into the booth.

patton crouches in front of the booth where logan's dropped his crossed arms at last, but is biting his lip even more ferociously.

"can i have a hug?" patton asks him gently.

"you've gotten two," logan sniffs.

"yeah, but i haven't gotten any from my favorite son, yet."

"i'm your only son."

"that too," patton says, and spreads his arms. "so? i'm feeling very upset, and i'd really like it if you gave me a hug right now."

logan hesitates, eyes darting to where roman is stuffing his face and to where virgil is standing. "this is a hug for you," he declares imperiously.

"of course it is," patton says, and as soon as he says it, logan squirms off the booth and straight into patton's arms, wrapping his arms tight around patton's neck and burying his face into patton's shoulder.

"hey, there we go," patton murmurs, shifting a little, and when he's sure roman isn't looking, he winks at virgil, who suppresses his smile the best he can and—)

so it's a stupid idea, but it's the only one he has.

virgil heaves a sigh, and resigns himself to looking like an idiot.

"i'm feeling very upset," virgil says stiffly, and lifts his arms a little. "i'd really like it if someone gave me a hug right now."

logan sends him the world's most withering glare. the effect is slightly spoiled by the way he sniffs, smears his hand under his nose, and looks away.

"i'm not six anymore," logan says, and redirects his glare at virgil. "that won't work on me."

"look, kid, this hug isn't for your benefit," virgil says, lying through his goddamn teeth. "i have had a hard day. i had a big family gathering and then i had to drive home for hours and then i found your dad unconscious on the ground and had to bring him to the hospital, plus i've had to deal with your grandparents. so."

he lifts his arms higher. "i am upset. i would like a hug."

"you're way worse at this than dad is," logan says.

"yeah, i know," virgil says, "you know one way to put us both out of this misery?"

"are you seriously trying to embarrass me into hugging you?"

"i can keep going," virgil bluffs immediately, even though logan knows full well about this social anxiety. 

logan sighs, loudly. "fine," he grumbles. "fine, if it'll get you to stop."

so virgil steps forward and wraps his arms around the kid, heart panging—when did he get so big? virgil used to be able to practically hold him in one arm, just the space between his hand and his elbow. and now there's this young man, all gawky and gangly and still growing somehow, it's like he looked down and looked up and there he was, sixteen years flown by, except not really, because time was long, but also kind of really? being a parent person who watches a kid grows up is confusing.

he keeps rubbing a hand up and down logan's back, the way patton does when he hugs people. he's picked up a lot of things from patton, over the years. he couldn't say how many.

"he's going to be fine," logan says, and oh, god, his voice wobbles. 

"i know," virgil whispers, and keeps rubbing a hand up and down his back. "hey, i know. i promised he would be, and now we know for a fact he is, right?"

"right," logan says, and sniffs, loudly, and virgil holds onto him tighter.

"it's okay," virgil murmurs. "it's okay, logan. it's okay."

it's okay, it's okay, it's okay, virgil says, choking up himself, vision blurry and then failing as he gives in to the hectic emotion of this whole day, but he keeps talking to logan, and he keeps saying it’s okay, logan, it’s okay and loses track of the amount of times he says it, it's okay, logan, and logan's shoulders shudder and virgil feels his shirt soak through. 

"it's okay," virgil murmurs, sniffs, and keeps running his hand across logan's back. "there we go, l, it's okay."

"don't tell him," logan sobs into his shirt.

"oh, hey, i'd never," virgil says, as soft and comforting as he can. "patton can't know that we both lost it when he was out of the picture for one second, so it's our secret, yeah?"

"yeah," logan gasps, and draws back, smearing a sleeve under his nose, sniffing one last time. "yeah. our secret."

"okay," virgil says, and reaches forward with both hands to frame logan's ever-sharpening cheekbones in his hands, losing all that baby fat he'd been born with, swiping the tears off his face before starting in on his own face. "you okay?"

"yeah."

"you sure?" virgil checks, dropping his hands to logan's shoulders.

"yeah," logan says, and swallows, following the tracks of virgil's thumbs with his own hands, as if to make sure that virgil hasn't missed any. "yeah, i'm okay, i'm good. do i look like i've been crying?"

"nah," virgil says. “do i?”

"no. i don't want anyone to know i—"

"hey, our secret," virgil says.

(there is an eavesdropped neither logan or virgil notice. emily sanders frowns.)

"right," logan says, and scrubs at his face one last time. "this week has sucked."

if it was any other day, virgil would have laughed. logan hasn't used the phrase 'this sucks' since he was about nine. as it stands, though—

"yeah," virgil says. "i mean, your dad told me something really smart once, wanna hear it?"

"i have a feeling you'll tell me anyway," logan says, a solid attempt at a joke.

"even though today—or this week, i guess, in your case—has sucked, you wanna know the bright side?" virgil says, remembering patton's words from sixteen years ago, on the night they met. "i'll never have to do today again."

logan breathes, and says, "i never want to stay with them for that long ever again."

"i know," virgil says.

"i hated it there," he says.

(emily flinches.)

"i know," virgil says. "hey, we can tell your dad about the will thing once he's up and at 'em again, if it makes you feel better."

"it would," logan says fervently. "i fully understand why dad ran away now. you can't—you can't let me stay there anymore, virgil."

(emily flinches harder.)

"i won't," virgil says. "i promise, i won't. i mean, i know your dad only did it because it was a last resort kind of situation—"

"i know that too," logan says, and then, quieter, more miserably, "i yelled at him about it."

all virgil can say to that is "aw, kid," and tug him back into the hug.

"i yelled at him," logan repeats, voice waterclogged, like he's about to start crying again. 

"hey, i know he's not mad at you," virgil says. "he gets it, you know? he gets that you yelled because you were upset at the situation, not at him. i bet as soon as we walk in there, it's gonna make his day that you're there."

logan snuffles, and virgil draws back so that he can look him in the face. "really?"

"really," virgil promises, and he's been promising logan a lot tonight, but the kid deserves some promises that things would be okay, okay, his dad's in the hospital, because virgil left him alone, it’s the least he can do to help the kid feel better. "you know your dad, he's the softest little puffball we got."

logan snort-laughs, snotty and kind of gross, and wipes under his eyes again. "yeah. yeah, he is."

"you're, like, his whole world."

logan shifts, uncomfortable with so many displays of emotion in such a close time span, but he's saved by his grandfather.

"oh, he's waking up," virgil hears richard say, startled, and virgil claps logan's shoulder.

"you ready?"

logan lets out a shaky breath, straightens his tie, and tilts up his chin—proud, confident, a little arrogant. looking a bit more like himself, then, virgil thinks, relieved. he gestures logan to go ahead of him, and they enter the room to see patton, who turns at the sound of the door opening, and patton—

patton lights up.

his face brightens, his dimples appear in full, he beams—hey, wait, was he supposed to take off the oxygen mask?—and he reaches out both hands for logan, as if logan's still little enough that patton can pick him up.

"hey!" he says. "oh, my gosh, hi!"

"hi, dad," logan says, approaching the bed, and patton's smile doesn't falter as logan takes one of his hands, hovering at his bedside. 

"can i get a hug?" patton asks. "just this once."

logan hesitates. "if i hug you, won't it hurt?"

"what's life without a bit of pain?" patton jokes, and then, more seriously, "as long as you're gentle, it'll be okay, kiddo."

logan hesitates, and then, stiffly, bends so that he gives patton the softest, least-squeezy hug he can possibly execute, before sitting at patton's bedside again. 

"i've missed you," patton says, picking up logan's hand to squeeze it again, "so much."

logan's lip quirks up, just a little, and virgil's heart feels lighter, seeing two of the people he loves most in the world all together again—all that's missing is an obnoxious teenage dance instructor.

"i missed you too, dad," logan says.

patton's smile is blinding, and virgil's knees go a little weak, to the point where he sits in the chair next to logan. 

"okay, so," patton says, and pats logan's hand. "me and virgil have been dying without you to tell us everything that's going on in the world every day, let me tell you, dying."

logan's lips twitch. "don't exaggerate," he scolds.

"we aren't," virgil said. "i told you he'd want to hear you talk about current events, that's why i had you get all those newspapers."

logan rolls his eyes, and patton smiles at him, like logan's done something very charming and sweet instead of just made the quintessential teenage facial expression, and virgil can't help but smile a little, too.

"so," patton says. "tell us all about it. tell us about the news, and about your last couple days at chilton before the break, and how your week's been going, i want to hear everything."

so they listen as logan sticks to the safe and relatively unemotional topic of the news, explaining every headline he can, fishing example articles out of his newspaper pile when he has to, nearly crawling onto the bed in order to fully show the articles to patton. it reminds virgil of when he was little, so eager to investigate the whole world, so eager to show it off to anyone who would listen.

patton, even listening as raptly as he is, is still very sick, so can't help but slip off a little. which means that every time logan will trail off experimentally, staring to see if his dad's falling asleep, patton will start and grumble "m'wake, i'm awake, keep goin', i'm paying attention," and virgil will exchange a look with logan and logan will keep going until patton starts nodding off again.

eventually, logan keeps talking, and talking, and talking, even as he notices patton slip deeper and deeper into sleep until—

"i think he's finally asleep," logan says, hushed.

"i think you're right," virgil says. "good work, kid."

"speaking of sleep," richard says, "perhaps we should consider getting home."

"well, i'm not leaving," emily and virgil say in unison, who both jump and glare at each other.

"me either," logan says.

"you need sleep, you're a teenager, you need more sleep than a baby," virgil says.

"that's actually inaccurate," logan begins.

"okay, well, you still need to sleep," virgil says, frowning. "you should go home, to sideshire."

logan brightens at that, just a little.

what ensues is a solid bickering session: on if logan should go home to sideshire or back to his grandparent's house, on if virgil or emily should stay, on who would take which car and on who would bring logan back to visit if he wanted, and eventually it settled out to—

"bye, virgil," logan says. "thanks for looking after him."

"always do," virgil says. "i texted sarah, she's opening tomorrow, but would you mind swinging by the diner to let people know, just in case?"

"of course," logan says. "i'll even pick up breakfast there before i visit tomorrow."

virgil nods, and gives logan a hug goodnight, just because. 

"you're sure you'll be all right?" richard's asking emily, in the background.

"i'll be fine," she says.

"you can call if you'd like me to come back, or if you need something."

"go," emily says, and kisses her husband on the cheek. "i'll look after patton."

richard smiles, squeezes her shoulder, and then logan and richard are gone.

an incredibly awkward silence descends on the hospital room.

emily sniffs, and drags one of the chairs to the opposite side of patton's bed. virgil settles into his—he notes, with slight relief, that his side does not show patton's iv.

"you don't trust me with my own son," she says, coldly, and virgil crosses his arms, leaning back in his chair.

"was i too subtle, the first time?" he deadpans. 

she sniffs again, and sits up even straighter, looking away from him. for a second, he thinks that might be the end of it, and they'll sit quietly in awkward silence until one of them falls asleep or the sun has risen. 

of course not.

"i don't know what gives you the right—"

virgil sighs, loudly, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

"oh, my god, okay," virgil says, and leans back in his chair again, worrying his hoodie between his fingers. "there are so many goddamn reasons i don't like you. i have a list in my head that's been sixteen years in the making. do you seriously want me to spend the whole night going through it?" 

she arches a brow at him. that is literally all it takes.

"fine," virgil says. "i don't like your smug rich person attitude. i don't like the way you look down at me because i run a diner for a living. i don't like the way you think your privilege is a goddamn god-given right, like you're some kind of medieval king or something—"

"are you quite finished?"

"like i said, sixteen years, don't rush me," virgil says, kicking back in his chair and starting to tick things off his fingers. "i don't like your tacky rich people hair or your tacky rich people outfit. i don't like how you apparently think the bus is for drug dealers. i don't like most of the things you say about people who aren't as rich as you, actually, but that's a whole other thing. i don't like the car that you had that i egged that one time. i don't like how you think having a lot of money automatically makes you better than other people, i don't like the way you treat your son—"

"how dare you," she begins indignantly, loudly, and patton mumbles, shifting in his sleep. they both freeze.

"look," virgil hisses, "i am fully willing to fight with you, we just have to keep the volume low so that we don't wake patton up, clear?"

they both stare at patton for a few seconds. when she's satisfied that patton isn't waking up, she leans forward, and snarls, "how dare you," at a satisfactory volume.

"i dare because you and your husband are shit to him," virgil snarls. back, at a similarly quiet volume. "because you say fucking terrible things to him, and he's sensitive, and soft, and a good man, and he deserves better than you two jumping on him every time you get the chance—"

"you know nothing—"

"i know nothing?!" virgil snaps. "are you fucking kidding me?!"

"no, i most certainly am not!" she declares. "you know nothing about the way our lives have gone, you know nothing about the way our family works, and you have no right to pretend to know."

"oh, i don't?"

"no, you don't!" she says, strident. "it's none of your business how—"

"none of my business?!" 

"it most certainly is not!" 

"it is when patton shows up crying in my diner!" virgil hisses, fingernails digging into his hoodie. "it is when that's what's been happening after family gatherings with you for years! it's my business because sixteen years ago a kid holding a baby showed up and started sobbing in my diner and decided to stick around town, just because the first place he pulled into someone showed him some goddamn kindness for the first time in months, it is when you're messing with the life of my best friend and our fucking kid—"

"you are not logan's father—"

"look, i might not have contributed anything to logan's dna makeup, but that doesn't change that he's our kid," virgil says roughly. "patton's known that for years and logan has too."

there's a flicker of what might be surprise on her face, before she angrily sets her jaw.

"they're the ones whose opinion i care about, so i don't particularly give a fuck what you think about the fact that i've basically adopted your grandson," virgil says. "and i might not be one of logan's biological parents, but jesus christ, i'd never call him a disappointment, not in a million years. so all things considered, i'm pretty sure that makes me a better parent than you."

patton makes a soft snuffling noise in his sleep, and his head tilts a bit in virgil's direction. virgil tries not to feel too victorious about it.

"you have no idea what he did to us," emily says.

"yeah, i do," virgil says. "i was there. i saw how much it tore him apart. still does."

she stares at him, and says, quietly, "i wasn't just talking about him running away."

oh. virgil leans back a little more. right. patton's rebellious teenage years.

("okay, so, you gotta be careful when you try this, right?" virgil says, holding a shot of vodka a bit like it is a nuclear bomb. "drink it all down at once, then you drink this sprite right after or else it'll feel like your throat is burning—"

patton, freshly twenty-one, only stares at him, amused, and downs the shot like a pro, barely pausing to sip his sprite and grin at virgil, to the cheers of the other attendants of patton's fairly sparse birthday party.

"virgil," he says patiently. "this isn't the first drink of alcohol i've ever had."

"oh," he says lamely. "right."

patton snorts and pats him fondly on the cheek. "maybe when i get drunker i'll tell you all about my various teenage shenanigans."

"will it give me a heart attack?"

patton's grin turns a little vicious. "probably," he says. "i mean, it nearly did for my parents. would you say being a teen parent or riding along with chris when he crashed his porsche two hours after his parents got it for his sixteenth birthday is more heart-attack inducing? or the times i shoplifted from department stores? or my five separate fake ids? or maybe my boyfriend who referred to himself as 'the dragon witch' and got me an honorary place in a biker gang? or—"

"patton, oh my god—"

"i'm just warming up, here, we're not even in the good stuff yet," patton chirps teasingly.

"the good stuff? good stuff as in, like, bible study, right?" virgil says, trying to make it a joke to cover that he's about to hyperventilate, but patton laughs and accepts another shot from maria with a nod of thanks before he can get really into it, and then when he surfaces from that shot he demands the music be turned up so he can dance, c'mon, virgil, dance with me dance with me dance with me it's my birthday you gotta dance with me—!)

"okay," virgil says, "as someone who was also pretty stupid when they were a teenager—"

she narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, and he rolls his eyes in return.

"you cannot seriously tell me you haven't done a few dumb things in life you regret," virgil says. "i hung around some kids who weren't the best influences—we called ourselves The Others, i know, it's stupid—and do i regret a lot of the stuff i did with them? yeah, i do. but i've bettered myself, i've moved on, and i've grown. patton has too."

"oh, he has," emily says doubtfully. "of course he has. suddenly, my eyes are open. you've delivered me nirvana. of course patton is no longer a teenager, why, i must have been confused because he insists on continuing to act like one."

"act like one?" virgil repeats cluelessly.

"it clearly isn't news to you that we and patton argue often."

"yeah, no, it isn't," virgil says. "i mean, patton's defending himself, but sure, whatever."

"through asking logan to treat us like lepers?" she snaps. "that doesn't strike you as immature behavior?"

asking logan to treat us like lepers, virgil mouths, and then, "you think patton asked logan to give you a hard time? are we talking about the same patton and logan?"

"well, why else would he—?"

"because logan is a smart, stubborn kid who hates the fact that patton has to sit through you two bullying him in order to secure money for his schooling, holy shit," virgil says. "because logan picks arguments like florists pick flowers, and if someone messes with one of His People it basically means free reign for him to fight back."

"well—"

"logan's literally a debate champion," virgil says. "you're telling me you think it's more likely that patton, your son, the same patton who didn't want to bother anyone when he came down with fucking pneumonia, that patton, you think it's more likely that that patton asked logan, who once got into a full-on argument with a four-year-old who told him that newspapers were stupid when he was fifteen, to be mean to you. you think that patton asked that logan to pick a fight? seriously?"

she crosses her arms and huffs, and suddenly, it clicks.

"oh, my god," virgil says. "you wanna know what your problem is?! you still think that patton's sixteen."

"of course i don't—"

"no, listen," virgil says, warming up to this theory. "patton runs away, and that sucks, i get it, i'm not arguing that. but the only times you see him after that until pretty recently are, what, holidays? so you don't see him on a day-to-day basis anymore. so you didn't see him grow up and grow up fast. and you still refuse to see him grow up, because he's your kid, and on one level i get that because logan becoming an actual adult scares me a lot, but on the other, seriously, lady, patton's thirty-two. he has a house and a good job and he's getting his degree and he has done a great job raising logan, who is, i think we can both agree, while being incredibly infuriating sometimes, is also one of the best teenagers on the face of this planet."

her nod is really more of a jerk of her chin.

"honestly, if anyone would be telling logan to pick a fight with you, it'd be me," virgil muses.

her eyes sharpen. 

"you told logan to—" emily begins, and virgil rolls his eyes.

"no," virgil says, "because when i don't like someone, i don't tell a sixteen-year-old kid to pass on the message for me, god. i'm just saying that if it was between me or patton telling logan to pick a fight, it'd be me."

a pause, a sniff, a "well, that i can believe."

"in the interest of honesty, or whatever, i have been telling patton to not let you into his life anymore for years," virgil says.

the look on her face isn't what virgil's expecting. virgil's expecting her nostrils to flare, her jaw to clench, her eyes to ignite with fury. he's expecting a loud outburst. he's expecting rage. what flickers across her face isn't that. 

virgil thinks it might be fear.

why would she be afraid of—oh. 

oh, that's why patton won't hear about cutting them out whenever virgil brings it up. that's why patton won't hear about leaving them. because he did it once, didn't he? he did it when he ran away to sideshire. 

"he won't listen to me, obviously," virgil says, refusing to acknowledge that he might be saying this to comfort her, but just to establish where they're at, in the fight. because, like, obviously patton wouldn't do that, but she clearly has a skewed idea of who her son is, so. 

"but it's a whole routine. you all fight, you upset patton, patton comes to me, i tell him to cut you two out. he makes excuses. you two... i dunno, god, patton apologizes for whyever you chose to fight him, or he at least smooths things over enough so that you guys get together for the next holiday, the cycle starts again." virgil waves a hand. "he gets irritated if i bring it up too much, so i don't. he's entirely too optimistic about you." 

she's quiet. virgil waits a few seconds, before he continues.

"and you realize that i'm definitely not the one who'd convince patton about cutting you out, but you know the one person he'd do anything for, even if it broke his heart?"

she's gone a little paler. "logan," she says.

"yeah," virgil says. "logan."

"logan wouldn't," she begins, but falters.

"if you keep fighting with patton like this, he might," virgil says. "logan hates it when his dad is upset. he hates it."

"he hates my house," she says, sharp. "he hates me and my husband."

virgil gawks at her.

"what?" she demands. "weren't you going to throw that in my face? weren't you going to lord it over me that he'd rather you be his guardian than us?!"

"i'm not that much of an asshole, jesus," virgil says. "i didn't—i didn't know you'd overheard that."

"yes, well," she scoffs, and fiddles with some of her bracelets. "when patton woke up, then, he kept trying to tell us how we could better take care of logan. even then he said that if we were at a loss, we should contact you."

"i," virgil begins, and shakes himself. "he said all that?"

"when we told him he had pneumonia, he seemed to be under the impression that he was—" her voice cracks. she does not have to say dying out loud—it's written all over her face.

virgil swallows hard, and looks to patton, slumbering peacefully, the beep of his heart monitor, the reassuring rise and fall of his chest. i left him, i left him, and he thought he was dying, he got so sick that he thought he might die because i left him— 

"oh."

"he promised he wouldn't."

"he better not," virgil says hoarsely.

"hmph. yes."

"i—" virgil looks at her, then back at patton. "i mean, he's right. i do know a lot in the whole 'care and keeping of logan' thing."

"oh, i'm sure," she mutters sarcastically.

"i could make it a whole lot clearer, lady," virgil mutters right back. 

she looks away from him, nostrils flaring. 

"i just—look," virgil says. "you realize you have to stop fighting with him, right? all it does it push them both away."

she might be about to say something, but before she can, patton makes a mumbling noise. they both freeze. 

patton's head nods down, sharply, before it tilts back up again. he squints.

"virgil?"

"yeah," virgil says, inching forward in his chair, itching to grab his hand again. "yeah, pat, it's me."

"mkay," patton murmurs, and yawns. "s'logan down for the night?"

oh, gosh, virgil hasn't been asked that question for at least twelve years. virgil figures he may as well play along, let patton get back to sleep faster.

"yeah," virgil whispers back. "yeah, he's out like a light."

well, hopefully true, when logan gets home.

"how many stories did it take?"

"oh, you know logan," virgil sighs, remembering how many storybooks logan would tug from his expansive, second-hand collection and stack them in his arms up to his chin, looking up at virgil expectantly, as if to say we both know you're a softie, you're going to read me all these, let's skip the argument, except virgil would pose a slight argument anyways and convince logan to let go of maybe three of them, because logan had always had virgil pinned on that whole softie thing.

"about a million. i made one up for him, too."

"was it about cecil the space pirate?"

"cecil the space pirate," virgil confirms, lips twitching. wow, the things patton's fever-addled brain thought up. virgil's nearly forgotten about cecil the space pirate, one of the only make-believe stories logan continued to tolerate even as he grew older and older and older. virgil's pretty sure that the second birthday story roman ever wrote for logan was about cecil the space pirate.

"mkay," patton murmurs. "i got work in the morning, don't i?"

"nah," virgil says. "nah, you get to sleep in tomorrow, lucky you."

"you'll be at the diner for breakfast?"

"'course i'll be at the diner for breakfast," virgil says. "i own it."

"want waffles," patton murmurs sleepily.

"if you're nice to me," virgil says.

"m'always nice to you," patton slurs.

"yeah, that's true," virgil concedes. "okay. if you're extra nice to me, how bout that?"

patton lets out what might be a giggle, but he's so close to dropping off again that it's hard to tell.

"get some rest," virgil murmurs, and hesitates, before he reaches over to brush patton's hair back. he promised he wouldn't. i’m not leaving you again. "you just go ahead and go to sleep, patton. i’ll be right here."

patton sighs, head tilting a little further into virgil's touch. he's not nearly as warm as he'd been when virgil found him, which is good, but still too warm for virgil's taste.

he can see emily, out of the corner of his eyes, looking a little more relaxed.

"i'm not finished with you, your days are numbered," virgil hisses in her direction.

patton hums at him quizzically, mumbles, "wha'?"

"i said, do you want some water?" virgil covers quickly, smiling falsely at him. it turns a bit more real as patton squints an eye at him.

"you don't gotta fuss 'bout my hydration all the time, you know."

"ah, but fussing's what i do best," virgil says gently, smiling at patton as he combs his fingers through patton's curls in a slow, repetitive motion. "go on, close your eyes again, there you go. go to sleep."

"you don't gotta fuss about how much sleep i get either," patton sighs, but closes his eyes obediently. his breathing evens out, soon enough. 

she's silent. virgil's thought about this fight—how it might go, where it might happen, who would win—for years. exactly none of it has gone according to how his brain said it might go. virgil has a lot of opinions on emily and richard sanders and the way they treat their son—on days where they've been behaving themselves relatively well, he thinks they're stuck-up, snobbish assholes, and on days where they haven't been behaving well virgil thinks about the things that patton tells him that they say to him and thinks about how they're something that starts with "emotionally" and ends with "abusive," and how patton would be so absolutely in his rights to cut them off, and he has wanted to fight emily or richard sanders for years. and now it's here.

and now it's... off.

"we want the best for him," emily says.

"that's exactly what he says, yeah," virgil says tiredly, and runs his fingers through patton's curls again. "the trouble is, what you think is best for him and what's actually best for him are two entirely different things." 

her lips twitch, with bitter humor. "that's exactly what he says."

and here's the crux of it: "but you don't agree," virgil says.

"no," emily says. her chin tilts up, proud. "no, we don't."

any sympathy virgil has toward her is gone. he kind of wants to reach across patton's bed and throttle her. they're in a hospital, they're in the right place for it.

"why the fuck not," virgil manages to hiss it and not shriek it. she's so close to understanding, so close to actually catching on and getting it and maybe, miracle of miracles, patching up her and her husband's relationship with patton, but now she doesn't get it?!

"because what he thinks is best for him is not the same as what is actually best for him," emily says. 

"okay, then, what do you think is actually best for him?" virgil asks, with a twirl of his free hand he realizes with muted horror he probably picked up from roman.

so she lays it out for him. patton getting his degree is all well and good, but he should get it from a "better" establishment. patton being a manager is all well and good, but not in the inn business—if he adds a bit onto his degree, why, he could go into insurance too, and be a manager there soon enough. and patton having a little country home is all well and good, but he should move into a neighborhood more fitting for him—a house that would be closer to chilton. a house that would be closer to her. and, well, if patton stumbles across a few friends of hers—the sons of members of the dar, the kind of sons who have privilege and strong savings and investments and would be able to take care of him, and  if they just so happened fit emily's bill of approval to a t—well, that certainly wouldn't be too bad for him, either. and with logan going off to an ivy soon, well, he might get lonely, it would be good for him to have someone, and maybe, just maybe, there could be other little perfect grandbabies on the way, and—

"okay, so, what i'm hearing is," virgil cuts in, "basically, you want to redesign his whole life."

"well, not his whole life," emily says. 

"what are you leaving him from the life he's managed to build in this 'donna reed' style daydream, just logan?" virgil says incredulously. "a little small-town summer house he can escape to?"

she blinks at him. "that seems reasonable."

"that seems like patton would be miserable," virgil says. 

she looks at him, blank. "why?"

"well, one," virgil says pointedly, "sure, patton's open to having other kids, but the only way they'd be biologically his is if he'd donate an egg. he never wants to be pregnant again, you do realize that's what messed up his brain to the point it did, back then?"

she looks at him, gobsmacked. "and how would you know that?"

(—patton's nineteen, and starting to go on the occasional date, which is kinda weird but patton's an adult and he can do what we wants, and currently he's going slightly steady with one of the businessmen who swings into town every other week or so, and it's going pretty well, or so virgil's heard and thought until patton careens into the diner one night, eyes huge and watery and gasping, and virgil's out from behind the counter before he can even think.

"hey," he says, and "hey—" and patton's face is crumpling up, and no, patton doesn't want to cry in the middle of the diner in dinner rush, so virgil says, "c'mere, c'mon," and puts an arm around his shoulders, trying to shield him from sight of everyone in the diner, quickly getting him through the back and patton bursts into tears as soon as the door to virgil's apartment shuts behind him.

"patton, patton, patton," he says, hushed, and patton, red-faced and crying, just holds out a shopping bag. virgil blinks, takes it, and takes out one of the three identical things that's in there and—

"oh shit," virgil says before he can really temper his reaction, and patton starts crying harder, and virgil curses, dropping the unopened pregnancy test on the ground, stepping forward and opening his arms in invitation and patton buries his face into virgil's chest, sobbing.

"i don't wanna be pregnant again," he gasps. "i don't wanna be—"

"okay, okay, it's okay," virgil says. "it's okay—do you know if—?"

"not yet, i was too—" patton gulps, and croaks, "i can barely afford logan, and i love him so much, but i can't—i can't do that again, i can't—"

"it's really rare for trans guys on t to get pregnant, right?" virgil says gently, and patton sniffs, louder, and nods.

"okay," virgil says. "okay. here's what we're going to do, okay? we're going to sit down on my couch."

they do.

"we're gonna get you calmed down," virgil says. "next, you're gonna drink some water, and you'll take it."

"and if i—?"

"we can talk about your options if the test's positive," virgil says gently. "but take the test first. okay? then we can cross that bridge if we get to it."

patton snuggles harder into virgil, hiccuping, and virgil runs his hand through patton's hair, over and over, until his shoulders stop shaking as much. 

virgil gets him some water. virgil waits when patton goes into the restroom. virgil waits as patton comes back, buries his face into virgil's lap and curls up hard, hiding from the world.

"why do you think you're—?" virgil begins. 

"i got really bad morning sickness, with logan," patton whispers. "migraines too. and i'm—i just, my period's been irregular since i started t, and it's mostly stopped, but there's been some spotting and i looked it up and that's a symptom too and i—"

"okay," virgil murmurs, trying to mentally sort what each of those might be—summer flu, dehydration, he admittedly doesn't know much about periods so he can't really say much about that—"okay. um. have you guys been, um...?"

"using protection, yeah," patton says miserably. "but apparently that's not very useful when it comes to me, so."

"huh," virgil says. "with logan?"

"condom broke, we think," patton says, and wearily runs a hand over his eyes. "or at least that's the most likely explanation."

"yeah," virgil says, and runs a hand over patton's hair again. he's about to ask patton if he's doing okay, except the timer goes off, and patton lets out a keening, horrible whine.

"i can't look," he whispers. "virgil, could you—?"

"yeah," virgil says, heart in his throat. impulsively, he kisses patton's head. "yeah, of course, i'll look."

he checks the guide. he takes a breath. he looks at all three tests. and then he double-checks them, and double-checks the guide, and he walks out of the bathroom to see patton hugging a pillow to his stomach, hunched over it.

"well?" patton whispers.

"well," virgil says, "i think you have the summer flu, or something, and you should probably make a doctor's appointment to ask about spotting, because you've got three nopes in there."

"oh," patton chokes out, and buries his face in his hands. "oh, thank god."

"yeah," virgil says, and goes over to the couch, hugging patton again. "yeah, buddy, you're okay."

"i just—god," patton manages. "i mean, i want another kid at some point, probably, but i can't—i can't be pregnant again. i can't do that. i mean, i love logan, i love him so much, but being pregnant with him—what it did to my brain, what it did to my mental health, i can't—"

he chokes up, and can't go on, and virgil's heart breaks a little.

"that's totally understandable and you do not have to justify yourself to me, or to anyone else," virgil says firmly. "hey, do you want me to get you a brownie, or something? i think you just put the 'scary' in 'pregnancy scare.'"

patton lets out what might be a giggle, a bit too hysterical to make virgil actually happy, but it's a giggle, nonetheless, and—)

"we talked about it once," virgil says evasively, fingers twitching through patton's hair as if to comfort distress that's thirteen years past. "look, just—none of what you just said would make patton happy, are you serious?"

"i wasn't talking about patton being happy, i was talking about what would be best for him," emily says. 

virgil blinks. "i'm not following."

she lets out a long sigh, as if he is being deliberately obtuse. "it would make patton happy if he were able to eat nothing but waffles and pasta and sweets all day. it would be best for him if he ate fruits and vegetables and maintained a balanced diet."

"that's an entirely different thing," virgil says hotly, withdrawing his hand from patton's hair and starting to pick at a loose thread in his hoodie.

"is it?" she challenges. 

"yeah, it is," virgil says, "because his life isn't as temporary as a meal. what's best for him in his diet is nowhere near the same way you should treat your life."

"that is where we disagree," she says, terse. "i believe what is best for him is not necessarily what makes him happy. there are procedures put in place, proper plans to be followed."

"doesn't what he want matter to you?" virgil says.

"what he wants is immaterial. sacrifices are often necessary in order to what is right."

virgil stares at her for a few moments, lets her words sink in, lets himself reflect on what following that might have been like, and—

"i am really indescribably sorry for you, right now," virgil tells her, and she sniffs.

"you hardly need to be. i was perfectly happy to follow the life i had set out for me."

virgil stares at her for a few more seconds, and she huffs.

"save your emotions," she says. "i've had just about my fill of them tonight." 

virgil snorts. "finally, somewhere we agree," he mutters.

they're quiet for another long stretch of time. 

"you genuinely think you know what's best for him?" she says, and virgil starts.

"i," virgil says. "yeah. better than you do, anyway."

"why?" she says, and then, derisively, "because you're in love with him?"

virgil doesn't quite reel back like she's smacked him, which is kind of how it feels, but he does pinch the fabric of his hoodie between his fingernails.

"no," he says. before he can say anything else, she plows over him.

"you look at him like he's a porterhouse steak!" she says, vindictive. 

"i do not," he says.

"oh, please, you look at him like he's about to give you a lapdance."

virgil just about chokes on air.

"i do not," virgil insists, "and anyway, that's not what i was about to say, i wasn't about to deny being in love with him, of course i'm in love with him."

she falters.

"i was going to say that me being in love with him doesn't change that i know what makes him happy better than you do," virgil says. 

"fine, then," emily says. "please tell me what you think would make him happy."

"his life, now, for the most part," virgil says. "living in sideshire, managing the inn. waiting for logan to get home from chilton, logan telling him about working at the courant, supervising roman and logan sleepovers. i think the biggest change would be if he got along with his parents."

she stares at him for one second. two.

virgil shrugs. "that's what would make him happy," he says simply. "that's what he wants. when he came home from lunch or brunch or whatever it was with you guys and logan and you guys managed not to fight the whole time, he was so happy."

she's silent.

"and i think that's what you want too," virgil says quietly. 

she's silent for a long time—enough time for patton to stir again, and, slightly hilariously and slightly heartbreakingly, seems to be stuck firmly in the headspace of logan still being a baby, and virgil soothes patton's mumbled worries about how logan's colic should be acting up by now before patton drops back off again. and by then, emily seems to have gotten control of her emotions again.

"you haven't put yourself into that little scenario of yours," emily says.

"the way we are now makes him happy," virgil says simply. "and that's enough for me."

she snorts. "idiots. the both of you."

virgil snorts a little, too, ducking his head. he rubs his thumb and forefinger against the worn spot on the cuff of his hoodie.

her eyes zero in on it. "did you," she begins, and then, almost suspiciously, "did you make that?"

"oh," virgil says, and awkwardly, "um, i mean, i bought the hoodie. but all the extra stitching and fabric and stuff, yeah. i did that."

"hm."

"i gave it to patton when we were on the way here," falls out of his mouth before he can stop it.

she looks at him a little closer. "you did?"

virgil coughs, awkward, and redirects his glance back to the sleeve he's worrying between his fingers. "he was, um. he had pretty bad chills, and i kept turning the heat up in the car, but it didn't help. and he wasn't saying anything, but i knew he was cold, so i gave it to him, but the orderlies had to take it off before he could go back in the test room, but i—i haven't been able to put it back on since."

his mouth snaps shut, and he's fully aware of his cheeks burning, fully aware of her eyes on him, and he stares even harder at the little imperfect faded oval he's rubbed into the fabric over the years, rendering that section of cuff a shade lighter than the rest of it.

"stupid, i know," he mutters.

she's quiet, for a moment, before she says, "i haven't been able to bring myself to change any of the decoration or furniture in patton's room since he left home."

he doesn't really know what to say to that. it feels like... he doesn't know. if it was any other person than one of patton's two parents, he'd say it feels like an olive branch. but with them, virgil's so used to hearing about arguments and bickering and favors offered with full knowledge they'd be paid back in full later, so it doesn't. it feels like a business deal. or like one of the faeries in the stories that virgil used to read to logan, before he insisted he outgrew such things—the kinds of sneaky wishes that would come back to bite you, in some way. it feels like a rabbit's foot. it feels like a monkey's paw.

"he has a way," virgil says at last. 

"he does, doesn't he," she says musingly. 

"yeah," virgil says, awkward.

there's another pause, a long stretch of quiet. enough time for a nurse to come and check patton's vitals, update his data, smile benevolently at them both, and leave.

"not that i'm asking your opinion," she says severely. "but your... idea. of how patton would like to lead his life."

virgil looks up, blinking at her. "yeah?"

she lifts an eyebrow at him imperiously. "do you think it's possible?"

"oh," virgil says. "i think—i mean, i don't really believe in you all that much, but patton does, so. if you keep fighting him and don't, like, remove your head from your ass, you're definitely going to push him and logan away, you know that, right?"

she doesn't really respond, and virgil huffs out an exasperated breath.

"look," virgil says. "you know what would patch all this up?"

"what?"

"if you and your husband apologized," for once. "if you and him apologized to patton, he'd forgive you in a heartbeat, you know. because again, he's way too optimistic about you."

"well, i hardly—"

"holy shit, you started it," virgil says. "you always start it. you cannot seriously expect your son, who is bedridden with pneumonia, to put in his usual work of trying to smooth it over between you three, the way he always does. for once, can you please just fucking set aside your pride for five seconds and apologize?"

"what he did—"

"sucked, i know," virgil says impatiently. "it sucks that he ran away, he knows that, he regrets doing that to you the way he did, but jesus christ, it's been sixteen years. he's apologized, hasn't he?"

she barely inclines her head.

"okay, so," virgil says. "can you just see that this is kind of a special circumstance and say the words i'm sorry? just one time. and he'll forgive you basically instantly. even if you don't understand why, just say it, and then you can playact at being a big happy family again."

emily chews at her lip.

...

"you're quite certain you don't want me to stay the night here?" 

"i'll be fine, grandpa," logan says wearily as they turn down the street to home, even as something in him delights at being so, so close to home again. "you should go back to your house, in case they need anything. you're closer to the hospital than i am here."

"well," he begins, about to turn into the drive, but he stops the car as the lights illuminate a familiar figure.

"who the devil," he begins, moving to lock the doors, but logan's flinging the door open before he can, unbuckling and nearly skidding on the icy driveway as he speedwalks to the front stoop, where the familiar figure is standing up, shivering.

"roman," logan says, and roman steps forward and hugs him tight, so tight, and logan closes his eyes, buries his face into roman's shoulder where he still smells like hairspray and the stage makeup he hadn't bothered to wipe off his face and sweat, still wearing the massive button-down he wears to cover his costumes while backstage at a show under his big, puffy winter jacket, and logan's home, he's home, and—

"oh my god, i'm so sorry i didn't call back," roman says, and draws back. he'd barely made a cursory smear of a makeup wipe on his face, so his stage makeup remains on his face, smeared with sweat. he still has purple glitter on his eyelids and sharp cateye eyeliner, and smudged, faded lipstick. "i didn't know what to do, i didn't know where you were, i didn't know if you were coming home for the night or not, so i just—"

"logan?" his grandfather calls, and logan turns, still holding roman in his arms.

"it's okay," logan calls. "it's okay, it's just roman. i'll see you tomorrow?"

richard surveys this, frowns, grunts a little, waves in farewell, and gets back in his car. logan opens the front door to the house, nudging roman in ahead of him and flicking on the light, turning back to lock the door. roman barely waits until he's turned the key until he's tugging at logan's suit jacket, and logan turns to face him again, and god, there he is, that's his best friend. 

"is your dad okay?" roman asks, frantic.

"he'll be fine," logan says. "i—the doctors said it was pneumonia and he'll be at the hospital for a few days, but they said he'd be okay."

"god, logan," roman says, and reaches to hug him again. logan closes his eyes tight, and leans into it, hard. for once, he won't deny that he maybe needs hugs right now.

they draw back, and logan, a little in disbelief, picks at collar of roman's button-up.

"you came," logan says.

"well, yeah," roman says, like it's obvious. "you were upset, of course i came."

i love you, logan thinks.

"i mean, admittedly, it wasn't like, straight to the hospital, or anything," roman says. "i tried, but i wasn't sure which one, and—"

"i'm going back to visit in the morning," logan says, tentative. "if you'd—if you'd join me?"

"yeah, of course," roman says, and takes logan's hand. he tugs logan into the living room, where the detritus of one of his father's blanket nests is in an armchair. they sit on the couch, where a collection of empty mugs sits on the coffee table. there is so much of patton in this house. logan cannot look anywhere without thinking about his dad.

suddenly, he realizes that roman's been talking this whole time.

"—but oh my god, l, that must have been so scary."

logan wants to deny that it was scary. logan wants to lie. logan wants to say objectively, the risks of pneumonia are relatively low, here are the survival rates and here are the usual methods of treatment and here is what will happen, and here is proof that my dad will be okay, and here are all the reasons why it is illogical to be upset, because he will be okay, and i know he will be okay, because virgil promised he would be okay and the doctor said he would be okay and the family physician said he would be okay, so there is no reason why my brain is still stuck at a point where i should think that he wouldn't be okay, because that is not true, because he will be okay.

instead, logan's lip trembles, and he catches it between his teeth with a groan, pressing his elbows against his thighs and bending to meet his hands, sliding off his glasses to press the heels of his hands against his stinging, hot eyes.

there's a body against him, then, a cheek pressed to the back of his neck, arms wrapping around him again, and logan swallows hard.

"i've gotcha," roman whispers. "i've got you, logan. i'm right here." 

and logan buries his face in his best friend's lap, and for the second time that night, he starts to cry.

...

there's a weight on patton's hip.

that's the first thing he's aware of, swimming out of the dark gray sludge of sleep, waking up slowly and not particularly liking it very much. there is a weight against his hip, and when at last he cracks open his eyes, the first thing he does is look to see what it is.

it's a familiar head. the face is mostly obscured by the hair flopping into patton's line of vision, but the hoodie that's been spread out over patton like a blanket and the t-shirt and worn jeans the familiar person is wearing are big enough identifiers that patton doesn't really have to wait for any of his reasoning skills to come back online.

virgil's got a hand close to patton's hand, where it's resting on the mattress, and an arm slung out across patton's stomach, not even pillowing his head. it's as if he'd reached out to make sure that patton would stay put.

patton's heart swells with a nearly unimaginable amount of fondness. he carefully moves the hand that virgil had nearly been touching to virgil's head. his hair, feathery and floppy and soft, is familiar under his hand. the hard curve of his skull is, too. patton doesn't get to touch him very much, but they're familiar anyways. he swipes an admiring thumb slowly down, tracing the line of virgil's jaw.

virgil nuzzles against patton's belly in his sleep. in doing so, a bit of his hair slips, and it reveals a bit of virgil's closed eye, bangs parting like curtains. the ever-present bags look slightly darker than usual. that must be why virgil fell asleep on him. well, patton certainly isn't complaining. as a matter of fact, he smiles, and covers virgil's hand with his own, feeling something in his stomach flutter.

he can go back to sleep, now.

 when he wakes again, it's to the clicking of high heels, and a voice he's known all his life.

"—did you say he'd be here, again?"

another voice—familiar, beloved, feels like he's known him all his life.

"logan's text said 9:30, so they're probably just parking and getting up to the room now."

"hmph. or the traffic's acting up again."

huh. he must be dreaming. there is no actual world where his mother and virgil are being so civil.

"look, they said they'd be here soon. with roman, too."

"the dance boy? patton says logan has a crush on him."

"oh, yeah, logan definitely has a crush on him. but patton really likes him, he's practically another kid. he's my neighbor, plus he's logan's best friend, so. logan probably told him about it and roman wanted to come wish him well."

"he was very well-behaved at logan's birthday get-together," his mother muses.

"yeah, he can be a real little charmer," virgil says darkly.

"he's a prince, it's practically in the name that he's charming," patton mumbles, trying to complete the old joke.

"oh, right on time," his mother says, pleased, and patton cracks open his eyes.

his mother's standing, holding a to-go cup of coffee, and virgil's still sitting at patton's bedside, where he dimly remembers virgil being a few times he'd woken up before. his hand's under patton's, and patton squeezes before he can really help himself. he's never really held virgil's hand before—this isn't exactly holding his hand, just his hand over virgil's, but it's close enough that patton's kind of unreasonably excited

"what were you saying?" patton asks, shifting against the pillows, trying to sit up a bit straighter.

"logan, roman, and your dad are all coming," virgil tells him. "should be here any minute."

patton nods, and makes the mistake of looking down at himself, only to suck in a breath and look up at the ceiling.

"what?" virgil asks, alert.

"needles," patton says, strangled. "i can see it, virge. i can feel it."

ivs! are! the! worst! sure, he's a bit more used to needles now because of his shots of testosterone, but with those he can at least aim and then look away and jab himself, and it's over relatively quickly, but he can feel it now and it is Bad—

"oh," virgil says, scrambling, "um—"

"here," his mother says, and patton turns his head away from the arm that has tubing coming out of it, to see his mother holding out her silk handkerchief. 

"oh!" patton says, and takes it, carefully draping it over the injection site as much as he can without looking at it, and risks a glance. yes, he can still see the tubing, and feel the iv, but as long as he doesn't move his arm and the handkerchief stays there, he should be... okay.

patton offers a tentative smile to his mom—she's been here, patton knows that, his memories are really fuzzy but he knows she's been here, but patton also knows that they've been freezing each other out for the past week, so. "um, thanks, mom."

she nods, once, and virgil says, "you doing okay, pat?"

"i think so," patton says uncertainly. "i mean, i still feel pretty—bleh."

"the doctor said you probably would be feeling pretty bleh for the next couple days, sorry," virgil says sympathetically. "but you're going to be just fine, patton. you're going to be okay."

a wave of relief sweeps through patton. he remembers, distantly, almost like it's a dream, the suddenly more aggressive and more pervasive fear of dying, but—but if a doctor said he'd be okay, and if virgil says he's going to be okay, then patton's going to be okay. 

"okay," patton says, and nods, absorbing this. "okay. um, good."

"uh, so, i think i might go out to the waiting room, wait for logan and roman to get here, if that's... if that's okay."

no that is not okay why are you leaving me alone with her?! patton wants to ask, but virgil's giving him a Look, a it's okay look, so patton lets out a little breath, and trusts him. obviously. it's not even a choice, he just does.

"you can keep an eye on my hoodie for me," virgil adds, flicking one of the sleeves so it folds over patton's lap, and patton looks up at him, blinking.

"you sure?" he says, tentatively running his thumb over a worn little bit of hoodie that he's seen virgil run his fingers over, too. "you never take this off."

"i think i can manage to trust you with it," virgil says, amused. "besides, that way you know i'm gonna be coming back, right?"

patton weighs these options. he fiddles with virgil's hoodie again, runs his fingers over the white stitching, feeling the variance of textures under his fingers.

"okay," patton says. "yeah."

"cool," virgil says.

and then virgil and his mom share their own little Look. patton has literally no hope of unparsing it if he tried—they still aren't fond of each other, obviously, but they look... they look understanding, almost. almost. not quite. but like they've reached some kind of point of agreement, maybe. not necessarily that they entirely agree, but just one point of agreement.

well, that's more than they had, so. patton's all for it.

his mother takes virgil's abandoned seat, and scoots a little closer, crossing her legs primly.

"well," she says, and fiddles with his blanket, pointedly avoiding touching virgil's hoodie, pulling the blanket over him a little more snugly. "how are you feeling?"

okay, so this is... weird. but patton can go with it. at least it's not yelling.

"um," patton says. "not my best?"

her face tightens.

"what?" patton asks in a tiny voice.

"young man," she says. "you were brought into the hospital between having actually collapsed and being on the verge of another one, with a fever so high you could have risked serious brain damage if you continued to refuse to seek treatment, and a case of pneumonia so serious that you have to stay in the hospital for at least three days, and all you have to say is that you don't feel at your best?"

"well, you see," patton says, "i'm really not at my best."

his mother looks five seconds from lovingly smothering him with his own hospital pillow when the door opens, and—

okay, virgil seriously isn't mean enough to leave him to get yelled at while he was bedridden and couldn't escape, right? had he really annoyed virgil recently?

"hello, patton," his father says.

"um, hi, dad," patton says, trying not to fidget, in case it jostled his arm and he had to be reminded about needles again. "are, um. are logan and roman here?"

"virgil took them to get coffee," his dad says. 

(actually, virgil is leaning against the wall just outside the door, out of sight of anyone in the room, monitoring this conversation just in case anything goes wrong, and what he said to roman and logan was "here's ten bucks, scram," and roman had wrinkled his nose at him and said "why?" and virgil said "privacy reasons, there's going to be an emotional moment," and logan had declared "gross" incredibly loudly and grabbed roman by the hand and dragged him in the direction of the hospital cafeteria, roman looking a bit too excited about logan holding his hand to really protest, but sure, the sanders' could all think that virgil took the kids to get coffee.)

richard pulls up a chair to sit beside his mother, and patton—patton is very suddenly reminded of the two other times in his life where he had to stay in the hospital for a period of time, when he gave birth, and when he had top surgery.

they were both there then, too.

neither time, though, had they had a fight quite as bad as the one they'd had last week.

"you don't," patton begins haltingly, and twists virgil's hoodie in his free hand. "you don't have to stay, you know."

they look at each other.

"it was very nice of you to drive roman and logan here," patton says to his dad, quietly, "but i don't—you two don't have to stick around, really. i'm going to be fine, and i can patch things up when—"

"we wanted to apologize," his mother says stiffly, and patton's mouth snaps shut.

"you," patton says, and swallows hard. "you, um. you what?"

"we wanted to apologize," his dad says. patton kind of wants to clean out his ears, and ask them both to repeat themselves one more time, or maybe page a doctor, please, because he thinks he might be hallucinating, but—

"we were out of line," richard continues. "i was out of line. i shouldn't have come down on you as hard as i did—for reopening an argument we've had before."

"oh, dad, that's not—" patton starts.

"will you be quiet and let us finish?" his mother says, snappish, and that almost kind of soothes patton, because if his mother's snappish even if she says she's in the middle of an apology it means his parents probably haven't been bodysnatched, so that's good.

"we are sorry," his mother continues, dignified and refined, and not particularly heartfelt, but that's actually kind of okay, because this was already so weird that if his mom started being the emotional one patton would—well, he doesn't know, really, he just knows it would be very strange. "we are sorry that you were upset, and we are sorry that we upset you further."

"please consider forgiving us," his dad says formally, and patton quashes the urge to giggle. please consider forgiving us in the same way he'd say please consider opening an insurance policy with our company to a client. 

"yes," emily says. "we are sorry for yelling at you, and for aggravating you when you were clearly upset and needed support, and for—"

she hesitates. she adjusts her jacket sleeves.

"and for putting you down," she says, and makes a slight moue of distaste. "for... bullying you."

patton, who is very uncomfortable, cannot help but laugh awkwardly. "i—i mean, i wouldn't say—"

"what else would you call telling you your reasoning wasn't good enough and saying you were a disappointment?" richard asks wearily, and patton shuts his mouth, directing his glance to his lap. he's fisted virgil's hoodie into a bunch he keeps curled in his free hand, with a white-knuckled grip.

"i," patton says, and swallows hard, trying to stop his voice from trembling. he can't say anything at all, and it reminds him unpleasantly of the argument, where he was lost for words, and he couldn't say anything, and he tried so hard to say something and when he did it wasn't good enough, and he swallows again, trying to search for something to say—

"you did nothing to deserve that," his dad says, and patton looks up, then, and oh. oh, his dad's eyes are... suspiciously shiny. "you did nothing to earn that."

"dad," patton barely manages to say around how choked up he is. the only time he ever saw his dad shed a tear was at his grandfather's funeral—and even then, it had only been a few, before he'd wiped off his face and continued stolidly onward.  

"i was being unfair," he says, rigid and unyielding. "i shouldn't have taken out my frustrations on you, much less in such an extreme way. i lost my composure."

"yes," emily says. "so. we are sorry that we were upset, and we made it so that you were upset you, too."

it dawns on patton, then.

they're so bad at this. like, genuinely, they're terrible at apologizing. they've hit almost everything on the stereotypical "what not to do while apologizing list." they apologized that he got upset, not for the things they said that made him upset. they've been snappy and irritable, and sure, a little emotional, but he's pretty sure telling the person you're apologizing to to be quiet is also a thing not to do. they've been uncomfortable, not with their past actions, but with the words they're saying now. 

but honestly? it's the first time they've apologized to him. so no wonder they're bad at it. baby steps, he supposes, and this is a big one. it's the first one. plus, being bad at being humble and nice is kind of quintessential to the way the elder sanders' are. it's comforting, in a really weird way.

"why are you smiling like that?" emily says suspiciously.

patton smiles wider. "nothing," he says reassuringly. 

"well, you're certainly smiling for some reason," she says peevishly. "the least you could do is sit and listen politely without looking like the cat that's gotten the cream, patton, for goodness' sake—oh!"

the reason she's said oh! is because patton's leaned almost all the way off the bed to hug her around the shoulders with his free arm. he sets his chin on her shoulder.

"i love you, mom," he says sincerely.

"oh," she says, and her hand flutters uselessly somewhere along his shoulder blade. "oh, well, that's—how nice."

patton grins even wider, because it's just such a mom thing of her to do, to be so at a loss during an emotional moment. he draws back, and grins at his dad. "i won't hug you, but i hope you know i'm thinking about it."

"it's appreciated," his father says solemnly. 

patton settles back on his pillows, cheeks hurting. "i forgive you, by the way," he adds. "if it needs to be said."

"well, good," emily says, self-satisfied, as if she's succeeded in auctioning for a particularly rare piece of antique furniture. or, well. as if she's the cat that got the cream.

"how was it?" he asks, curious. "having logan spend the week over."

richard and emily exchange a glance. 

"eventful," emily decides, and richard nods in agreement, before he reaches to take one of the abandoned newspapers from the pile logan's compiled for him, and patton almost laughs.

it doesn't take very long for the kid in question to show up at the door, with a diner owner and his best friend in tow, virgil adjusting the chairs in patton's room, before taking a seat himself.

virgil reaches out and takes patton's hand, like it's habit, before he freezes. patton smiles at him, though, and squeezes back, flipping their hands a little so that he can stare at virgil's hand.

he guesses they must have held hands for the first time last night, when he was too feverish to really tune into it. but he takes the time now to marvel quietly at virgil's hands.

logan and roman start talking about roman's opening show of the nutcracker last night, so everyone else is paying attention to that, and patton's absorbing the information, really, but he's a bit preoccupied with virgil's long, bony fingers, his expansive palm, the way he keeps stealing looks at patton out of the corners of his eyes, like he's checking that patton's alright. 

there's dozens of tiny little shiny white burns dotting his fingers, from points where the heat must have leaked through a mitt or he'd forgotten a mitt altogether, or something. there's a longer one, along his wrist. it kind of surprises patton, because he knows how cautious virgil is with heat in the kitchen. he's got calluses and his hand’s a bit sweaty, but warm, and patton squeezes his hand again—an it's okay, an i'm okay, an everything's going to be okay, an i'm really happy you're here right now. a thank you. an i love you.

and virgil squeezes back.

#my fic #wyliwf #moxiety #logince #sanders sides fanfiction #text #my post

[queertazsecretsanta]

A gift for @infernal-violinist, created by @jocelyncade!

Title: Chamomile 

Summary: Angus McDonald was hard at work last night during a stakeout, but unfortunately, fate doesn’t seem to want to let him get his paperwork done the next day.  Tag: Angus McDonald, Sick Fic, Taakitz as Ango’s Dads, Auntie Lup and Uncle Barry, Blupjeans, Taakitz

The rain buffeted heavily on the windshields around Angus, tucked betwixt the parked cars as he was.

The sound was almost deafening, but he could still make out the gruff voices of the two men mere meters from his hiding place.

“We’ll gather ‘t all up and meet 5 miles south of Refuge, got it?”

“Yes Boss.”

Their brows slick with water, Angus was confident he wouldn’t be spotted, between the frequent wiping, and blinking, and not looking for a small eleven year old boy behind a car.

He pulled out a notebook, shielding it the best he could from the inclement weather, and taking as many notes as he could. Shorthand - disguised as schoolwork, no one would look at a child’s math homework and expect it to be a code hiding the plans for these despicable men. 

Angus eyed the warehouse behind them. Could he make it inside? Surely they were hiding some choice evidence in there. Just maybe…

He waited. And waited, until a little past 2AM, for the guard to switch out. The new one, jumpy, angry at the pouring rain, didn’t think twice about scaring off what must have been a raccoon fight, and definitely not a well-placed minor illusion in the alleyway. Best to scare them away, right sir? Can’t have them be attracting any attention.

Angus creeped, quiet as a mouse, channeling every roguish tip Mrs. Carey had thought to teach him, as he approached the heavy door. 

“Damn…” He swore under his breath. Locked.

Looking around to ensure the guard wasn’t on his way, he quickly step up another illusion, this one louder and longer. A car crash would be perfect, just the sound of one - to cover up the sound of a quick cast of Knock.

The screeching of tires and crashing of metal and fibreglass echoed loudly over the comparably quiet CLACK of the spell, and the latch let him inside easily.

Shutting the door behind him, and reaching up to lock the door behind him, (if it was unlocked they’d become suspicious, after all) he quickly took cover behind some unfortunately damp crates. The roof, tattered and worn, was no protection from the elements, even inside. A light rainfall splattered atop his cap, and his clothes getting somehow even damper than before.

A short patrol passed him right after he hid, perfect timing. He studied their movements.

To be frank, Angus wasn’t sure what they were doing, just that they were moving very large trucks in and out and a warehouse that didn’t belong to them. But reports didn’t show an increase of drugs, or any kind of weapon or contraband in the area. Quite the opposite, actually. There was less on the streets than was to be expected, even with the increased levels of social services in the city. It was strange, to say the least. Though, who better to be on a strange case, than a strange little boy?

He watched the patrol pattern once more. They seemed to ignore the small boxes. Examining the one he hid behind right now, he could conclude that they seemed to be empty. 

What were they guarding??

A rustle from beside him startled him. A large crate, larger than himself was the only thing to his right. 

No..? Angus tiptoed over, shining a flashlight into the holes in the crate and-

A soft whispering into his Stone of Farspeech, quiet as he could possibly be without alerting the patrol.

Within minutes, he was on the tail side of a raid. 

No one expected fireballs from behind when the militia came at them from the front. 

No sooner than they had arrived, had they suppressed the gang of thugs. 

Angus pried the lid off his previously examined crate, reaching inside, and helping a tall dryad stand up from her crouched position.

Achoo!

“Gesundheit, kid.” Said a lilting voice by his bedside, holding out a tissue. 

“Thanks Auntie Lup.” Angus said gratefully, blowing his nose as hard as he could, leaving him dizzy, with spots in his vision. 

“Oogh.” He groaned, his head spinning. 

Lup placed the back of her hand against his forehead, frowning. 

“Still running a fever… At least it’s not as bad as last night, Taako was full on freakin’.”

Angus didn’t say anything to that. It was his fault he got sick, he didn’t take care of himself after his late night stakeout for the case.

Why should they be worried when he made this mistake himself. 

“It’s ok, I feel much better already, I’m sure this will pass soon enough.”

“At least you’re on Candlenights Vacation. Knowing you, you’d be freaking out for missing class, nerd.”

“I’m still missing my tutoring sessions.”

“You need a tutor?! I guess you aren’t such a giant nerd after all.”

Angus raised his eyebrow, giving her a pointed look.

“Obviously you’re the tutor, kid.” She laughed, ruffling his hair. “I’ll grab you some lunch. Any requests?”

“Something warm.”

“Vague as hell, Angus, thanks so much.” She winked, closing the door gently behind her.

Angus slumped back into his absolute mountain of pillows. A half dozen was far too many for a little boy, but at times like these, when he felt particularly ‘bleh’, he was grateful for the comfort. 

He felt much worse than he let on. There was no point in getting fussed over - after all, Auntie Lup, Uncle Barry and Kravitz were incredibly busy, and Taako… Taako does what he wants, so it was hard for Angus to gauge how ‘busy’ he was at any given moment. But he knew that Taako had better things to do than worry. Like Magic Day. Just because he was sick didn’t mean Magic Day had to be cancelled. 

Angus sunk even lower into the mess of pillows.

At the very least, he had done something good last night. It didn’t take a boy detective to imagine what kind of plants they wanted to make the dryad grow.

Eventually, the comfort of the feather-stuffed bedspread got the better of Angus, and he let his eyes flutter closed for a moment.

A slow rumbling echoed through the small of his back. The soft warmth of fur on the skin beneath his hiked up pajama shirt didn’t help rouse him from sleep, rather trying to keep him well and firmly under the veil of a good nap.

But even the little furball that is Charon, Taako and Kravitz’ Siberian baby of a cat, could keep him from eavesdropping.

“-it’s probably Pneumonia, if I’m readin’ him right.”

“Well shit. Was it the fuckin’ stakeout or what? There’s gotta be some fucking labor laws or something about a kid being out in the rain for that long.” Taako sounded worried, which Angus knew he was more often than he let on.

“Well it sure didn’t help, but nah he was already sick yesterday. Just exacerbated those symptoms. I’ll check him over once he’s awake to see if he’s viral or not.”

“Kay, cool. Anything I can do?”

“Fluids… Let him cough, manage the fever. Basic stuff. If he gets worse, call me.”

Taako said nothing in response to that. 

“Oh, and lots of rest. He’s got to relax. None of that detective shit, school can take a break. It’s not like it’s going anywhere for him.”

“Is magic ok?”

“Nah, he should keep all his energies up.”

“Damn. Alright, thanks Merle. I’ll wait here until he’s awake and give you a shout.”

Angus laid still, keeping his breathing as even as he could. It wasn’t too hard. Charon hadn’t moved and was still vibrating rhythmically.

“I know you’re up, Ango.”

Angus shifted slightly. “How could you tell, sir?”

“You snore.”

Angus grumbled softly, pushing Charon off his back. He sauntered over to the pillows and settled in there.

Angus sat up, adjusted his pajamas and squinted at Taako, unsure of where his glasses were. 

“You feeling ok?”

“Yes.”

“No bullshit, Agnes, you’re pretty fucked up.”

“I feel like crap.”

“There you go. You cold?”

“A bit. Did Auntie Lup make lunch yet?”

“Hoo boy, lunch was hours ago my man. You were out.”

“Oh. I could have sworn it was just a moment or two.”

“She did, but she made a ton of stew. We can heat it back up.”

“Is she really that worried about me?”

“Hm?” Taako seemed confused. 

“Auntie Lup over cooks when she’s worried about something. You do the same thing with baking, right?”

“I forgot you notice shit like that… Yeah kid, she is worried. I am too, but you already figured that out right? But you’ll be fine. You got a crack team of overbearing adults and Merle who sort of knows what he’s doing. You’ll be fine.” He repeated the last phrase quietly, not quite to convince just Angus of the fact.

“Yeah, I’ll be alright.” Angus stifled a cough.

“Let it out bro, don’t hide it.”

Angus nodded, standing up, and pulling a blanket around his shoulders.

“Can Merle check me out now? I want to know if I should take antibiotics or not.”

And they headed downstairs.

The stew was awesome, as per the norm, and warmed Angus up quite a bit.

He was slowly feeling, not better, but more comfortable.

Merle determined it was viral, which meant it wasn’t as severe. Angus felt relieved at that, he didn’t want this to impede him any more than it was going to already.

Taako grabbed a large blanket and wrapped it around Angus, leading him to the living room.

“You tired, kid?”

“Not really. Can we watch something?”

“That’s the plan.”

Angus was nestled into the corner of a couch, wrapped in the plush fabric, feeling warmer than ever.

Taako set up Fantasy Netflix and put on one of Angus’ favorite picks; the TV adaption of Caleb Cleveland, Kid Cop.

It didn’t hold up to the novels, but it was solid on it’s own. He liked having it on in the background while he did paperwork. Or, while he dozed off, only half paying attention to the screen, while several episodes played through.

A distant sound, like paper tearing, interrupted Angus’ hazy musings.

Auntie Lup, Uncle Barry and Kravitz, slightly scuffed from work came to join them in the living room.

A gentle hair ruffle from Auntie Lup was happily received, and Barry gave him a smile, letting him have his space. They sat down on the loveseat on the other side of the room, Barry leaning onto Lup’s shoulder and sighing peacefully. Kravitz, meanwhile, brought Angus and Taako drinks. Something fancy, with a garnish of spiralled orange peel for Taako, who exchanged a kiss for it, and tea for Angus, a soothing chamomile lightly sweetened with honey. He gratefully accepted it, sipping slowly, and softly blowing on the hot surface.

Surrounded by his family, Angus relented. He would be better soon. He may as well stop worrying about everything he was missing, and focus on where he was right now.

Warm. Safe. Happy.

And he remained those three things as he quietly fell asleep on the couch, not even waking while he was carried back up to his bedroom.

#infernal-violinist #jocelyncade #queercandlenights #taz #the adventure zone #angus #taakitz #lup #fic #submission

[crimsonandclover-kataclysm]

Chapter 7- Fighting for air

Crimson and Clover- Read on Ao3 Chapter 7- Read on Ao3 March, 1985. Hawkins, Indiana

So maybe going to a bacteria-infested party in the dead of night during one of the coldest spells of the year wasn’t the best idea. Bedside table covered in old mugs of tea and soup, Diana was wrapped up in her comforter staring despondently at the trash bin, overflowing with used tissues. She was freezing, and it was her third day of misery.

On Saturday, she started feeling a little under the weather. Woke up a little later than usual, drudged around the house all day, had a couple of sniffles, and ignored the scratch in her throat. Sunday was a whole different ball game. Barely able to lift from her bed, she shuffled into her kitchen, where her mother was making coffee. “Dying,” she croaked, Sandra’s eyes darting up to see her daughter, pale and splotchy, with her entire comforter wrapped around her like a cape. After taking her temperature to see just under 100 degrees, they decided to hold off on the doctor’s visit.

Another mistake, it seemed, because on Monday, Diana woke up to a violent coughing fit, throbbing headache, and nasal passageways so blocked that she spent a good ten minutes lamenting about the days she used to be able to breathe normally and how she’d never take them for granted again. The women in the Dristan commercial had nothing on Diana Miller.

But even Dristan wasn’t helping. Her fever was up to 102, and Sandra had scheduled an appointment for 2:00 pm with Dr. Simmons after canceling all of her classes that day. Hazy thoughts and blurry vision compounded with having everything but the top of her head completely covered in warm fabric caused the time to go fast, and when Sandra pulled her out of bed, she groaned incessantly.

“This is why you are never allowed to get sick,” Sandra huffed, wrapping Diana’s neck in the longest scarf she could find and tugging a furry, brown bucket hat over her ears. “Because for such a great, mature kid, you turn into a big, whiny baby.”

Diana pouted beneath her scarf, a line appearing on her brow as her heavy-lidded eyes tried their best to narrow. When it didn’t work at all to guilt her mother, she relaxed and took the travel mug full of steaming hot chocolate gratefully from Sandra’s hands. Feeling a bit like Randy in A Christmas Story as she waddled down the steps in her largest, warmest coat. She laughed a donkey-like guffaw as she got stuck in the car door, causing Sandra to have to push her down into her seat. Forgoing the seatbelt because as Sandra put it, “If we crash, you’re not going anywhere anyway.”

Blank white walls and stark tile floors left the doctor’s office feeling cold and sterile, and it made Diana shiver. She hated hospitals more than almost anything, mainly out of fear. Being in a hospital rarely meant good news for Diana, like that time she broke her arm, having fallen off the small hill that housed the train tracks in the woods outside town. Or that time that Kenneth’s mother had a stroke when she was seven years old, and she had to watch her grandmother, not two days before lively and vibrant, revert to behavior patterns of a baby. This wasn’t a hospital, but it was the echo of one, and Diana wrapped her puffy arms around herself for warmth and comfort.

Based on Diana’s lowering spirits and heightening delirium from the fever, walking out with the flu was much better than the nine-days-to-live, crippling pneumonia scenario playing out in her head. It did mean she couldn’t return to school until at least twenty-four hours after her fever had broken, so when they got home, she made sure to drink a glass of water with her prescribed antibiotics while Sandra prepared another mug of tea for her. Setting down more chicken noodle soup and some saltines at the table.

Though she had basically no appetite, Diana picked and prodded at her soup with her spoon, taking small sips of the chicken broth and attempting to swallow some of the solid stuff to appease her mother, in spite of the burning in the back of her throat. Wanting only to return to the toasty confines of her bed and sleep.

She didn’t remember getting there, but the next thing she knew, her room was overtaken by darkness and the quiet still of night. Kicking out her feet a little to stretch her sore muscles, she felt something heavy at the foot of her bed. Sitting up to see what looked like the silhouette of a pile of books, she flipped on her lamp, scowling at the sheet of paper covered in Sandra’s lilting handwriting.

Monday

Calculus: Pg. 203 #21-32 (show your work)

French: Conjugations of the passé composé and imperfect forms of aimer, croire, and vouloir in complete sentences

History: Outline summary of —

At that point, Diana stopped reading, knowing that she had three more subjects to account for and that she was in no mental state to do homework. Throwing her head back on her pillow and grabbing another to cover her face, she squealed in voice-cracking frustration, cursing her mother for being responsible and helpful. Of course she’d have to do homework on top of feeling like she swallowed razor blades while submerged in green Jell-o.

Swiftly afterward, she fell back asleep.

Two full days. Two full goddamn days since Billy had seen Diana Miller. He thought he was dying. Okay, admittedly, that was a little dramatic. But he was at least waning. The weekend was fine- he noticed her light was off a lot more than normal- but he could handle Saturday. Sunday, he got a little antsy thinking he should at least hear from her. Knowing in the rational part of his brain that it was just a kiss with just another girl, and really, he should just write it off in his ledger of girls whose tongues had been down his throat.

The problem was that he wasn’t thinking with the rational part of his brain. No, his blood was too busy occupying one primary organ of his body, and he was going nuts. I mean, it was a good kiss, right? Replaying that night in his head over and over and over again. The soft skin of her leg in his hand. Her gentle, hesitant movements he assumed were out of innocence. A strong smell of her hairspray and his remnant cologne filtering through the heady scent of bodies colliding and sweat mixing.

She fucking kissed me back, didn’t she? Lips pressing to the underside of his jaw so delicately they may not have been there. Maybe he imagined all of it. Another wet dream about Diana Miller in the books. But it was real, and he knew it. He knew it because he was still missing his favorite band t-shirt, and because he learned the location of the police chief’s house, which was knowledge that may or may not be pertinent to Billy in future.

Kissing Diana Miller was perhaps the most real and grounded Billy had felt since moving to this shitty town. If he could harness that feeling, even just to have it again, he might not be such a raging piss pot all the time. And that had Billy most frustrated of all. Because if it weren’t for that girl just down the street, he might still be able to be angry at the world.

But he could still be angry with her. And he was, especially on Monday morning when she wasn’t in Chemistry. He stared pointedly at her seat the entirety of class, cursing her for not being there. Where the hell is she? He had to wonder if she was avoiding him. If somehow wires were crossed, no way was she into it, this was all just a grand fucking mistake. Most things with Billy were, after all.

Though on Tuesday, there was no sign of her either, and Billy actually found himself a little twisted with concern. Enough so that he hovered around her horrible, preppy, jock friends just to catch a hint of where she might be. She hadn’t mentioned anything about leaving. After three class changes of just lingering nearby, Tommy stupidly remarking on the girls’ figures by his side, he finally latched onto the words “flu” and “make-up work.”

Of course, the first time he goes out of his way to make out with a girl in this town, she ends up bedridden with a viral infection.

By Wednesday morning, Billy Hargrove was chomping at the bit to see Diana again. Absent from Chem yet another day, he shook off the feeling that he should just cut class to go see her. That is, until he noticed Steve fucking Harrington in the hallway with her friends. The tall one, Betty, he recalled, was handing over a workbook to Steve. “- and I’ve highlighted the page numbers of what she needs to do in here by the time she gets back-“

That asshole was taking her homework to her? Like hell is he seeing her before I am. Fifth period was encroaching, and Billy had had enough. Pulling a cigarette from the pack in his pocket and lighting it on his way out the door to his car.

Bright light trickled in from Diana’s curtains- something about the cold always made the Indiana sun seem brighter than usual. Her fever had broken not two hours ago after lots of medication, water, sleep, and a blanket lamination so high on her bed that she couldn’t see over the tops of her feet. Finally aware enough of her surroundings that she could begin on the mountain of homework piled up next to the blankets on her bed.

She was itching to get back to school. Long draughts of intense, trance-like sleeping with intermittent spurts of semi-awake coughing fits and forcing soup down into her stomach didn’t leave much time for thought about the world of the living. Now that she could focus on what waited on her, it was all she could do to not scramble out of the house. She wanted to run. She wanted to teach. She wanted to kiss Billy Hargrove again. It didn’t seem fair that she got those few moments with him just to be separated for nearly a full week. Why hasn’t he called or dropped by? Though, to be fair, she could have ponied up and called him just as well.

She missed the gym class too. Wondering how the new group of kids would take to her disappearing for three days at the beginning of the cycle. Especially after her outburst in the past week. But she really wanted to connect with them, and she was excited to get back to work. Though not in the form of the textbooks and notebooks that were currently taking up the majority of her bedspread.

Her mind was still thinking in French conjugations when she heard a knock. “Entrez!” she called without thinking, head shooting up to look at the very open door with the very empty frame. Knowing it definitely wasn’t the front door because it sounded so close, and who would be at her house in the middle of the school day? I can think of one person, her face lit up when the knock came again, and she scooted toward the window. Opening the curtains to see shaggy blonde curls and keen eyes.

As she lifted the window for him, Billy climbed through deftly, grumbling as his feet hit the ground, “Where the hell have you been?” Approaching her slowly, lower lip running between his teeth as his features softened from the sight of her. All red and puffy, hair a mess, sweatpants riding low on her waist and tank top inching up.

“You know, we have a front door,” she remarked, standing still as he got closer. The unmistakable smell of his cologne and smoke made her want to drown in him, her heart rate quickening.

He laughed and ran his tongue over the bottom of his teeth, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “But your mom-“

“Isn’t here. And apparently doesn’t care. She knows,” she smirked as his eyes widened. “It’s fine, Billy,” she lifted her hand to rest on his arm, pinching a fold of the denim between her thumb and forefinger as she stepped closer to him. Both their eyes set on the fabric rolling through her fingertips.

He finally raised his gaze to look at her, returning the soft smile barely painted on her face. “I, uh, I couldn’t wait,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave.

Inhaling in a sharp and uneven breath, her eyes dropped to his lips. “For what?”

Again, no introduction was necessary as his right hand grasped the back of her neck and his left slid around the band of exposed skin to her back, pulling her into him. They were kissing again, nearly a full week from the last time, yet it felt like no time had passed between them at all. He was more fervent, pressing his hips against hers as he kept his hand firm on the small of her back, fingers slipping under the fabric. As he did so, she became increasingly aware of the rough of denim against her skin, and even more what lay beneath.

Sighing against his lips, Diana skimmed her hand up his chest, all the way to rest it gently on his cheek. Breathing him in. Eyelashes fluttering, she became aware of herself, primarily the fact that she still couldn’t breathe steadily through her nose. She pushed him back an inch and broke away, brow furrowed. “I’m sick, you idiot.”

Blank eyes meeting hers, he lowered his face to kiss her again. “Billy!… Billy,” she pulled her lips from his, breathing out a laugh. “You don’t need to catch the flu.”

“What part of any of this makes you think I give a damn?” he responded, dubious to her protests. When she didn’t say anything, he resumed his work against her lips, pulling and nipping playfully. Turning her so that his back was to the bed, and falling flat against it. Groaning when his shoulder blade hit something rigid.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she laughed again, clambering to move the textbooks further down the mattress. Her lithe frame crawled over his, hips settling on his stomach as she sunk down to meet him once more. Chin lifting, Billy drew his hands up her thighs to her sides, fingers wrapping around her to guide her body against his. She kept her hands firmly planted on either side of his head until she felt steady enough to place them on his cheeks. Lowering her head to map out the skin of his neck with her lips. His hands shifted, gracelessly clutching at her ass as he breathed in through her hair.

He was alight in her, and though far too removed to make real, conscious decisions, he was also content to let even this last much longer than it would have with literally anyone else in Hawkins. So, something like an hour went by, and they were still in a similar position (though he was now propped up on a pillow, her torso resting against his comfortably), kissing and laughing and exploring, when the doorbell rang.

Through clouded thoughts and swollen lips, she pushed herself off of him, looking through the floor and muttering an inarticulate, “Who…?”

“Harrington,” he conceded, irritation lacing his voice. “Bringing your homework.”

Hopping off of him, she raised her eyebrows suggestively. “Oh, how I love when a man tries to woo me with nice gifts.”

Billy glared at her.

Scrunching up her face and speaking at a higher pitch than normal to mock him, “Not funny, yet? No? Okay.”

Disgruntled and more than a little annoyed that the doorbell was ringing yet again, I mean would you keep your shit together, Harrington?, he slid off the bed, making his way toward the door. “You’re not going down there,” he said pointedly, staring down at her.

“Oh, how I love when a man tries to woo me by picking up my nice gifts,” she altered her previous statement with a smirk.

Cheeky as he felt, he reached down to give her ass a squeeze. “Better,” he acknowledged, smiling when she softly pressed her lips to his cheek. Her eyes followed him, and she bit her lip happily, falling back on the bed and giggling that he came to see her. That he was as tantalized by that night as she was. That he was there with her, just letting her kiss him and joke with him and get to know him.

As he made his way down the stairs and Harrington rang the doorbell for what seemed like the twentieth time, he smiled to himself, for once not wanting to punch King Steve in the teeth. He didn’t seem like so much of a king now.

When he opened the door, Steve’s jaw fell slack. “Hargrove? The hell are you doing here?”

A twinkle in his eye, he kept his face stoic. “Could ask you the same thing.”

“I have homework,” Steve raised the workbook in the air reluctantly, and Billy reached for it, clasping the binding quickly before Steve moved to place it behind his back, resulting in a quick but not so fun game of tug-of-war.

Billy won out, pulling the book against his stomach and leaning in toward Harrington. “I’ve got her. Stay away,” he warned, and Steve just grinned at him in disbelief.

Turning away and taking strides toward the BMW. “If that’s your attitude, my man, you don’t have her at all,” he called over his shoulder. Billy took a sharp breath, trying to calm the fire brewing within. Thinking about the beautiful girl waiting for him upstairs. She for sure wasn’t waiting for Steve.

When he got back to the room, he surveyed her sprawled across the bed (if you could call it that, since it was mostly books and blankets), eyes lingering on the widened band of skin between her sweatpants and tank top. Throwing her workbook to the other side of the duvet, he began slipping off his jacket, letting it drop to the floor before tugging at the hem of his shirt.

Gaping at him curiously, Diana lifted her head, “What? What are you doing?”

“Your job,” he spoke plainly, pulling the white t-shirt slowly over his chest. “Since you aren’t doing this, I’m doing it for you.”

Diana started laughing, sitting up and gesturing for him to join her. Dropping the hem of his shirt, he sauntered over, ready for her to take the lead. Smirking when she ran her fingers over the hem, his hands skimmed from her shoulders to her elbows. She placed a small kiss right above his navel, and he nearly came unhinged. Sensing her pulling the front of his shirt up, he moved to help her.

But Diana was too quick, raising the front hem and tucking it over and behind his head. She laughed maniacally as he jerked it down, a glare on his face, settling on the floor by the bed with his back to the frame.

“Look,” he started, reaching into his pocket to pull out a cigarette, “if this is all some joke, I’m leaving.” Harrington’s words getting to him. Maybe she didn’t want him after all. That’s why she was making light of everything, and he was just wasting his fucking time.

“I don’t-“ Diana paled at the shift in tone, reaching down to cover his hand holding the cig. “What? No, of course it’s not a joke.” Her hand lifted of its own accord, thumb running along the underside of his jaw until she could tug his chin gently so that he was looking up at her. “Hey,” she said softly, sidling off the bed until she was crouched next to him, nuzzling her head in the crook of his neck.

In a show of affirmation, he tilted his face into her hair, letting his cheek rest against her scalp. “Will you be at school tomorrow?” he wondered aloud.

Her head shook against his shoulder. “Lots of work. And my fever only broke a few hours ago.”

He grunted disapprovingly. “Well, I’ll swing by with your homework.”

“You’re leaving?” she looked up at him with glazed-over big, blue eyes and wondered if he’d stay were she to ask. He was contemplating the same thing.

He nodded. “Have to pick up Max.” A brief nod met him in response, and without thought, he leaned into her a final time, lips soft and languid. She took in a sharp breath through her nose, catching his bottom lip between her teeth and letting the tip of her tongue run against it. Pulling away with foreheads still pressed against one another.

As he got up and grabbed his jacket to head downstairs, she added, “Tell Max I said hello!” And though he wasn’t facing her and kept walking, in spite of himself, he smiled.

“Feel better, Miller.”

Six days of being stuck at home, and Diana had cabin fever, big time. Three short visits of Betty and Missy in addition to two long dalliances with one Billy Hargrove helped ease some of her apprehension though. Sandra didn’t know about the latter, but she couldn’t stop thinking of them.

Actually, that was a lie. Because Diana also had thirty pages of makeup reading assignments, a translation due in French, forty problems assigned in Calculus, and a history paper to do during her two (only counting the days she was semi-conscious) days off. The make-up lab for Chemistry had to wait until she was back in school. So really, she spent only about an hour or so a day musing over Billy, and the rest of her time devoted to finishing her work by the time she returned.

Sandra had been working like a dog to make up for the two days she missed of work. They were so close to being able to afford the down payment on the Jeep, and the last thing she wanted to do was fall behind. And with Diana missing her own jobs, they were already pushing it. They needed the new car, badly- the old Bronco not holding out as well as it used to, especially in the cold.

All that plus the fact that Diana was itching to get back outside and run had her fidgeting as she finished the last paragraph of her history paper. Knees shaking and tongue clicking as she came up with the last two lines to conclude the final thought, writing steadily though her mind was a mess.

Throwing herself back onto her pillow, she huffed a sigh of relief that her homework was finally finished. The room seemed darker, and she groaned when she turned her head to the window to see a sliver of navy sky through the curtains. Spread-eagled over the bed, Diana thought about laying with Billy only hours before. His body positioned similarly, with her propped up against and slightly over his, her leg inserted between his knees. Feeling adventurous, they’d disposed of his shirt early on, so that as they talked and kissed and laughed and his fingers combed through her hair, hers traced over the lines of his muscles.

All she could think about were ultramarine eyes, sun-kissed skin, a hot mouth, and strong hands. She wasn’t sure what made her feel more feverish- the bout of influenza or the way he left her. Slowly burning her up from the inside, taking his time with her. He could kiss her and leave her in a hot and flushed frenzy, and really that’s all he had done so far. Not yet pushing any further, though Diana couldn’t say why. He was so quiet when they were together, and it was difficult to tell what swirled around in that pretty head of his. Maybe he knew it wouldn’t do any good. That she wasn’t that type of girl. Di didn’t even know what type of girl she was, but she did know there were times when she wanted to be totally consumed by the fire spread by his mouth and hands.

She knew Billy Hargrove wasn’t one to take it slow, so it was probably time to kick it up a notch. Jumping up out of her bed and skipping to her closet, she opened the door to reveal the Zeppelin shirt hung with care in the middle of the rack. Fabric ran soft beneath her fingers, and lifting it to her face, she inhaled the scent of him. She couldn’t quite place it because behind the smoke and the musk and smell of boy, there was almost something floral. Maybe detergent? She couldn’t care less when it left her reeling, reminded of her days in California.

He’d made a comment about the “lost” shirt when he came over, and she blushed, placing light kisses over his shoulder so that he’d drop the subject. But he still smiled like he knew a private joke, and so she’d kissed his lips too, just for good measure.

Eyeing the black fabric pensively, she grabbed her nicest pair of jeans and paired them together. Most of her closet was leisure wear, and she didn’t tend to wear a lot of cardigans or jackets, so when she spotted a slip of ivory tucked in the back of the closet, she pulled it out warily. Not having seen it in years, she felt the stiff material with barely any touch, treating it like it could bite her. Sometimes she felt like the memories still did, memories of a happy, whole family that no longer existed. Wrapping the blazer around the hanger holding Billy’s t-shirt and hoping that the good feelings Billy brought would somehow melt into the cold ivory of Kenneth’s old sport jacket. Diana Miller fell asleep accomplished and anticipating the morning.

When she got dressed after she woke, she eyed herself in the mirror, proud of her work. She’d even gone to the effort to do heavier makeup, eyes traced in a smudged black. Brushing out her curls and pulling all of her hair to one side. Eat your heart out, Billy Hargrove.

As per usual, Tommy and Jeff were standing around Billy while he leaned against the lockers, griping about something pointless and uninteresting. All Billy had to do was nod semi-apathetically to appease them, even with his eyes laser focused on the entrance to the school. He found it hard to not think about Diana, not just because he was inexplicably frustrated and completely unsatisfied, but because he didn’t feel like such an asshole when he was with her. She was fun and smart and interesting, and being around her didn’t make him lose IQ points. But she was also elusive enough to be cool, and being the newly-crowned King made it really important that he only dated cool. Being Billy Hargrove made it really important that he only dated cool. Not that he was dating Diana. Hell, he didn’t know what was going on.

Especially not when she walked through the door. The neckline of his t-shirt hung lower on her, the fabric draped loosely over her chest. She’d tucked it into her jeans (and Tommy wasn’t wrong about the way she filled out her Calvins) and thrown a blazer on over it, and Billy was ignited. Here she was, strutting down the hall in her little boots, wearing his fucking shirt. And no one knew it but them. He could have erupted right there in the middle of the fucking hallway.

She did that thing again, where she approached and made it look like she was going to stop when really having no intention to, but he was learning to read her. Watching her expectantly and reaching out to hook his forefinger around her belt loop as she passed. He yanked her hard into him, and the hand that wasn’t holding her books splayed out against the locker with a resonant thud.

Laughing as she fell into him, he watched her bite her lip and wished frantically that he could bite it too. Both Tommy and Jeff were observing them with wide eyes, but Billy didn’t give a damn. Let ‘em watch. His breath hot against her ear, he whispered slowly, “What the hell do you think you’re doing-” making a point to slide his eyes down to her chest and back up to meet her acute gaze, “-in that?”

“Making my grand entrance,” she giggled. “Ta-da, it’s been a week, but I’m back! You know?”

Shaking his head as a slight smile played on his lips, “You haven’t heard the end of this.” He released her belt loop, discreetly dragging his hand down her hip on the inside of her blazer before dropping it to his side.

A coy smirk on her face told him she knew exactly what she would hear later, and it made his fucking knees buckle to see her pull away from him looking like that. The amount of times Diana resembled a wet dream in real life caused Billy the impurest of thoughts in the most inappropriate places. Surrounded by his friends in the middle of a starkly lit hallway was up there in the category of places-Billy-should-not-think-of-Diana-Miller-taking-his-shirt-off. Yet there he was, eyes following her as she turned back with a quick wave of her fingers and a look that promised he’d be seeing her soon.

The exposed side of her neck was visible to him all through Chemistry, and he was having trouble focusing. Smooth and reactive, touching her skin felt like running his hand over still water. Like if he pressed too hard, it would shift out of his way, and no matter how many times he pulled away, she was still there. It was fucking addictive, and just as he wouldn’t give up smoking, there was no way in hell he was about to give up Diana Miller. Not without a good reason.

So he scratched at the surface, taking what he could and relishing in what he received. And maybe one day, he’d get a little more. Of course, he was absolutely planning on getting what he could after school that day. It had been too long since he’d seen her in action, and he had every intention of watching her in the gym, running around and sweating in his shirt. Gross pre-teen boys were a small price to pay to see her.

Ill suited to being stealthy, Di was shooting glances to Billy out of her periphery. Attempting to seem uninterested, she gazed out of the window to her left, sneaking peeks of Billy, who was unabashedly staring at her. Her stomach tightened when he shifted forward, tired of the game, and she finally turned her head fully to meet his eyes. Tommy scoffed between the two of them, and Billy chewed on his tongue as he waited for Kaminsky to turn around so that he could smack the back of Tommy’s head.

Diana turned front with a smile plastered over her face.

As she expected, the new class was a little alarmed by her absence. When Harry walked into the gym and saw Diana, he stopped short and called out, “We thought you died!”

“Don’t be dramatic, Williams,” Coach Hart responded blandly from her desk, barely sparing a glance to curly-haired boy.

Will Byers walked up to Diana, looking at her curiously with his immense chocolate eyes. “It has been a while,” he observed. “Glad you’re okay though.” She smiled at him, and as he walked away she thought about the kindness that ran through the Byers family. Joyce was a doll, a nervous wreck, but a doll nonetheless. And even Jonathan, though not the most social creature (of course, neither was Di), had always seemed good-hearted and gracious. Then there was Will, poor Will. A sickly looking boy who didn’t seem to know his place in the world. Diana always felt a little bit of a kindred spirit in people like that- she could tell she would take to Will like she did to Dustin.

Where Will was, Jane Hopper was never far, always looming protectively around the boy. Sure, it wasn’t a secret that Joyce and Jim had grown closer since Bob Newby’s death, but this seemed more important than siblings, more necessary. Jane was also always giving Diana a strange look, like she was something foreign. Or familiar? She couldn’t tell.

Hart got up to take attendance, and soon they were all playing basketball. Running around, Diana felt her body temperature rise quickly in the gym, opting to remove her blazer and roll up the sleeves of her t-shirt. Billy’s t-shirt, she grinned as she reminded herself.

While she was helping Jason and Heather with their free throws, she felt the weight of his presence in the room before she saw him. Turning her head to confirm her suspicion that Billy Hargrove had come to watch her again. This time, it wouldn’t annoy her- this time, she wanted to show off for him. Taking unnecessary turns at the free throw line just to make it so he’d see. Actually, she was on top form for the duration of class, saying all the right things to the kids, modeling correct technique, and feeling on top of the world. Maybe Billy Hargrove could be her cheerleader. Maybe he was her good luck charm.

In all honesty, he couldn’t have cared less if she was playing like shit or teaching the worst technique on the planet. His focus unwavering from her ass in those jeans. Diana looked sexy as hell either way, and he knew she would when he set out to watch her. Her hair pulled back so that the expanse of her neck was on show. Cheeks tinged with pink, bringing out the sharp blue of her eyes. His shirt wrapped around her and tucked into her just-tight-enough jeans. He felt unashamed in watching her so purposefully.

That is until a small frame walked directly into his line of sight and remained, blocking his view of Diana. Looking upward to see a familiar mop of curls and searching eyes. “Billy?” Jane asked plainly.

He relaxed back into the bleachers, arms spreading out over the seats. “Hey, weird girl,” a smile playing on his lips.

“Why are you here?” She wasn’t being rude, and Billy laughed at her blunt approach.

“Here to see a friend,” he bowed his head toward Diana, and Jane turned to look.

Nodding and facing him once more, she stated, “You guys are friends.” Thinking back to how she caught him outside of Diana’s house in the early hours of the morning.

“Something like that.”

The conversation was cut short by the shrill pitch of the whistle and kids running to put their basketballs in the canvas hamper next to the coach’s desk. Jane smiled at Billy before joining her classmates as they headed toward the locker rooms to change. Diana didn’t immediately veer to meet him. She was propped up against the desk, talking to the coach. He looked around the gym absentmindedly, confused when Diana and the coach were no longer in sight. The hamper was gone, so it wasn’t hard to deduce where she was.

Peering around the corner of the equipment closet to see Diana reaching for the air pressure gauge on the top shelf of the nearest rack, Billy ambled in, settling directly behind her back and spanning over her to get the gauge. Laying it on a more convenient shelf as he breathed into her ear, “Where’s Coach?”

Sucking in a sharp breath at the shockwaves his breath sent over her rattled nerves, she turned her head so that her lips brushed against his, not engaging him yet. “With your sister.” Eyelashes fluttering. “At the high school gym.” Nudging her nose gently against his. “For soccer practice.”

He couldn’t take it anymore knowing they were at no risk of interruption, his hands running over her sides until planting on her hips and spinning her around to face him. A gasp escaped her as he pinned her to the rack, causing the metal frame to give a violent shudder. His hands catching her arms and pushing them up over her head as he continued grazing her lips and cheeks with his mouth.

Annoyed at his stalling, Diana moved to catch his lips in hers, but he pulled away, the corner of his mouth quirking upward at her impatience. He dropped his head so that he could place light kisses around the neckline of his shirt, and her head fell back against the shelf with a sigh. Biting at the fabric, he stretched it away from her skin, waiting until her eyes captured his to let go. “This,” he released her arms to grip at the shirt, “was torture, and I hope you understand that.”

The weight of her arms fell on his shoulders, hooking around his neck as she pulled him into her. “Then my job here is done,” pressing her lips against his roughly. She didn’t hesitate to open her mouth to him, his tongue instinctively reacting. She could have melted into the way he was kissing her, warm and all-consuming.

Billy needed to be closer to her, grasping at her thighs until she jumped and hitched her legs around his waist. Clumsily and blindly walking toward any solid surface for more stability, causing Di to release a small “oof” against his lips as her back hit cinderblock. Without realizing what she was doing, she ground her hips against his, hard, and Billy groaned, sinking his teeth into her lower lip in payback. She laughed, her arms rewinding around his chest to pull his torso closer as she moved to kiss him again. They were obnoxious and raucous, slamming into equipment and always changing positions as they indulged in one another. Breathing and drinking each other in.

In his arms, Diana felt like she was fucking invincible. Her skin alight wherever he touched her (which to be fair, was anywhere he saw skin). He trailed his lips up her arms, all over her neck and face. He nipped at her ears playfully. He kissed her eyelids delicately. He was absolutely everywhere, and somehow Diana needed him even more. It was maddening and exhilarating and she didn’t know how to calm the fire within her. Especially when he bucked his hips into hers. The more he did that, the more rushing waves sounded in her ears, the more her vision flashed white. She thought she would know her limits- she was beginning to understand that she didn’t know if she had any at all.

Minutes on minutes passed, and they were still as rooted in one another as they had been. All until the alarm on Billy’s watch beeped and he tore away suddenly. “I have to go,” he whispered, kissing her nose in remorse. Silently wishing they could stoke the flames caused by their melding bodies for at least another moment longer.

She frowned, skimming her fingers through his curls and thinking about the little piece of paper she had stuffed away in her pocket as a safety measure. In case she couldn’t get out the words the way she wanted to. Retrieving it into the palm of her hand, she wrapped her arms around him once more. He breathed heavily against her, addicted to the way their bodies felt pressed together. Almost not feeling when she slipped her hand flat into his back pocket. “Read it later,” she breathed, placing one more kiss to his red, aggravated lips.

He nodded, extricating himself reluctantly. Unable to rip his eyes from the sight of her disheveled and swollen and unequivocally sexy, he walked backwards until he was back in the gym and she was out of sight. Grumbling his way out of the building and to his car, he unfolded the scrap of paper she had tucked into his jeans.

In clean, loopy handwriting, she had written something familiar:

I’m tired of waiting to die. Let’s go out.

Grinning at the reference, he kept reading.

Pick me up at noon on Monday. Plan something nice.

He didn’t know what she thought they’d be able to do at noon on the first day of their Spring Break, and he didn’t know why she thought she could get away with that sort of audacity. But most of all, he didn’t know why he was trying to convince himself he’d do anything but exactly what she asked him to.

#stranger things #stranger things fic #Billy Hargrove #billy hargrove fic #billy hargrove x ofc #dacre montgomery

[distant-rose-archive-blog]

An Ode to Ferris Bueller

Note: This idea has been mulling around in my head for awhile. This weekend was a bit of a rough one for me and I finally got the creative juices flowing a little too late. This one actually based on not just Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, but also some shit I pulled when I was a kid. I am Wes and Wes is me as much as it pains me to admit. As always, thanks @welllpthisishappening for letting me bounce this one off of you. You’re a gem and I am lost without you. All mistakes in this are mine because I am trash and don’t have a beta. Available in AO3 flavor here: [LINK] Summary: Emma Swan and Killian’s second youngest son Westley is horribly sick...or is he? Rating: T Word Count: 3,100+

Emma was putting her earrings in when she heard the unmistakable sound of retching. She paused, taking a moment from her daily morning routine to make sure her ears had heard correctly. It continued, followed by the sound of something thick hitting toilet water. It was unmistakable. Someone was sick.

“Shit,” she muttered under her breath, immediately moving towards the kids’ bathroom to see who was throwing up. Mentally, she counted how many days she’s taken off for sick kids so far this year and whether or not she can afford to stay home. Winter had been a rough one in the Swan-Jones house and didn’t help that Neddy had pneumonia for week when he fell through ice while playing with his older brothers. Both her and Killian were still making up time for that incident, hence why she was managing all four children this morning on her own while Killian had already gone in early to the station in hopes of making up for lost hours.

She opened the bathroom door quietly and peered in to see Wes hunched over the toilet, groaning. He looked so small and pale under the fluorescent lights of the bathroom. His wild blonde hair was uncombed, making it look even more untamed than it usually did. Wes was also still in his sleepwear, flannel pajama bottoms and a black t-shirt that Emma was positive was actually Killian’s due to the fact that it was far too large and practically hanging off of his thin shoulders.

When he noticed he wasn’t alone, he looked up at Emma with the most pitiful expression, grayish brown vomit dribbling at the corner of his lips and oozing on the collar of his t-shirt. He was the epitome of miserable.

“Mom…” he croaked and Emma immediately crouched down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face. His blue eyes were wide and looked so full of pain. For a moment, Emma wondered if he was going to cry. “I don’t feel so good…”

Briefly, her fingers pressed against his forehead and she was mildly surprised to find that he was still on the cool side, no sweat or signs of fever. Perhaps he was suffering from a case of food poisoning. She panicked for a moment. Was her mother’s lamb dinner tainted? And if so, how long would it be before the entire family came down with sickness? God, she couldn’t handle four sick children and a sick Killian at the same time. It was just too much.

“You’re throwing up, huh kid?” Emma gently asked him.

Wes made no coherent response, he just whined pathetically. Not caring that he was covered in vomit, Emma tugged her son to her chest and placed a kiss on the crown of his head.

“Listen, why don’t you go back to bed, kid, and I’ll see what I can do about getting your grandpa to cover my shift so I can stay home with you, alright? Dad and I might be able to take smaller shifts so we can look after you,” She said softly, rubbing his back in small gentle circles.

Again, Wes didn’t verbally respond, just nodded his head against her shoulder and Emma’s heart squeezed at the sight of her normally clever and sarcastic eleven-year old reduced to grunts and groans. She never thought she would miss his outrageous verbosity and penchant for sass, but she would give anything in that moment to hear him make one of his signature witty remarks.

Gently, she nudged him off the floor of the bathroom and helped him back into his bed. He slumped against her, head lolling against her shoulder like a ragdoll. When she laid him in his bed, she tucked him in a thorough fashion that she hadn’t done since he had turned six-years old. Pulling the quilts up to his chin, Emma couldn’t help but place another kiss on her son’s forehead.

“Get some rest,” she said softly against his hair. “I’m going to make sure the rest of the crew gets to school and we will see about later.”

“Okay…” he whispered, nuzzling his head into the pillow and closing his eyes.

Emma gave him a soft smile and a quick pat before heading downstairs to make sure that none of her other little ones were ill. She found Harrison, Beth and Neddy all sitting around the kitchen table. Harrison was on his phone, most likely texting Neal about something or another. Beth was munching loudly on a piece of toast while Neddy was making a mess of his oatmeal, smashing bits of banana into it with an absurd amount of concentration. Emma let out a sigh of relief. No one else looked sick. Thank the Gods for small favors.

Harrison looked up from his phone for a moment, green eyes scanning over the kitchen. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it because he frowned for a moment before turning his attention to his mother.

“Hey, where’s Wes? Don’t we need to leave in like twenty minutes? He needs to get down here if he wants the rest of the Captain Crunch. I’m not going to listen to him whine all day about how I didn’t give him a chance for a bowl,” Harrison commented with a small huff.

“Well, I would take the last of it if you want it, Har. Wes isn’t gonna want it. He’s sick,” Emma replied, pushing the box of Captain Crunch in front of her thirteen-year old.

Harrison and Beth both raised their eyebrows at her statement.

“Bullshit,” Beth fake-coughed into her fist before she scarfed down the rest of her toast in one ravenous bite.

“Elizabeth Alice, language!” Emma hissed, internally sighing at her daughter’s complete lack of manners. She had a feeling she was going to get another lecture from her mother about her daughter’s ill-bred behavior come next Sunday dinner. If she heard another word about how her children were supposed to behave, she would honestly scream.

“I second that though,” Harrison commented, pouring himself the last bit of sugary cereal. “He’s probably faking. I heard him complaining last night about something at school. A test or quiz, or whatever. Dollars to donuts, he’s faking you out.”

“Unless you can somehow fake puking, he’s not faking it,” Emma responded, frowning and placing her hands on her hips.

Sometimes she didn’t get the relationship between her kids. They could be incredibly supportive of one another at times while other times it seemed like World War Three was happening under her roof. She wished for her sanity that they could just decide if they were friends or foes so she knew how to handle them.

It was at that moment that Emma noticed her youngest son opening the refrigerator and pulling out a can of Diet Coke. It was the sound of the can being opened and the unmistakable hiss of pressure being relieved from its tin container that caught her attention. Emma’s eyes went wide in surprise. At four-years old, Neddy was not allowed to drink soda, let alone have it with breakfast. He didn’t normally break rules like this.

“Edward David Jones, you put that soda can back in the refrigerator where you find it or so help me, you will not have dessert or television privileges for a week,” Emma scolded him, immediately rushing over to take the can away from him.

Instead of heeding her words like he normally did, Neddy poured the coke into the nauseating mashup of banana and oatmeal. Immediately, Harrison and Beth blanched at the sight of it, both of their noses wrinkling in disgust. Emma would have found their identical expressions endearing if she wasn’t grossed out herself.

“That’s nasty, Neddy!” Harrison stated, pushing his bowl of Captain Crunch away from him. It was quite obvious that Neddy’s little concoction had stolen his appetite.

“I’m going to be sick,” Beth commented, bringing her hand up to her mouth and looking away from the odd mixture.

“You’re not going to be sick,” Neddy chirped, completely unperturbed with the reactions of his family. In fact, he was beaming with pride. “I’m going to be sick. Like Wes. So we can stay home and play together!”

At first, Emma thought Neddy meant that he was going to make himself sick by eating the disgusting blend of oatmeal, banana and coke, but then she realized the contents of the bowl looked…familiar. It looked nearly identical to the vomit that she had seen on Wes’s shirt this morning; practically the same color and consistency. It was too similar to be incidental. Her eyes immediately narrowed in realization.

“No one is going to be sick today,” she announced, picking up the bowl and tossing it and its entire contents into the trash can. Without another word, she made a beeline to the stairs. She and her son needed to have a little chat.

Instead of being asleep, Wes was reading a comic book and wearing a different t-shirt when Emma opened his door. He looked at her with wide eyes, the color draining from his face completely as he took note of her expression. He seemed to sense immediately that the jig was up. While staring him down, Emma reached over and grabbed the black t-shirt that was covered in fake vomit and gave it a firm, loud sniff. How did she not notice the lack of smell before? She gave it a tentative lick and her tongue identified oatmeal, banana and cotton almost immediately. She threw the t-shirt against the wall almost violently and let out a loud frustrated groan.

“Mom…” Wes’s voice wavered. He sounded genuinely terrified, as he should be.

Emma was not feeling sympathetic at the moment. She was too busy refraining from screaming aloud. She had nearly been conned by an eleven-year old punk. He had been so convincing and she had bought it hook, line and sinker. If Neddy hadn’t made the concoction before her eyes, he would have gotten away with it.

Taking a deep breath, Emma composed herself before turning her attention to her lying and definitely not-sick son. She brought her hands together and began to slow clap.

“What are you doing?” Wes asked, perplexed by her actions.

“Applauding you,” Emma replied with a sarcastic smile. “An act like that deserves an Academy Award or an Oscar or something. I’ve never given a damn about acting awards before, but then again, I didn’t know I had an accomplished actor for a son. You really had me going with the fake puke. Honestly, I genuinely believed it. So what are we trying to avoid today, Ferris? Math test? Spelling quiz? A project we forgot? All three?”

Wes didn’t answer her question, but he looked at her, his brows furrowed together in further confusion.

“Ferris?” he asked in confusion.

“Ferris, as in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. An eighties movie,” Emma clarified with a huff. “Honestly, I swear I should have named you after him instead of the Princess Bride. It would have been more fitting since you’re both very convincing con-men. You should give it a watch sometime.”

As soon as Emma said it, she regretted it. The last movie Wes should be watching was Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. It was bound to give him more ideas on how to be an accomplished delinquent. Lord knows how many times Emma had used tactics from that movie in order to pull off some of her shoplifting schemes with Neal back in the day.

“Huh,” Wes responded and already she could see the wheels turning in his head. She was a terrible mother.

“Get out of bed and get dressed, you’re going to school,” she hissed, jabbing a finger in the direction of his dresser before turning on her heel and heading back downstairs.

She did her best to ignore the very satisfied grins on Harrison and Beth’s face as well as the quiet high-five that they exchanged under the table. Emma was genuinely tempted to go back upstairs and take a sip of rum from Killian’s totally not secret stash in his bottom drawer.

The ride to school was more quiet than usual. Virtually no sound was made aside from Neddy who was listening to songs on Emma’s iPhone and singing the theme song from one of the numerous Winnie the Pooh shows. Wes was looking out the window of the car with a virtually permanent scowl on his face while his older siblings were still grinning, watching their brother with smug expressions.

Emma was still quite angry with both herself and her son when she dropped them in front of the building, and she didn’t get out of the car like she normally did to give them parting hugs and kisses. Instead, she gave them a brief verbal goodbye before driving off to the station.

Killian immediately sensed her bad mood when she arrived at work and gave her a concerned frown as he watched her hang up her jacket violently in frustration and toss her keys against the room, completely missing her desk. She didn’t bother to pick them up, just sat down in her chair and let out a loud groan.

“What’s wrong, love?” Killian asked, getting up from his own desk and crouching in front of her. He took one of her hands in his own and gave it a gentle squeeze.

“I got completely conned by our kid,” she explained with a heavy sigh.

“Wes?” Killian asked, giving her hand another squeeze.

“Wes,” she confirmed, bringing her free hand up to massage her temples.

“He’s a wily one,” Killian commented lightly. “What did he do this time?”

“He pretended to be sick. Fake puke and everything. Very convincing. Totally would have gotten away with it, if Neddy didn’t reveal the trick. Oatmeal, bananas and coke. Where do they come up with this stuff?”

“I don’t know what to tell you, love,” Killian sighed. “Though, I can’t say I haven’t done something similar in the past. I used to eat bad fish and purposely get sick in order to keep from some grueling tasks when I was a child in Silver’s care. Perhaps, he gets it from me.”

“I don’t think it’s exclusively you,” Emma sighed. “I was the same. I used to fake sick like Ferris Bueller by licking my palms and pretending to have a stomach cramp so I didn’t have to go to school and would have the house to myself when I was in foster care.”

It was then that Emma’s cellphone rang. Emma took it out of her pocket and glanced briefly at the caller ID before groaning.

“I’m such a bad parent,” she said with a heavy sigh. “Storybrooke Elementary is calling. He probably brought the fake puke to school. I didn’t even check his bag!”

“Well, I guess we’re going to have to be checking backpacks for now on,” Killian replied before gesturing to her phone. “You should probably answer that.”

Emma merely shook her head in response before picking up the call and pressing her phone to her ear.

“This is Sheriff Swan,” she said tiredly.

“Sheriff Swan, hi, it’s Nurse Angelica from Storybrooke Elementary. I’m calling because your son Westley is unwell and I need you to pick him up.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Emma asked, rubbing her eyes.

“He’s unwell, Sheriff.”

“I get that. I’m asking how is he unwell? What’s wrong with him?” Emma couldn’t keep the irritation out of her tone. She felt slightly bad for this woman. It wasn’t her fault that her son was too awfully clever for his own good.

“Well, he doesn’t have a fever or anything, but he’s got a stomach cramp that’s painful enough that he’s moaning and wailing, the poor lamb. He also is quite clammy. He might be coming down with something contagious so we can’t keep him here. You have to pick him up, Sheriff.”

“I will be right there,” Emma sighed, clicking the end call button on her phone; not even bothering to give the woman a proper sign off.

“Fake vomit?” Killian asked, raising his eyebrows.

“Nope,” Emma replied with a snort. “Stomach cramp and clammy hands just like his mother.”

“I assume that they want you to pick him up so he doesn’t infect more people with his fake illness?” Killian asked with some amusement coloring his tone.

“Naturally.”

“Well, might as well go get the lad and bring him back here. I’m no healer, but I’m sure I can find a cure for this illness of his,” Killian smirked, his eyes lighting up as an idea popped into his head. Emma was struck by the expression. It reminded her very much of a similar face their son would have whenever he was plotting something.

Wes looked as convincingly ill as he did this morning when Emma arrived at the school to pick him up. She briskly signed him out in the front door, practically dragging him by the back of his shirt. She ignored the disapproving looks of the sectaries as she did so, pushing Wes in the bug a little rougher than necessary.

“Oh kid, drop the act, you’re not fooling me again,” Emma said sharply as she put the keys in the ignition.

Immediately the miserable expression was wiped away and her son looked completely normal albeit slightly pouting and disappointed.

“How do you even do that?” Emma asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

“I think ‘dead puppy’ on a loop,” he replied casually with a shrug.

“Clever,” she snorted. “So did you lick your palms, Ferris?”

“Yes and it was every bit as childish and effective as the movie said it would be,” Wes replied nonchalantly. “Thanks for that suggestion by the way. Can we actually watch the whole movie when we go home? It looked from what I saw on YouTube.”

“We’re not going home,” Emma replied, eyes trained on the road.

“What?” Wes squawked in surprise. “Why? Why aren’t we going home?”

“Because you’re not actually sick and I can’t afford to miss another day of work,” Emma snapped, finally at the end of her rope. “We’re going to the station. Your father came up with the perfect solution for your little illness. You’re going to be organizing the file room.”

“What? No! That room is trashed! It’s dirty and dusty! And it doesn’t have any windows!” Wes whined.

“Yep,” Emma replied, trying to keep from smiling. “And if you somehow manage to finish that, there’s at least thirty years of files in there that need to be put into the computer. We’ve been meaning to start a digital record for ages but we just haven’t had the time or energy…”

Wes groaned in response, burying his head in his hands.

“I should have stayed in school…”

“Sorry, can’t take you back, you’re contagious,” Emma chuckled and this time she allowed herself to smile.

#captain swan #cs ff #cs fanfic #cs crew #cs fanfiction #cs fic #little pirates #my fic #my shit #wes jones #an ode to ferris bueller #ouat fanfiction #ouat fic #little pirates fic

[sinsiriuslyemo]

Hello all!!! Sorry that this episode wasn’t posted yesterday, there was a mix up and by the time we realized it, it was almost three in the morning! Stay tuned to @missjennifercole​ for the final episode, and later, the trailer for season 12!! 

EPISODE 18

“Oh my gosh,” Izzy said softly, after she'd calmed down, she'd gotten on the phone with Lila. “Still that sick?” She sighed softly. “Yeah, I miss you too, so much.”

Rafael knocked on the open door and made a motion towards his mouth, silently signaling Izzy that their lunch was on the table. He’d gone down to the sushi restaurant up the block, her favorite, and order a ton of sashimi and rolls her for them.

She nodded, “I gotta go, keep me updated okay?” She smiled softly. “I know, me too, Lila,” she cooed. “Me too.” She hung up and turned to Rafael as she followed him to the table. “So it turns out Roxie has pneumonia, they took her to the hospital this morning to recover.”

He looked back at her, his face falling with concern.

“Pneumonia?” he asked with a frown.

“I guess it's pretty bad,” she said with a nod, “Dama doesn't want me anywhere near her right now so Lila is paying me to come out and house sit while she stays with Roxie in the hospital.”

He thought for a minute-- It was Friday, he could probably catch a red eye flight out with her and fly back on Sunday.

“You wanna fly out with me tonight?” he asked, coming to the table to join her.

“Rafi you don't have to come, it's fine my flight is booked for tonight, I'm gonna stay the week while they monitor her and then I'll be back,” she smiled. “I'm just worried, I've never seen Lila so nervous and upset. She was there for me, I wanna be there for her now.”

“And I wanna be there for Roxie,” he replied softly. “She’s my friend, I’m worried. I can fly back on Sunday, it’s fine.” Rafael pulled out his phone. “Which flight are you on?” he asked.

“The 12:30 flight tonight,” she said softly. “I'm at gate G,” she rubbed his back and smiled at him.

He nodded, checking for empty seats on her flight and luckily finding one.

“Okay, we’ll head to the airport around nine,” he said, setting his phone down after he’d booked his seat and reaching for some sushi rolls. “You’re gonna come back, right?” he asked softly, looking at her as he ate a lobster roll.

“I would never leave without telling you,” she said honestly. “And I like New York. If I was ever gonna move anywhere, it would be back to Vegas. Not London.” She kissed his cheek. “I'm staying with my big brother...and eventually, I'll get to know my big sister too,” she said softly with a hesitant smile. She was trying to stay positive with the entire situation.

He smirked softly at her, nodding his head.

“You will,” he answering “I know today was...hard, but I’m sure that once she gets over the initial shock, she’ll realize that the three of us are all we have,” he added.

“She has a family, she doesn't need me. I don't even think she liked me that much when I was their maid.” She sighed and rubbed a hand over her face.

“That’s not true,” he whispered, shaking his head. “She just needs time,” he added. “Pretty soon she’ll realize that you’ve done nothing wrong...and even if she doesn’t, I’m not going anywhere. Our relationship means so much to me.”

“Really? And what if she wants nothing to do with me? What if she hates me suddenly? What if she insists on never seeing me again?”

“Then that’s her problem,” he replied. “She’s the one that will miss out. But she doesn’t hate you, I think she was just caught off guard.”

“Because I've been lying to her for nearly a year now…” she whispered.

“Iz, don’t beat yourself up,” he whispered, shaking his head. “She’ll come around, I promise you.”

“No she won't,” she whispered back but shrugged, picking up a picture she had taken of her and Lila. She smiled softly at it.

He frowned, looking at her with gentle eyes and reaching for her hand, which he gripped firmly in his.

“You know I’m on your side, right?” he asked. “You're still my sister, and I love you.”

She gave a slow nod, “Yeah,” she whispered with a trembling bottom lip as she tried not to cry again. He moved to being her into a hug, squeezing her tightly to him.

“It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

She gave a slow nod and went to the other room to begin packing her things. She made it all the way into her room and shut the door before she started to cry.

“The food is amazing her,” Amber smiled warmly at Omar as she sipped her wine and took another bite of her salmon. “How was work?”

“Fine, everything’s falling into place just like we planned. You? How’s The Times treating you?” he asked.

“Boring, it's incredibly boring but no one's shooting at me and that's a nice change,” she giggled and sipped her wine again. “Now that Felicity is clean, I'm gonna try and mend some fences with her…” she said seriously. “I'd like my baby sister in my life. My brothers and my parents will never come around, but Felicity and I stuck together.”

“I think it’ll be good for you guys to reconnect,” he mumbled.

Just then, a woman somewhere in the restaurant began to sing loudly, earning the attention of all the other diners.

You're just too good to be true, I can't take my eyes off you. You'd be like heaven to touch, I wanna hold you so much.

“Jesus,” Amber mumbled in a hushed voice as she glanced up, moving her gaze back to her food.

At long last love has arrived, And I thank God I'm alive. You're just too good to be true. Can't take my eyes off you.

Omar smirked as a waiter began to sing as well, watching Amber carefully as she too looked for the source of the new acapella singer.

Pardon the way that I stare. There's nothing else to compare. The sight of you leaves me weak, There are no words left to speak.

“What the hell?” Amber whispered, mouth full of green beans as she chewed while watching the two vocalist.

“Looks like a flash mob,” Omar mused.

“In this restaurant?”

But if you feel like I feel, Please let me know that is real. You're just too good to be true, I can't take my eyes off you.

For the chorus, the whole restaurant seemed to chime in, some of them singing the instrumental parts, and the others sang the lyrics that followed.

I love you baby, And if it's quite all right, I need you baby, To warm the lonely nights, I love you baby. Trust in me when I say...

As the crowd sang and moved around them, their waiter brought a slice of cheesecake and set it down in front of Amber. There, wedged into the top of the slice was a simple white gold band with a single diamond in the top.

Oh pretty baby, Don't bring me down I pray. Oh pretty baby, Now that I've found you stay, And let me love you, baby. Let me love you...

Omar got down on one knee beside the table, looking up at Amber expectantly.

“So...Amber Woods, will you marry me?” he asked.

Amber looked around, stunned and not sure what to do for a moment.

She looked down at him and then back to the other people, taking another deep breath. He arched a brow at her, waiting for her to say something. Literally anything at this point would be acceptable.

“Are you kidding me?” he mumbled when she still said nothing.

She shut her eyes for a long moment, blocking out everyone around them as she knelt down too and pressed her forehead against his. She wanted her yes to be a private moment.

“Yes,” she whispered so only he could hear. “Yes, Omar, I'll marry you.”

He smiled and slipped the ring onto her finger, kissing her deeply, and there was another millisecond of silence before the crowd began to sing all together again.

I love you baby, And if it's quite all right, I need you baby, To warm the lonely nights. I love you baby.

Omar chuckled, pulling Amber to stand and hugged her tightly as the flash mob resumed around them. She looked around at the impromptu performers and turned back to him. She didn't like all the attention, but she just pressed her nose to Omar's neck and snuggled in closer to him.

“What’s wrong?” he asked her once the song had ended, and everyone went back to eating or waiting on their tables, as if none of it had just happened.

“I'm not great with attention on me,” she chuckled nervously as she pulled him closer. “And I'm just so happy, I love you so much.”

“I love you, too,” he replied, kissing the top of her head. “You’re a journalist, isn’t your job to have people pay attention to you?” he asked in a chuckle as they sat down again.

She shook her head. “I'm a paper journalist, no faces no real recognition except for a name.”

“Still people gotta pay attention to you to get your scoop,” he replied. “But I know what you mean. Sorry...I thought you’d like it.” He shrugged softly. “At the very least, I figured you’d think it was hilarious.”

“I loved it, I loved that you put so much thought into it,” she whispered. “I love you, Omar.” She looked down at her ring and smiled up at him. “I can't wait to be your wife.”

He grinned back at her, and winked before they finished up their meal.

Nevada had gotten up to go to the vending machine across the hall, looking over his shoulder at you every few seconds to see if you were still sleeping. Coming back into your room with a bag of Cheetos, he sat in his chair again as a nurse came in to check on you.

“She doing okay?” he asked, looking over at her.

“She's doing much better,” the nurse said with a gentle smile. “I think that you may be able to go home soon.”

The babies wailed in their bassinets and the nurse smiled, picking NJ up and setting him in the crib with Fiona. The babies curled against each other's warmth, quieting down. “Twins often just need to be together to calm down,” she said with a warm smile.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said softly, nodding his head and looking her over briefly.

“I can't believe you're a father,” she giggled light heartedly. He smirked a little bit at her, turning slightly in his chair as he tilted his head.

“Why’s that, mami?” he asked softly. “Is it the leather jacket? Not many fathers wear leather?”

“No no, you're just so young and handsome. I dunno, you look like you should be in cologne ads on a motorcycle, not holding babies,” she blushed and looked him over. “Damn, all the hottest ones are always taken.”

His smirk grew and he licked his lips.

“I have a motorcycle,” he mused.

“That's so hot,” she giggled and checked over the babies while she was talking to him, letting him get a very good view of her ass, though he hardly payed attention.

“You ever ride on one?” he inquired, eating another cheeto as he peered into the small bag.

“I've ridden a lot of things but never a motorcycle,” she stepped over to him, taking a cheeto out of the bag and popping it into her mouth as she looked down at him.

“Why’d you steal one of my cheetos?” he asked in a playful tone, smirking up at her and sitting up a little to lean towards her.

“Oops,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. He smirked softly, sucking the cheese residue off of his thumb while his eyes stared into hers.

“That wasn’t very nice,” he mused, standing up to look down at her.

“Whatcha gonna do about it?” she whispered and took another cheeto, crunching it playfully in his face. “Yum,” she mumbled and licked her lips.

He smirked again, arching a brow and tilting his head.

“I think somebody needs a spanking,” he replied playfully, holding the bag closer to his chest.

“You wanna do the honors?” she purred.

“Oh mami, I don’t think you could handle me,” he answered, shaking his head.

“You wanna bet?” she purred. “I could rock your world.”

“Hm,” he hummed, looking her over again and smirking.

She trailed her fingers up and down his chest, and he arched a brow, looking down to where her fingers made contact. “Best sex of your life.”

“The last sex of his life,” you said as you tried to sit up. “Where's Amber? Puta, when she gets here I'm gonna have you fired so fast,” you snapped angrily at her.

“She doesn’t mean that,” Nevada said softly to the nurse. “Give me a minute with my wife,” he added, stepping away from her and moving towards you. “Morning sunshine. Como te siente?”

You stare at him with an irritated look. “Don't sunshine me. If you had been eating cheetos off her naked body it would have been less sexual.”

“What are you talking about? I was just talking to her,” he replied, furrowing his brows. “ I can’t control what she says,” he added.

“Do you honestly not get why I'm upset about what I just heard?” You sighed. “You can't handle me Mami,” you say in your best Nevada impression.

“What’s so bad about that?” he answered, shrugging one shoulder. “I didn’t do anything.”

You sighed, “Nevermind, just nevermind.”

You closed your eyes. He'd said already that he didn't want to constantly have to prove his love to you, which would be understandable if he wasn't flirting with every woman that flirted with him. You felt fat, unattractive, no makeup and now you have another scar on top of the bullet scar. Your insecurities had climbed to an all time high and here he was, flirting with a nurse. You couldn't take it right now, it made you feel so small, so unimportant to him.

#nevada ramirez #rafael barba #trouble in the heights #law and order svu #cuba v dr

[hanny-writes-spn]

A Father’s Love

Word Count: 2000 ish

Characters: Jensen x Reader, Maverick (or Mav) (OC), Piper (OC), Genevieve, Jared (Brief mention)

Warnings: A case of childhood pneumonia, homesickness, fluff, Jensen doubting himself. I believe that’s all.

Summary: While Jensen is away filming, he experiences a bad case of homesickness.

A/N: Thank you to @like-a-bag-of-potatoes and @melonshino for reading over this and assuring me that it was okay :-) This is my first Jensen fic! I hope I wrote him well… Please feel free to leave feedback and constructive criticism. Happy reading!

No hate towards Danneel or any member of the Ackles family - I adore them. Pretend that Danneel is happy with someone else... This is just a work of fiction!

****

It was the middle of the night, way past your kids’ bedtime, and yet you were still laid out on your living room couch. Your 4 year old son, Maverick, was sick with a cold and refused to leave your side, along with your one year old daughter, Piper. Of course they had both gotten sick at the same time the one weekend that Jensen had to work.

You and Jensen had been married for five years now. You met on the set of Supernatural, but you knew him long before then. After you got killed off the show, he asked you on a date. And that one date turned into more dates. And the rest was history.

Maverick had been upset, coughing more and more as the night drug on. You let him and Piper lay with you on the couch before they went to bed, but they ended up both falling asleep - Mav wedged between you and the couch and Piper laying face down on your stomach.

“Finally… some peace” you said under your breath as you turned on the T.V. and set the volume at the lowest audible level. You let your finger trail up and down Piper’s back, happy that both of  your kids were finally asleep.

You flipped through the channels until you landed on a late night rerun of Supernatural. Smiling to yourself, you decided to watch it. It was hard with Jensen being gone so much, so even just seeing him on T.V. cheered you up.

Maverick stirred, nestling himself further into your shoulder. You could feel a little bit of his drool trickling down your neck as he positioned himself so his face was in the crook of your neck. Piper reached out her arm in her sleep and rested her over Maverick’s, which just so happened to be resting right over your heart.

Eager to capture this moment, you gently reached for your phone and snapped a photo to send to Jensen. You knew that there was a good chance he would be asleep but you sent it anyway. It would be a nice surprise for him when he woke up.

Less than 5 minutes later, you heard your phone buzzing. You couldn’t help but smile when you saw Jensen’s contact photo light up on your phone.

“Hey baby,” you heard his deep voice rumble.

“Hi J… not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but why are you up so late?”

“We’re filming late tonight… you know how that goes. I think the better question is, why are you up so late?”

Sighing and looking at your sleeping babies, you replied to Jensen, “Mav caught a cold and passed it to Piper. Both kids went to sleep about an hour ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have -”

“I didn’t want you to worry,” you interrupted him. Jensen was always so distraught when he found out that one of the kids was sick. Last year when Maverick caught the flu he almost missed some Cons. Of course you had none of that. “You’ll be home in a couple of days, J, it’ll be okay.”

“I know, I just…” he trailed off. You waited for him to finish, but then you thought you heard him crying.

“Jen? Are you okay? What’s wrong, baby?” you asked in your most gentle voice. Worry washed over you - Jensen wasn’t one to cry very often.

You heard a few sniffles before he started talking. “Both of my kids are sick and I’m not there… I’m not there comforting them, or comforting you for that matter. What kind of memories are they going to remember with their dad when they’re older? That their dad was never there for them? I just… sometimes I feel like I’m not being a good enough father to them. Or a good enough husband for you.”

Tears were welling up in your eyes as you listened to him. “Jensen, you listen to me, okay? Your kids love you. They love you more than anything. Piper is still young, but Maverick? He knows that his daddy is at work. He knows that if you weren’t at work, that you’d be here with him. Of course we all miss you, but Jensen, never doubt that you’re an amazing father or an amazing husband. ”

“I just… I miss you guys so much,” you heard him choke out. Just when you thought your heart couldn’t break any more.

Before you could say anything, you heard a voice that sounded like Jared’s in the background calling Jensen back to work. “I’m sorry Y/N, I gotta go… I love you. Tell the kids I love them.”

“I will… I love you, Jensen. The kids love you too… talk soon.”

“Bye, Y/N/N.”

You hung up the phone and laid your head back on the couch. Looking up at your T.V., you saw your fearless, handsome husband. You couldn’t wait for him to come home so you could show him just how much you and the kids loved him.

***

After two days, Piper was visibly starting to feel better. Her runny nose and cough were starting to go away - the antibiotics were doing their job. Maverick on the other hand, was still not feeling well.

“Mama… I don’t feel good...” Maverick whined as you sat down in his bed with him and placed a hand to his forehead. It definitely felt like he had a temperature.

“I know baby, I know…” you cooed as you replaced your hand with your lips, pressing a soft kiss to his burning forehead. “You wanna get up and eat something? I think we’re going to have to go back to the doctor today...”

When he shook his head and started crying, you started to get concerned. It wasn’t like him to not want to get out of bed or not eat. He hadn’t had a fever with his cold until this morning and his cough just kept getting worse. You thought that it would just go away on its own, but now you weren’t so sure. Gen offered to come with you, but you didn’t want to expose her or the boys to whatever was going around your family. After packing up the kids, you drove to the doctor.

You sent Jensen a quick text before being called into the room.

Taking Mav back to the doctor. Still isn’t feeling better. Will let you know what they say. Love you xx

“Mrs. Ackles, how long has your son had this cold?” the doctor asked as he put a stethoscope up to your Maverick’s lungs.

“Four days now. I took him to the doctor three days ago and he was prescribed antibiotics,” you said as you bounced Piper on your leg. She was content, holding and playing with her doll in her little hands. Maverick was behaving, sitting on the examination table all by himself. He looked so sad sitting up there all by himself.

“I’m concerned with how his lungs sound… I don’t think that your son has a cold. I think he has pneumonia. It would be best if he went to the hospital for more advanced treatment.”

Your heart stopped in your chest. “Pneumonia? Oh my god, is he going to be okay?”

“Although pneumonia can be life-threatening, it’s important to get him treatment and fast. It looks like it’s still in the earlier stages, so if you get him to the hospital soon, I predict that he’ll be out in a day or two,” the doctor explained before sending you on your way.

After getting the news, everything was a blur. You decided to drive to the hospital rather than go by ambulance. After getting settled in a room, you called Genevieve to come help you out with Piper. After you told her what was going on she was there in a flash.

“Y/N, how is he?” Gen asked as she walked into the room. Mav was asleep and Piper was waddling around the room with her toys. She ran right up to Gen when she walked in, holding her arms out to be picked up.

“He’s good… tired, but good… thank you so much for coming to help,” you said with a weak smile. You were beyond exhausted. “I haven’t even gotten the chance to call Jensen yet, do you think you could-”

“Watch Piper? Go, call him… I’m sure he’s worried about him.”

You gave Gen a hug before going out to the hall to call Jensen.

“Y/N? Is everything okay?” Jensen immediately answered, his voice wavering with worry.

“Hi J, it’s… no, everything is not okay. The doctor thinks that Maverick has pneumonia….” you said gently, hoping that Jensen wouldn’t freak out.

“He what?! I’m coming home. Right now,” he said sternly, as if there were no argument. He reacted just as you suspected he would.

“Baby, you’re going to be home tomorrow afternoon, why don’t you just finish shooting and-”

“No, Y/N, I’m coming home right now. There’s no arguing about this okay?”

His voice was unwavering. There was no use in trying to convince him.

“Okay, I’ll text you the details of where we are and what room we’re in. Gen is here helping me with Piper.”

You could hear rustling in the background like he was packing a bag. “I’m sure Jared will come with me. Tell Mav that I’ll be there in a few hours, okay? I love you”

“I love you too,” you answered before hanging up and going back to Maverick’s bed side. He was still asleep and Gen was playing with Piper.

“I’m assuming he’s coming home?” Gen asked as you picked up Piper and rested her on your hip. She instinctively wrapped her arms around your neck.

You laughed at Gen knowing exactly how Jensen was. “Yeah, him and Jared both are.”

“That’s our boys.”

****

Gen insisted on taking Piper for the night while you stayed with Maverick in the hospital. He was upset with all of the IV’s and wires coming out of him - the only thing that would calm him down was when you were snuggled up next to him and the promise that his father would be there soon.

You woke up to a large hand resting on your hip and the feeling of a soft kiss to your temple. Your eyes fluttered open in time to see Jensen pushing back your son’s hair on his forehead to give him a kiss.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you… how is he?” he whispered as he sat in the chair next to the bed. Maverick’s hand looked so small when Jensen held it.

You wrapped your arm around Maverick to rest your hand on both of theirs. “He’s okay. Tired of being here already… it sounds like he’ll only be here for a couple of days. How was your flight? And where’s Jared?”

“It was fine, I was just worried the whole time… I told Jared to just go home for now, he can come see Mav in the morning...” Jensen trailed off, his eyes glued to Maverick’s sleeping form. “They said he’ll be okay?”

You gently unraveled yourself from Maverick and went over to sit on Jensen’s knee. He wrapped his arms around your waist as you slid yours around his neck.

“He’s going to be okay, J… he’ll be even better when he wakes up and sees his daddy is here.”

You were relieved to see that you managed to elicit a smile out of Jensen.

“Not every dad would fly across the country for his son…” you grinned, gently stroking Jensen’s cheek. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

He nodded and looked back to his son. “I just want to be the best dad… as great as my dad was to me growing up.”

“And you are, okay? Don’t doubt yourself.”

Jensen only nodded before you both laid on each side of your son’s bed. He wrapped his arm around both of you and you wrapped yours around your son’s. Despite all of the tubes and wires, Mav managed to roll into Jensen’s side as he slept.

“Love you daddy…” Mav whispered into Jensen’s chest, still half asleep, but awake enough to know that his dad was there with him.

It was almost as if he knew that Jensen needed to hear that more than anything.

Jensen Tags: @like-a-bag-of-potatoes

Forever Tags: @mogaruke @melonberri @holding-on-to-francis @dyingwhaleseatpizza @impalaobsession

Other Tags:  @aprofoundbondwithdean  @manawhaat @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @loveitsallineed @notnaturalanahi @deathtonormalcy56 @for-the-love-of-dean @deandoesthingstome @jelly-beans-and-gstrings @captain-princess-rose @quiddy-writes @babypieandwhiskey @samsgoddess @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki @waywardjoy @jpadjackles @chaos-and-the-calm67 @plaidstiel-wormstache @teamfreewill-imagine @writingbeautifulmen @oldfashioncdvillain @drarina1737 @ruined-by-destiel @chelsea-winchester @deals-with-demons @supernatural-jackles @maraisabellegrey @faith-in-dean @winchestersmolder @ilostmyshoe-79 @winchester-writes @impalaimagining

#jensen ackles #jensen ackles x reader #jensen ackles imagine #jensen ackles drabble #jensen ackles fanfiction #jensen ackles fic #jensen x reader #RPF #Jensen #ackles #spn #spn fanfiction #spn fic #supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural fic #jensen ackles one shot