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novelconcepts · 4 years

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fic: souvenirs you never lose

prompt, for @karatam: five scars Dani found on Jamie’s body (and one she left behind on her heart)

It takes Jamie time, to open up. This does not surprise Dani in the least; the Jamie she met at Bly wasn’t the sort to show off--not her innermost secrets, and certainly not her body. Even innocuous bits, elbows and forearms and collarbones, were covered half the time in thick jackets and jumpsuits. She didn’t see Jamie’s knees for the first time until they slept together.

It feels less like Jamie is hiding something, and more like Jamie appreciates a certain barrier between her body and the rest of the world. Dani can respect that. Knows the value of armor, of a good sweater and pounds of hairspray and the effort to be seen only as you choose. And what Jamie chooses, mostly, is to be seen as the job. As soil under fingernails, as hair messy around her face, as small hoop earrings and old t-shirts and overalls. Jamie doesn’t much put in the effort, because she’s busy channeling all of that effort into more important things. Dani likes this about her.

Still, for the first month or two, she doesn’t see much of Jamie’s bare skin. Maybe because Jamie is still working out the angles of their relationship in her head, easing in gently even as she’s taking enormous leaps of faith on little more than Dani’s word. Maybe because they’re leaving England (where, even in summer, a chill holds dominion over most nights) for Vermont (where, by the time they arrive, fall is chipping away at what remains of the year). Either way, for a while, Dani thinks Jamie is hiding in baggy sweaters and loose jeans because it’s just Jamie.

It isn’t until they’re in bed in a hotel in Pennsylvania that she thinks for the first time: maybe it’s about something else. Maybe it’s about the lives Jamie lived before meeting her. Maybe there are some boxes Jamie holds close to her chest, will need time to unlock.

Dani can be patient.

“It was a pot,” Jamie says, like that’s the whole of the story, but a story is never so simple or so short as that. In fact, it was not just a pot, not just water, not just a child left to raise a baby like she’d ever be prepared for something like this.

Jamie, maybe eight years old--she has trouble thinking back this far, has trouble remembering anything from this time with an adult’s clarity--stands as tall as her meager height allows whenever she’s in this house. Shoulders thrown back, chin up, the way she’d seen her mum in shops. Don’t let it get to you. Don’t let it land. Just keep your chin up, eyes forward, and keep walking.

Jamie, maybe eight years old, with hair that hasn’t been trimmed in months and hand-me-down trousers from Denny, who scuffed his shoes and scowled and said nothing, because what could he do about it? Denny, who keeps his distance, who hasn’t had a kind word for her since she can’t remember when. Jamie tries not to mind. Tries to understand, with an eight-year-old comprehension of human instinct, why her big brother is so determined to shut her out.

They call her mum things in the street, and maybe that’s why she left. Maybe sticks and stones aren’t all that can tear you up, in the end. Jamie’s had her share of both, has limped home and mopped up tattered knees and scraped cheeks more than she likes to recall, but maybe words can do the same kind of damage if there are enough of them all bound up together.

Or maybe she left because Jamie wasn’t big enough to wrap her arms around all the little aches her mum was made up of. Maybe because Denny turns up his nose at anything he doesn’t like, and Mikey screams all day, and Jamie--sandwiched between them with no way out--is just too small.

She’s trying. She’s trying so hard. Mum’s gone, and she hasn’t seen Dad in...what’s it been now, days? A week? She’s losing track fast. Losing track of a lot of things, really. She’s falling asleep draped over her desk, sneakers dangling off the floor, waking to wadded up chunks of paper drenched in someone else’s spit clinging to her neck and hair. Her homework, when it gets done at all, usually gets stolen out of her bag and shredded before she can turn it in. She’s starting to hear the whispers at night, falling asleep with one eye open, one arm wrapped around Mikey’s tiny frame: Whore. Cunt. Your mum’s a--

She doesn't even know what these words mean, but they live beneath her skin like razor blades, and she is so small, and so tired, and only eight, only eight, only--

The day the pot goes over, she knows. Something prickles at the back of her neck like a bad itch, like a bug bite, like the worst kind of déjà vu. She’s got Mikey in one arm, bouncing him up and down the way he likes, and the other hand is trying to stir pasta. It’s one of the only things she knows how to make, and Mikey probably should have something more, something better--baby food, or fruit, or something--but Dad’s been gone for maybe-days, maybe-weeks, and Jamie hasn’t figured out how she’s going to buy groceries yet. Problem for another day, she keeps thinking, the idea growing more fringed and frazzled by the hour.

She’s standing on a chair, baby in one arm, stirring, and it wouldn’t have happened if only she were bigger. It wouldn’t happen if only she could stand taller, if only she didn't need to climb on things to reach, if only she had been able to sleep last night under all Mikey’s whimpers and Denny kicking the wall they share and the hisses of whore, your mum’s a dirty whore reverberating through her head.

She’s swaying, bouncing Mikey up and down, up and down, and then she’s swaying too far. Too far to the left, too far to correct, and before she knows it, gravity’s got her in a headlock. She pitches sideways, the chair skidding out from under her with a squeal on linoleum, and Mikey is already bawling. Even before her stirring arm yanks the pot. Even before the water sloshes over, all bubbles and steam and Jamie distantly realizes she is shrieking. Her right shoulder comes up in a protective shroud around her little brother, taking as much of the splash as she can stand, and her shirt is pasted to her skin, pasted and bubbling and Jamie hadn’t known anything in the whole world could hurt as much as listening to Mikey screech from against her chest.

“Just a mistake,” she says, yawning in a dimly-lit hotel room. “Just a mistake that a little kid makes on too little sleep and too much responsibility. It’s okay.”

Dani, fingers tracing the edges of raised skin, watches her. Jamie’s head is turned away, her body tucked into the space where Dani suspects she’s always sort of been waiting for someone to lay. Jamie is bunched up tight in the too-high AC, her knees pulled up to her chest, her hand holding gently to the arm Dani has draped loosely over her waist. She feels small in Dani’s arms, which is strange, because Jamie always feels like she takes up so much space in the world. Brass bells on her laugh, brass tacks in her smile, walking like she was told one too many times to sit down and her only response was to flash the finger.

Dani sometimes wishes she could walk like Jamie does. Breathe like Jamie does. The closest she comes to it are nights like this, pressed close in a bed barely bigger than a twin, Jamie speaking slowly, tiredly, to the opposite wall.

“You protected him,” Dani says softly. She doesn’t so much like the feel of the scar under the pad of her finger as she does the sensation of Jamie breathing beneath her hand. Jamie, exhausted from a long day on the road, still pressing backward into her like she can never get close enough.

“Had to,” Jamie says sleepily. “Was so little.”

Dani gets that, understands what it is to hold something small and precious and innocent, and know the world doesn’t care about any of it. The world doesn’t want to keep small, soft things safe. The world just barrels on, riding its own track, and damned be the rest of them.

She bends her head, presses her lips to the top of Jamie’s shoulder, waits for permission. Jamie exhales, leans her head back.

“Go on, then.”

She smiles against the soft slope of Jamie, of the lightly freckled skin where no secret memories lurk, and drops a kiss right on the edge of the scar. Jamie doesn’t move, doesn’t push her away, just breathes lightly in and out as Dani explores the spot where a child’s error in judgment left a permanent brand. She traces the map of it with soft lips, careful not to do anything that might cause Jamie unease, careful to simply embrace this part of a woman who pretends it was just a pot because it’s easier than admitting the rest. How much guilt she must have carried for years after. How much it had hurt in ways that have nothing to do with searing burns.

Her hand tightens across Jamie’s stomach, pulling her reflexively closer, and Jamie arches her back. Her breath is coming a little quicker now, her laugh deep in the shadows cast by one tiny lamp.

“S’just a scar,” she says, and turns in Dani’s arms to kiss her lips. “Just a scar, Poppins. S’all right.”

A few months go by, Christmas stumbling past with all the grace of a young puppy, the winter months unspooling after in its wake. Eventually, the world begins to wake again. The days warm, the sun casting its light on a new apartment, and Jamie--for the first time since Dani’s known her--is wearing shorts.

“You’ve never told me about this one,” Dani says, seated on the floor of the living room, surrounded by clean laundry. Jamie is on the couch, legs dangling on either side of Dani’s shoulders, a book propped gently against Dani’s hair.

“Which?” she asks absently, flipping the page. Dani shakes the book away, pressing her thumb lightly to a spot high on Jamie’s right inner thigh. Jamie sucks in a showy breath. “Gettin’ a bit handsy there for all that laundry, Poppins.”

“One,” Dani says, “you can get down here and help me fold. Or two, you can tell me about this one.”

Jamie tosses the book aside, leaning over to look. “Ah. That. Was just a bad jump.”

Dani can tell right away that this is like the burn, that nothing with Jamie’s past was ever just anything. She rests her head against Jamie’s knee, gazing up at her, waiting.

Jamie doesn’t advertise it or anything, doesn’t think anyone really needs to know, but she’s always been a good runner. Had to be, when she was little, when the other kids were big and strong and the only thing standing between her and a busted lip was to take off like the wind at the first sight of them. Had to be even more in foster care, when quick thinking and quicker legs were maybe the only chance she had at a peaceful evening.

She’s not much to look at, seventeen and gangly, hips still figuring themselves out and legs prone to tangling when she’s tired. But, oh, can Jamie run.

She’s running now, in fact. Running like all the world’s vices have her number and are ringing her up, and it feels good to move like this. Arms pumping, chest expanding and contracting around heaving breaths, eyes wild. A woman dives out of her way, almost upending her shopping cart, and Jamie laughs like she’s got the breath to spare.

It would all be better, maybe, if she didn’t have the goddamn police on her tail.

If she didn’t have a rather damning piece of fine silver tucked up under her shirt.

If she could be sure why she was doing this in the first place.

But no matter. No worries at all. It’s just pavement beneath her battered old work boots, just the breeze tearing at her hair and the dirty glares of complete strangers, and Jamie thinks, Yeah, you wish you could move like this. You wish you had the fucking freedom.

Hands, catching at her jacket tails. Big hands, broad-palmed and nasty, and if they close over anything that counts, she knows she’s done for. Knows this is the price of living free: sometimes, you’re free to make choices that get you run down. Not that she cares. Not that she minds it in the least. So long as she can run like this, Jamie figures she can go just about goddamn anywhere.

She shrugs the groping hands away, hears one of the uniformed men swear as she bolts left down an alley. She knows this street like the back of her hand, knows if she can just get to the end and up over the gate, she’s home free. The cops are older, bigger, slower to swing around such a tight corner, and Jamie’s leap takes her halfway up the chain link before she even has to start her mad scramble.

She’s all seeking hands and desperate boots, gasping around the burn in her lungs where a fresh smoking habit is not doing her endurance any favors, and she’s laughing still. Even as she goes over, even as she feels something barbed catch along her inner thigh and tear, she’s laughing. Blood, spilling hot down the leg of her jeans, soaking black into the faded denim. Still, she throws her head back and brays insane laughter toward the sun.

She’s still laughing when she rounds the corner and slams straight into the barrel chest of a beat cop. Not the grabby one; he’s still puffing his way over the fence behind her. This one has mean eyes and a shark’s grin, and when his hand closes over her forearm, all the laughter seventeen years can produce goes rotten in her chest.

“That,” the cop says, “doesn’t belong to you.”

Jamie, lungs heaving, silver hot against her belly, feels the shredded skin of her thigh pull tight, and winces.

“Went in not long after,” she says, shrugging and resting a hand lightly atop Dani’s hair. “Stayed in nearly five years.”

She says it like everything’s okay, like it doesn’t hurt to remember a teenage girl who felt her only recourse from the world was to steal from it. Dani shifts, pulling Jamie’s leg higher on her shoulder, and kisses the jagged remnants of the day Jamie saw her freedom stuffed into a cage.

“Honest,” Jamie breathes, watching her with eyes gone dark with some mix of desire and memory. “It didn’t even hurt all that much.”

She’s lying, Dani can tell; Jamie’s a terrible liar, so bad at it that she rarely bothers. She holds Jamie’s gaze, feels the uncomfortably sharp edge of the scar against the soft skin of her lower lip. Jamie’s brow pulls like she’s warding off something dangerously akin to shame.

“I did it because,” she says, and Dani kisses the spot a little harder, shifting to her knees on the carpet. Jamie swallows hard, leaning back against the cushions. “Dani, I was...”

Don’t, Dani thinks. Don’t say my name like you’re confessing something. She presses her face against the hot skin of Jamie’s thigh, tries to imagine being young and desperate and foolish. It isn’t so hard to do.

“You were just a kid,” she says, muffled. Jamie rests a hand lightly on the back of her head, giving her permission. “Just a kid running from so much.”

“It was stupid,” Jamie says thickly. “I was--”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dani says, so fiercely she surprises herself. “Doesn’t matter who you were at seventeen, Jamie. Do you have any idea how stupid I was at seventeen?”

They could go back and forth all day--Jamie’s mistakes stripping her of five years of freedom, Dani’s nearly stripping her of a lifetime. They could, but Jamie is looking at her with such love in her eyes that Dani knows it isn’t the time. It just doesn’t matter, not as much as this place and Jamie’s smile and knowing they're both who they need to be for one another, regardless of the past.

Her hands are moving toward the zipper of Jamie’s shorts, her mouth light and gentle on Jamie’s skin, and they don’t talk about the scar again. Even with Jamie moving her hips restlessly, even with Dani’s tongue teasing and tasting, even as Jamie grasps her by the hair and makes the most wonderful sounds above her, Dani keeps her thumb pressed gently into that spot. Reclaiming it, in a way. Giving Jamie a dose of what it feels like to fly, to forget all her mistakes, to know only what it is to be loved.

She likes to think she knows Jamie’s body pretty well by the time she finds the third scar. They’ve been together three years--three years of blessed, shocking serenity, and Dani feels good. Has felt good for so long, in fact, she’s almost forgotten anything else.

That always feels a little like rattling the bars of some enormous cage, like taunting something huge and bestial she still can’t make out among the trees. Still. It’s no less true.

They’re in the kitchen, of all places, when she notices it. Jamie’s shirt has ridden up as she stretches to retrieve a plate from the cupboard, and there--just under the strap of her bra--a mark Dani’s never really registered before along her ribs. It’s a small thing, a puckered spot smaller than the nail on her pinky.

“What’s that from?”

Jamie twists awkwardly, trying to look under her raised arm. “Ah...bit of a mishap with a sharp implement.”

“At the shop?” Dani frowns, trying to imagine what kind of barbed plant it would take to skewer Jamie in such a way. Trying, too, to imagine what would keep Jamie from sheepishly showing her the same night, allowing Dani to patch her with rubbing alcohol, bandages, a long kiss.

“Uh, no, actually. Inside.” Plate recovered, Jamie drops back down and tries to sidle around Dani toward the stove. Dani raises an eyebrow.

“Inside like in prison?”

“Just about the only place I can think of gets described as such,” Jamie says lightly. Dani jabs her gently in the shoulder.

“So, how’d this one happen?”

“Accidentally.”

Her voice is too light. She’s doing a little dance back and forth, trying to pass Dani, who finally relents.

“You got accidentally stabbed. In prison.”

Jamie sighs. “I suppose you’ll want this tale, too, mm?”

Dani gives her a look, half-exasperation, half-deeply entertained. A well, yes, Jamie, if it isn’t too much hassle to clarify the time you got shanked in prison look. She hadn’t even known she had a look like that, but bless Jamie: always teaching her new things about herself.

It’s not as bad as it seemed at first, Jamie learns quickly. Prison isn’t a picnic by any stretch, but for the most part, the other women leave her be. Maybe it’s something about the way she walks, a trick picked up before she was even into her teens: a good healthy swagger keeps at least the lowest-tier assholes at bay. Walk like you know what you’re doing, walk like you own the place, people are often less likely to take interest. Self-preservation’s a hell of a thing, especially in a place like this.

She doesn’t make friends, exactly, and maybe that’s for the best. The last friends Jamie made all had too-pretty eyes, too-quick smiles, hands that could produce a knife or the wallet out of your pocket with equal glee. She’d fallen in with them in all the wrong ways, these girls who knew too much of the world and were all too willing to share it with a gutter rat who kissed like it was the only thing worth doing, so long as no one went talking about it later.

Prison feels like that life magnified to its highest order. Still some pretty eyes, still some too-quick smiles in here, but no one Jamie feels secure even chatting up for long. Everybody in here is in for a reason. Some reasons less justifiable than others, maybe, but still.

Still, there is one girl. Jamie’s been in for maybe two years, maybe three--gets hard to keep track, after a while--when this one arrives. Fresh meat, as the worst of the women say. Walk says she’s been around the block, but Jamie’s fair certain she can’t be older than Jamie herself was upon arrival. Just a kid.

Kids make bad choices sometimes, she knows better than anyone. It isn’t her problem.

Even so, she finds herself trailing along in the kid’s wake. Keeping an eye out. Kids who walk like that sometimes get skipped over--Jamie did, after all, but Jamie also knew when to say when. Head up, mouth shut. The back half of that plan is crucial to survival.

This kid doesn’t seem to have gotten the memo. Every time Jamie comes around a corner, it seems like she’s walking in on another bag of bullshit. The kid, always picking fights with women bigger, or crueler, or more capable than she is. By the time Jamie realizes it, she’s taken to talking these women down. An extra pack of cigarettes in exchange for letting the girl live to see another day. A shift in the garden traded for a shift doing laundry. The women grudgingly accept Jamie as one of the level-headed among them, even if they don’t particularly love her for it.

Not my problem, Jamie thinks each time she sees the girl raise hackles, and each time, she finds herself making it her problem anyway. Stupid. But maybe if she’d had someone in her corner, someone watching her back...

She’s been cleaning up after this kid’s messes for about three weeks when it happens. Jamie’s just minding her business, just walking around the yard, and suddenly...there’s pain. A weird, blazing, hooked-talon pain radiating up through her side.

Pain, and the bared teeth of a teenage girl.

“You keep the fuck out of my business,” she hisses, brandishing the sharpened bit of what Jamie’s pretty sure was once a toothbrush. “Hear me? Fuck out of it.”

Jamie, hand clapped around a small puncture in her jumpsuit, pulls her palm away streaked with red. She raises her eyebrows. “Clear as day.”

She doesn’t see the girl again. Doesn’t question it. Can’t bring herself to wonder if it was a transfer or something else altogether. All Jamie knows is, this is what comes of sticking your nose into other people’s shit.

“Wasn’t my finest hour,” she says, checking that the chicken in the oven isn’t actually on fire. “Just left me feeling dumb, really. Imagine getting poked by a goddamn toothbrush.”

“You said it was an accident,” Dani points out. Jamie sighs, opens the fridge, closes it again.

“It was. Wasn’t meant for me, not really. I just happened to be there. She would’ve stuck anyone silly enough to step in her path.”

There’s a look in Jamie’s eyes Dani isn’t sure she’s seen before. Something tired and responsible, though not exactly guilty. She moves closer, carefully sliding Jamie’s shirt up until the tiny scar is lit by the overhead lamp, gleaming pink against Jamie’s pale skin.

“I knew better,” Jamie sighs, leaning her hip against the counter as Dani gently touches just beneath the scar. “Saw myself in her, y’know? Same caged-animal desperation. Same darkness. And I didn’t think I could save her or anything so...fucking noble, but I thought maybe she just needed a little time.”

Time, thinks Dani, right. The one thing none of them are ensured enough of.

“Never tried anything like it again,” Jamie says, taking Dani’s hand from her ribs and kissing her knuckles. “Never saw the use. I was in the garden by then, and actually giving therapy its due, and by the time I was up for anything like real human connection, I was out. Probably for the best, though. Imagine if she’d gone for my face.”

She’s teasing, trying to pull the sympathy from Dani’s frown and replace it with something brighter. Dani lets her. There’s little point in dwelling on a scar Jamie has already put to bed, after all.

“It was good of you,” she says before letting the subject drop. “To try.”

“Maybe,” Jamie says softly. Dani cradles her face in both hands, willing her to believe it. A small smile touches Jamie’s lips.

“Speaking of trying,” she says, giving Dani a light kiss on the cheek. “Think the bird’s burnin’.”

The fourth scar, Dani doesn’t feel too terrible about missing. She only finds it by accident one night, sitting on the side of the tub while Jamie soaks off a long day, and only then because her hands are busy massaging Jamie’s scalp.

“Hey,” she says softly, so as not to shatter a mood built of lit candles and quiet music. Jamie leans her head back, questioning. “There’s something here...”

“Nothing big,” Jamie says, in that tone of voice that says she knows Dani will want to hear anyway. She sighs, patting gently at the foam of bubbles climbing the sides of the tub. “Just another tale of my misguided heroism...”

Dani laughs. “For someone who says she doesn’t care, you sure do get into a lot of hero-shaped situations.”

“Takes one to know one,” Jamie teases, and some of the light fades from Dani’s grin. She doesn’t want to talk about that. Doesn’t want to think about it much. A night a thousand years ago in a lake a million miles away, and though she can feel it all creeping in at the edges, she thinks there’s still time to turn her head.

“Anyway,” Jamie adds in a slightly louder tone. “Anyway, how are you only just finding this now? With all the times you’ve pulled my hair...”

Her hand is creeping toward Dani’s knee, armed with a thin trail of bubbles. Dani shakes her head.

“After,” she says, “you tell me the story.”

Jamie moves into the little flat above the only pub in Bly and thinks, Right. Home. The way a person who’s never really had a home does, she’ll reflect later. When you think a home is just four walls and a bit of furniture, a place to lay your head. At the time, in this moment, it feels better than anything she's ever had.

She's already decided how the next year--maybe five, maybe ten, maybe the rest of what she’s got ahead of her--will look. Nothing complicated. Nothing big, or heavy, or loud. No pretty eyes. No quick smiles. No one to tell her they’ll love her if only she’d do this one little thing for them, no one to tell her they’ll kiss her if only she can keep her mouth shut about it afterward.

Just this, she decides, looking at the tiny flat with its tiny sink and tiny bathroom and tiny spot where she’s just managed to wedge a bed. Just this, and the job. Don’t need much else to get by.

It’s a good job, one she was unaccountably lucky to snag so soon out of prison. There’s so much green, she can feel her head spin to look at it all, and knows there is fortune in being asked to care for such an expanse of life. Five years ago, she doesn’t know that she could have done it. Doesn’t know if she could have been trusted. These days, she can’t imagine anything better.

A good job at a great old manor, flowers as far as the eye can see, and this little flat. She’s doing all right for herself, Jamie. She’s doing just fine.

Though the pub is a bit much some nights.

She usually comes straight home after work, uninterested in playing nice with the very specific breed born into Bly. There are some, she supposes, who are pleasant enough, but the grand majority remind her of watching her father climb into and out of a coal mine. They have the same blank expressions, the same vapid smiles, the same shape of mouth that so easily tends toward words like whore, whore, your mum’s a--

Nah. Better keeping to herself, really.

Every so often, though, despite the noise and the company, she treats herself to a drink. Just one, usually alone at a corner table or the far edge of the bar. At first, there were men who tried to get involved, men who thankfully got the message--or if not the message, at least one similarly postmarked not interested--fairly quickly. Good for everyone. Jamie’s patience is only so thin, and there is something deeply alluring about a sharp fork on a bad night.

She’s thinking about this on the night one of these men--one she remembers fairly well from a couple of weeks back, dark hair and patchy beard and bad aftershave--takes it upon himself to visit the backside of a woman’s skirt. His hand is trembling, a whiskey reverb taking the wheel, but it lands exactly where he’s aimed it. The woman, tall and angular and nervous, flinches away.

Jamie casts a quick glance around, reading the room. Everyone saw that. A pub like this, in a town so small; everyone sees everything. And yet, stunningly, no one is moving.

The guy knows it, too. She can see it all over his face, the triumph of having gotten away with a misdemeanor. Did it even happen, if no one calls him on it?

Best not find out, she thinks, and before she’s got a handle on this impulse, this stupid impulse that once got her stabbed in a prison yard, she’s up and moving. Just got out, she reminds herself, even as she’s stepping between the man and his target.

“Lady doesn’t look like she’s having a good time,” she points out. There’s a feral smile on her lips, one she hasn’t entertained in a very long time. Never ended well, nights that put this smile on like a coat of deepest red.

“Don’t remember asking,” the man sneers. His breath is so stained with alcohol, it nearly sends her reeling. The woman behind her makes a tiny noise.

“We could ask,” Jamie says, faux-brightly. She twists at the waist, just enough to glance at the woman. “You having fun with this pack of shit?”

“Hey,” he snaps. “Bitch. Who the fuck asked--”

She loses her brief struggle with restraint on bitch, her head punching forward into his nose. It hurts, a little. Hurts him worse. He’s staggering back, blood streaming between his fingers when he reaches up. She’s gratified to see he nearly pokes himself in the eye in the process.

“Might wanna,” she adds to the woman with a little nod toward the door, watching as the drunk’s intended prey rabbits on out into the night. It feels good in a way she doesn’t entirely like, listening to the blood sing in her ears. Men like this shouldn’t be allowed in public. Men like this are--

A crashing, tinkling sound, as if from very far away. Jamie’s eyes go dizzy, her hand fumbling for purchase on the bar to stay upright. Glass rains down out of her hair as she gives her head a small, aggrieved shake.

A bottle. This fucker has a bottle--well, what remains of it after introducing its length to her skull--in hand, his eyes wild. Jamie stares at him with gray disbelief, blood trickling down the back of her neck.

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” she says thinly, just getting the words out before another man throws himself at the first. Then, a woman, apparently deciding the night has been too dull to stomach. And her friends. Before Jamie knows what’s going on, the world has devolved into the very particular chaos of a bar brawl, people slipping and screaming and slapping at each other with aplomb.

Right, she thinks distantly, too aware of the blood pooling sticky under her collar. Head injury. Maybe time to...

She’s back upstairs, the door double-locked behind her, before anyone notices. Briefly, while pressing a damp cloth to the back of her head and gazing at her nerve-wrackingly gray pallor in the mirror, Jamie considers calling Lord Wingrave and telling him she needs tomorrow off. Imagines how he’d sound, clipped and unyielding, over the phone line.

Of course, she won’t do it. Of course not. This job is important. This flat is important. Everything else?

Everything else is just a reminder of why she’s best left to her own devices.

“So, anyway,” Jamie says, absently patting a foam of bubbles into a small tower. “That’s why I didn’t spend much time in that little pub. If you were curious.”

“Jesus.” Dani can’t quite find something more coherent. “Jesus, didn’t you press charges?”

“For what?” Jamie looks honestly puzzled. “Small town bar, small town life. It happens.”

“You could’ve been concussed!” Dani says, louder than she means to. “You could’ve gone to sleep and never got back up again!”

Jamie reaches up, touches her cheek gently. “Hey. Poppins. Easy. I’m here. Right here.”

Dani realizes the breath is pounding out of her faster than it’s coming back in, a sure sign that she’s about to tip over the precipice of something dark and exhausting. She leans into Jamie’s hand, squeezes her eyes tight.

“Hey.” Jamie’s sitting up, knees squeaking along the bottom of the bath as she shifts. Water drains over the edge of porcelain, soaking into Dani’s skirt, trickling onto the tile. “Hey. With me, yeah?”

She lets herself be folded into Jamie’s arms, finding balance in each deep breath Jamie draws until Dani is able to match her. Jamie is still sopping wet, slippery, and the most stable thing in the room.

“Still here,” Jamie says against her ear. “Bit battered around the edges, but it’s nothing new, is it? You still like me this way, dented packaging and all?”

“Love you,” Dani corrects in a thin gasp. Jamie squeezes tighter.

“Exactly. That scar? It healed up. Like all the rest. It’s just a memory now. Can’t hurt a fly.”

Dani reaches up, combing searching fingers through Jamie’s hair until she finds the spot again. That strange raised bit she must have touched a hundred times, and only just registered. Someone hit Jamie there. Someone hurt Jamie there.

“I’m all right,” Jamie says, enunciating every word right into her ear. “Save for being a bit chilly. I don’t suppose you can help with that...?”

She’s tickling Dani, moving to kiss her neck with sloppy good humor until Dani finally breaks. Even so, for a moment longer, that image holds: Jamie alone, Jamie holding a cloth to her bleeding scalp, Jamie with tears in her eyes and a decision never to care branded on her heart.

“I love you,” Dani repeats, so forcefully, Jamie pulls back to look at her.

“I know, Dani. I love you, too. Now. Hand me a towel, or get in here with me, I’m cold without you.”

The fifth and final scar, Dani doesn’t have to look for. Jamie shows it off herself, wearing an expression Dani remembers all too well from a panic attack, a shrub not quite big enough to hide behind, a mention of just how many times a day the average Bly groundskeeper bursts into tears.

It’s a bad day, and this is Jamie’s way of making her smile again. Jamie, whose body she knows so well now, whose heart she knows even better, who wears her ring and has barely left her side in days.

It’s a bad day. They’re in bed, one of the last places in the world Dani still feels completely safe. All of the mirrors are gone from this room. The pictures on the walls are strategic in placement, making sure Dani can never catch an accidental glimpse of herself--or not--in their glass. This room, where she sleeps with Jamie each night and wakes to Jamie each morning, is a bastion against the monsters.

“Here,” Jamie says. She is, as Dani prefers her, without pants, hair up in a messy tangle, gold band gleaming on her finger. She is also, baffling Dani, holding up the bottom of her left foot.

“What...?”

“This,” Jamie says, “may be the final frontier.”

“Your...foot,” Dani replies slowly, wondering if the increasing bad spots are taking a toll on her memory. Maybe this is a conversation that would make sense, if only she hadn’t spent so much of yesterday in a daze.

“My foot,” Jamie says confidently. “More specifically: this.”

She’s pointing to a spot about midway down the sole of her foot, a spot Dani only just now can see is actually a small three-pronged scar. She frowns.

“What happened there?”

She’s a bit afraid to ask, if she’s honest. Jamie has told her so many stories over the years, and they’ve gotten progressively more intense, progressively more violent. She's not sure her heart could take it if Jamie were to tell her this was from some unexpectedly grievous injury.

“You sure you want to know?” Jamie asks gravely. “It’s quite the story. I mean, really, this is among my best. I’ve saved it just for a night like this one.”

Her mouth is somber, but her eyes are dancing. Dani feels herself smile, just a little.

“Tell me,” she says, settling her head in Jamie’s lap.

Jamie has been working for the Wingrave family for a couple of years, and it’s been better--and worse--than she could have imagined. The land is sprawling and fertile, incredibly eager to grow whatever she plants. Her rose gardens--and they are her gardens, make no mistake--are thriving. Sometimes, she thinks they’re doing better even than the human residents of Bly Manor.

It’s been a rough couple of years, even with the fulfilling nature of the work. She’s met people she can’t help regarding with a deep affection bordering on family: Hannah, and Owen, and Rebecca, and the kids. She’s met some she doesn’t get on with so well: namely, that prick Peter Quint. And things have happened, things no one could guess at or control. Lord and Lady Wingrave, once so kind and generous to her, are gone. Rebecca is gone, too, in a fresher sense. Jamie’s starting to think letting any of these people in was a mistake. People have a way of vanishing.

The plants, though. The plants are lush and green and loving. It’s silly, but Jamie thinks they believe in her more than anyone else ever has.

This middle ground between grieving people and loving the gardens of Bly is where she’s grown most comfortable, and it is that comfort she blames for being surprised when things change one sunny day.

She’s been puttering around the greenhouse for a couple of hours, glad to have the time away from prying eyes and whispering children. Flora and Miles--Flora more than Miles, lately--are charming, even wonderful, for kids, but they’re also under the age of thirteen. Jamie rarely knows what to do with kids that small, save for tossing them over her shoulder and teasing them mercilessly. They make her think of days long gone, of brothers not seen in two decades, and it scratches a strange, painful itch she doesn’t like thinking about.

So, the greenhouse. Quiet, off-set from the main property, a nice place to prepare pots and experiment with seeds. She likes it out here better than anywhere, except maybe the roses.

She especially likes how no one visits her out here. Not even Hannah or Owen, who know her better than most, and therefore understand a person’s need for solitude. No one comes out here at all--which is why, when she raises her eyes and spots a figure passing the window, she almost shouts with surprise.

Blonde, she registers. Blonde, and a sweater in some pastel off-shade of purple, and--

Who the hell...

She’s drifting toward the door, she realizes only when her legs carry her through and out onto the lawn. The woman is walking with Flora, talking to her in a voice that does not carry out to Jamie. The new au pair, she realizes. Rebecca’s replacement. Of course; they were bound to find one eventually.

And something about this one...

She isn’t looking where she’s going. It’s a rookie mistake, especially out here where the ground slopes and there are as many holes dug by rabbits as by Jamie’s own hand, and while she’s gazing after the blonde woman’s retreating form--

--her foot comes down on the upturned teeth of a fallen rake.

The breath whistles out of her through clenched teeth, pain shooting up through the bottom of her foot in radial bursts. She hops for a second, grabbing hold of the greenhouse wall, and grasps her ankle for a better look.

“Son of a,” she hisses. These boots were good, once, but good only lasts so long on a fresh-out-of-prison budget. Three of the four teeth she managed to land on have punched straight through the base of the shoe and into her skin.

“Jesus,” she mutters in mild disbelief. Years without injury on this property, and the first time she deals herself a good one, it’s because she was mooning after some woman she’s never even seen before, Jesus fucking wept.

At least she’s way out here, all on her own. At least there are bandages and a slightly less beloved pair of boots to change into. No one ever has to be the wiser.

“You see?” Jamie makes a grand gesture, wiggling her toes. “My most glorious story yet.”

Dani sits up, mouth working, unable to land on any one expression. “Are...did that really happen?”

“Did I step on a rake like a true goddamn idiot because I’d just caught my first glimpse of one Dani Clayton, you mean?”

“Yes,” Dani says, her throat suddenly dry. Her eyes are itching, tears pulling at the corners. Jamie smiles fondly.

“I did. But I recovered myself marvelously. Bet you didn’t even notice the limp.”

“You weren’t limping,” Dani recalls, remembering in a hot rush how Jamie had strolled into the kitchen that afternoon. She’d looked so at home, so confident. Dani had felt instantly, wildly, as though they’d already done this once before. Like taking a test to which she had all of the answers.

“I was not,” Jamie confirms. “Because I’d already spotted you once and made a fool of myself, and I was not about to pull that trick off again. Did you think I was cool?”

“The coolest,” Dani says, unable to stop the tears from spilling over onto her smile. Jamie pulls her close, kissing her forehead, rubbing comforting shapes into her back.

“Then mission very much accomplished. Want you to know, though, it did hurt like a--”

“Why are you telling me now?” Dani asks from against her chest. Jamie pauses.

“Why am I telling you my deepest, most embarrassing secret?”

Dani nods, sniffling a little. Jamie thinks on it.

“Because,” she says at last, reaching down to tip a finger under Dani’s chin until their eyes meet. “There are some people you don’t want to keep anything from. Some people who have earned rights to every story in your book. That one? That scar? No one knows about that. Just me. And now you.”

It means more than Dani could possibly explain. More than she could clarify, even to herself. Jamie, seeming to understand the hugeness of such a small moment, pulls her close again, kissing her with all the weight of thirteen years finally at home.

Jamie’s body is a map of scars, she thinks sometimes. A map of all the strange little accidents and intricacies of a human experience. Things that have gone wrong, so wrong, in her life as to leave a permanent mark in their wake. They’re on her back, her thigh, her side, her scalp, her foot. A road map of a life lived fully, if not always precisely well.

None, though. None could match this one.

She won’t show it off to anyone. Won’t have an ugly raised bit of flesh where the wound sealed over and made itself whole enough to carry again. Won’t have a cute story of clumsiness or a vicious tale of chivalry to back it up. This kind of scar, she thinks, is different in a way no one could understand unless they bear its ilk themselves.

The letter stays by the bed. Every night, before completing the ritual of Dani’s shirt, Dani’s pillow, Dani’s reflection refusing to show itself in the bath, Jamie picks it up. She had it memorized by the end of the first night back here, alone, pressing as close to Dani’s side of the bed as she’d dared. One night, spent back in their bed with all its pillows and blankets and emptiness.

And then, never again. She reads here, sometimes, remembering the way Dani would lean back against the headboard and watch old movies. She’ll do paperwork among sheets where Dani once lay, sprawled naked and happily asleep. She makes the bed each day as though it had been slept in the night before, rumpling the blankets a little before leaving the apartment so she’ll have something to fix when evening comes around again.

But she doesn’t sleep here. Not without Dani. Not ever.

She stays, instead, on the couch. Turns it to face the front door, with the lock that always seemed to stick with Dani’s key in it, and turned smooth as butter for Jamie. She props that door open with one of her oldest shoes, careless of whether it will still be there in the morning. Dani’s shoes, the heels she hated and the flats she wore everywhere and the sneakers that had started off Jamie’s and been slowly co-opted onto Dani’s side of the closet, stay safely tucked away. If one of those went missing, the price of some desperate thief in the night, Jamie suspects she’d lose her mind trying to track it down.

She stays on the couch, door open just a crack, bathtub full. That first night, she’d thought about just laying down in that bath and letting herself fall asleep. A bad thought. A thought running contrary to Dani’s final word on the subject. That Jamie was, above all else, to keep going without her. That she believed with her whole heart that this was the right answer. That she’d see Jamie again, and Jamie would be able to tell her off then, tell her off, and kiss her blind, and love her endlessly.

But first: this one thing. This one last, hopeful thing. To keep living. To keep going.

The worst thing, Jamie thinks each night, laying with pillows behind her back and her eyes on the door, she’s ever asked of me. Maybe the only bad thing Dani has ever asked of her in almost fifteen years. Dani was never cruel, not once, but sometimes Jamie is still angry with her for this much. For doing exactly the one thing she knew Jamie could not deny her. For asking this kind of oath.

She can’t show this kind of scar to friends at parties, can’t find the words to spin out a pretty story about how it mapped its way onto her body. All she can do is sleep with it each night. Wake with it each morning. Walk with it each day. Sleep. Wake. Walk. And know, deep down, that there is nothing like a scar left by someone like Dani.

Nothing in the world like it.

Sometimes, with her eyes squeezed shut and one of Dani’s shirts against her skin, she thinks she can still feel a hand tracing the spot on her back, that spot just under her shoulder where a small girl once dragged a boiling pot off a lit burner. Sometimes, if she closes her eyes hard enough, if she lets herself drift through the black dots behind her eyelids, she imagines slim fingers finding the raised edges, mapping them with such care, such wondering love.

She wishes Dani could ask after this one, too. She wishes more than anything she could turn a corner and there Dani would be, asking how she missed another one, how she possibly could have one more story to unburden. How would I even explain it, she wonders. How could I even tell this kind of tale?

Maybe she’ll work it out, someday. Maybe. She can’t imagine anyone wanting to hear it. Can’t imagine anyone understanding the kind of print, the kind of wound, the kind of sear one person leaves on another when they’re gone for good. Maybe someday. Maybe Owen would, or Henry. Maybe she could...

But not now. Not yet. The wound is still open, still bleeding, and every day, she finds something new to pick at its edges. A journal Dani bought and only wrote in three times. A sock lost under the couch on laundry day. A package of those silly hair ties Dani liked, the ones Jamie liked to pull gently from her hair until it tumbled in waves around her shoulders.

The place still smells of her. Jamie knows that will change, is nearly wild with horror at the idea of it. She goes to the shop in a daze one day, impulse-buys an entire cart of Dani’s shampoo. Her brand of deodorant. Her perfume, used only on special occasions like birthdays and engagement dinners and when she just wanted to get Jamie into bed for the hell of it.

This is what a scar does, Jamie thinks, staring fixedly into a mirror that stubbornly refuses to show her blonde hair and a wry little grin. This is what a scar is. One that sits in your chest. One that sits here, and tears itself back open every time you think you’re starting to heal. It picks at you. It owns you.

A story for another time, maybe. Another night, maybe.

Right now, Dani is a scar Jamie couldn’t share even if she wanted to. Dani is hers alone to carry.

She sleeps, and she dreams, and from somewhere far, far away, she imagines Dani pressing a kiss against her heart.

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #anyway this is also all karatam's fault so go yell at her for making it happen #I hope you're pleased with yourself. it certainly acted as a great distraction from this extremely stressful day #and now I'm a mess so you're welcome #also I'm sorry in advance to anyone currently in class

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whump-town · 4 years

Text

Psych 101

Defiance • Struggling • Crying

(Warning for language, torture, drugs, and just bad guy things)

The Hotch telling the team he loves them while being forced to shoot Garcia story

Waking up in his pajamas, strapped to a wooden chair, and surrounded by his friends… Reid doesn’t know what’s happening but he knows it’s not good. “Guys,” he whispers, fear creeping up his sternum. He peaks over his shoulder, leaning forward to see down the line of people. Morgan is to his immediate right, beside him his Garcia. On his left, it runs Emily, JJ, and Dave. “Morgan?”

The older agent lifts his head, eyes peeling open slowly. He can feel the sedative still working through his body but as awareness creeps in, his mind clears. “Reid,” he croaks, rubbing his chin against his shoulder-- his bare shoulder. He looks down and frowns when he realizes he’s sitting in boxers he’d worn to bed and nothing else. “Kid?”

“Oh fuck me!”

Reid and Morgan lean forward, catching the eyes of the very pissed Emily Prentiss. Well, it’s not hard to put two and two together here. She’s clearly not pleased about her dressing arrangements either. She’s got a shirt on even if it’s twisted beneath her and showering the ling of her underwear.

She gets over it fairly quickly when she’s able to see everyone. No, not everyone. “Where the hell is--”

They flinch as a sudden light comes on overhead. It’s bright and a broken kind of yellow tint that sinks into everything. More importantly, it puts Hotch right in front of them. He hadn’t been spared in the clothing of choice either. His green boxers are rolled up his thighs, his legs limply splayed out. The white shirt he customarily wears to bed is sitting on the ground at his feet. Having been pulled off to attach the heart monitor leads to his chest.

“Fuck… Hotch?” Emily mumbles. They’re all grappling to take this to the best of their abilities. It’s bad enough they’re tied down but… There are two bags of something clear hanging above Hotch’s head. It’s snaking into the back of his hand and judging from the light trail of drool and just how limp he remains while they sit up and become aware, it’s not good. “This is gonna suck.”

A large door hidden by the shadow of where the light doesn’t go, the UNSUB steps in. “You can say that again, Agent Prentiss.”

The power in the tone and statement are fairly lost as Garcia comes in, held by her elbow in the UNSUBs tight grip. “Honestly, your professionalism sucks complete--” Garcia stops when she sees them. She pales and her gaze nervously shifts between them until it lands on Hotch. A wall comes down and she scowls at the UNSUB. “If you’ve touched a hair on my bossman’s head, I’ll--”

The UNSUB pulls a gun from behind him, tucked into the back of his pants, releasing Garcia and stepping to Hotch. He presses the metal to Hotch’s temple, pushing Hotch’s head upright and smiling when Hotch remains limp and leaning into the metal. He smiles, “you’ll what? Huh? You’ll kill me?” He grips Hotch by his dark hair, lifting his head and making sure the other’s can see. “You can try but it won’t be before I kill him.”

He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he releases Hotch.

They wince when Hotch’s head falls back and cracks against the table behind him. A sickening crack filling the air before Hotch breathlessly grunts in pain.

“Sit down,” the UNSUB points to a spare chair. It’s like he isn’t even bothered with her. He doesn’t say a word or even give her anything to bind herself to the chair with. His first and fatal mistake.

The UNSUB goes the tray pushed up against Hotch’s chair. It’s a sophisticated setup and surely someone’s noticed this equipment is missing. It helps that he has to be trained for some of this. So many bread crumbs… someone has to catch on.

From her spot Emily can see everything the UNSUB is doing. Watching him produce a needle and a bottle of medicine, her heart leaps. “Hey!” Emily shouts, her mind reeling as the UNSUB draws the clear liquid into the syringe. “What are you doing,” she kicks out at her chair. She’s not sure what that is or who he’s going to give it to but she knows it’s not good.

The UNSUB’s face darkens but he doesn’t look up from what he’s doing. “I’d stop all that nonsense, Emily.” He glances up at her, “one too many milligrams of this stuff and I’ll stop his heart. Now,” he says, “we wouldn’t want me to miss calculate would we?” He smiles when Emily stops. He pulls the syringe out and presses it into the port on Hotch’s hand. “Wakey, wakey Aaron.”

They all watch in silent horror as the medicine takes effect.

Hotch groans, shifting as he grows more and more uncomfortable. The heart monitor doesn’t sound off through the room but that doesn’t mean they can’t watch Hotch’s heart rate get dangerously high. His hands tremble where they remain in the binds, his face pinching in pain. He makes a soft choked noise and his chest stops rising with his breathes. His head falls limply to the right.

Dave curses in Italian, the sound of his deep voice enough to make the other’s flinch. “You bastard! You’ll kill him!” Dave falls silent as Hotch’s eyes crack open, his pale chest heaving as a thin layer of sweat spreads over his skin. “His vascular system is compromised! He can’t take too much stress,” Dave says, much of his previous fight gone as just how off Hotch looks. “His heart can’t take it. You’ll kill him.”

The UNSUB disregards Dave entirely. He steps up to Hotch, cupping his cheek and directing Hotch’s empty gaze to himself. “Are you with us, Aaron?” His cheek is cold and damp against the UNSUB’s palm. His bloodshot eyes are far off and unfocused.

Hotch feels a million miles away from his body. Through half-lidded eyes, he can see Reid. He feels an instant relief as he slowly recognizes each person before him. The team’s here, he sighs, everything’s okay.

“Aaron,” the UNSUBS calls again. Slowly Hotch’s eyes move over and look at him. “There you are. How do you feel?”

Hotch shivers, trembling as his body works through the drugs in his system. He’s not present. His mind is clouded by the number of drugs in his system. What he knows is that he can see the team before him and the man beside him is his therapist: John. While his heart beats so fast that it makes his chest ache and his body feel eerily cold, he trusts John and the team.

“My mouth’s dry,” he slurs softly. He struggles to bite down against the need to whine out the statement. To make it clear just how uncomfortable and poorly he feels.

The UNSUB nods his head and steps back, grabbing a bottle of water and carefully moving it to Hotch’s pale, chapped lips.

The whole display-- the soft, nearly kind way that the UNSUB is treating Hotch is startling. It’s even more unsettling.

“Look at your team, Aaron.”

Hotch’s heavy eyes move over to them. He’s told John a lot about them.

John smiles at the team, eyes moving over them one by one. “I want you to tell them how you feel,” John directs. “Tell them the truth,” John whispers, a malicious grin spreading across his lips. “Tell them how much you hate them. How you hate the team and everything they stand for.”

Hotch’s face pinches in confusion. He shakes his head. “No,” he groans, weakly pulling at the ropes keeping his arms securely bound to the chair he’s occupying. He lets out a soft sob, unable to control his emotions with the pain and exhaustion wearing him down. The drugs doing their job. Something has to be wrong. “I don’t hate them.” He shakes his head, voice cracking, “don’t. I don’t.”

The UNSUB grabs him by the back of the hair, jerking his head back.

Hotch lets out a soft whimper when the back of his sore head hits the chair. Tears flow over his cheeks, his confusion evident in the clear fear in his eyes as he looks at John. “Please,” he rasps.

Seeing Hotch’s tears, Morgan’s anger overflows. “Son of a bitch,” Morgan curses, hitting his hand against the arm of his chair. “Leave him alone!”

The UNSUB points the gun at Morgan, a silent threat. The two holding eye contact until Morgan bites his tongue and averts his eyes.

John turns his head back to Hotch. “Yes, you do, Aaron,” he croons. He trails the gun down Hotch’s naked chest. “They left you after Foyet,” he reminds Hotch. “They let Haley die.” He pushes the gun against one of the scars on Hotch’s chest. One left by Foyet. “Tell them, Aaron.” His temper is making itself known as he digs the gun’s tip into Hotch’s side until he grunts. “Tell them how you hate them!”

Hotch can’t manage to force any words out. He just weakly shakes his head, crying. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. It’s all too much. He’s cold and he doesn’t feel well and he doesn’t understand why no one’s helping.

“Tell them!” The UNSUB shouts. He draws back and hits Hotch across the face. He’s quick to move, aiming the gun back at the team when there’s a unanimous wave of outbursts.

Dave’s voice cuts clear the best. “Listen,” his voice wavers. His eyes are darting between Hotch and John. “Why are you doing this? You’re clearly upset. What---”

The UNSUB points the gun at Dave, deep voice burning in his chest as he grits out, “don’t.” He steps away from Hotch, attention diverted. “He needs to say. He needs to admit it or he’ll never get better!” His entire body shakes as he bites out that last word, making them jump back.

He shouts in fury, throwing his head back. “Fine,” he comes back down and looks down at them. “I’ll do it myself.”

Walking over to Hotch he carelessly rips a knife through the zip ties holding his bleeding wrist down. With a sharp pull that rips the IV from Hotch’s hand, Hotch let’s out a stifled shout. “Up,” he commands, pulling Hotch onto his feet with a rough arm looped under Hotch’s shoulder. They stand in front of the others for a moment. Hotch sways and leans into John, too weak to hold himself upright. John takes his time moving his gun down the line until he settles on Garcia and with a smile says, “come here.”

Garcia stands, looking to the others for some guidance. She’s choking back a sob when Morgan starts to thrash, hitting and making as much noise as possible. “No!” He cries, “no, baby girl. Come back here. Sit down! Don’t go to him! You stupid son of a bitch, if you hurt her I’ll kill you!”

The UNSUB it too delighted with his new plan to ever validate Morgan when a response. “Kill her,” John whispers, taking Hotch’s weak shaking hand into his own. He wraps Hotch’s long fingers around the hold, guiding it upright so Garcia’s at the end. “Go ahead, Aaron.”

Hotch can’t even hold his arms up. His body screams in agony as he stands and he wants to pull away but he can’t. He doesn’t know what to do.

Garcia sobs. “Oh please, sir.” She can’t even bother to wipe away the mascara running down her face. “I love you, Hotch. I’m your friend.”

Hotch’s knees give out from beneath him. John wraps his arm around Hotch’s hip and holds him upright. A single tear falls down Hotch’s cheek, as he wracks his mind for what to do. The obvious choice is to shoot Garcia. He thinks. Shooting Garcia… no, that’s wrong. He’d hurt and he doesn’t want to hurt Garcia. She’s never hurt a soul in her life.

With a shaky sigh, he knows what to do. He pulls in a breath and pushes with all his strength up onto his legs. Arching his back he throws John off and from there’s practiced ease. Two shots mid-center.

“Hotch!”

The world spins as he remains in place, his head blurring. His eyes have already rolled into the back of his head before his body hits the ground. Body pushed past its breaking point, the cocktail of messy drugs in his system, and hurting he starts to seize.

Garcia struggles to get them out of the chairs, torn between Hotch and the team. The team she needs fast access to. Besides while seizing she really shouldn’t touch Hotch to much. Pushing into the rescue position she has to leave him to get the others.

“Time,” Emily calls out to Reid.

“Fifty-four seconds. On average, most acute seizures stop at this point.”

But Hotch’s doesn’t.

The first thing that Dave does when he’s free is lift Hotch’s head from the floor and place it in his lap. Working his hands through Hotch’s cold-sweat soaked hair, he whispers to him in Italian. Soothing him through it. “That’s my boy,” he says, his own eyes tearing up as Hotch whimpers and cries. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

“One minute, thirty-seven seconds.”

Hotch’s seizure stops exactly thirteen seconds later.

Gently patting at his cheek, JJ leans over his shoulder and calls his name. Trying to rouse him. “Hotch,” she calls.

Emily leans down, roughly pushing at his cheek. “Get up, Hotch. You’re not quitting on us yet.”

Hotch groans, moving his head away from her hand. “Not,” he grumbles, opening two bloodshot eyes and shooting her the best scowl she can manage at the moment. He looks around at the other’s gathered around him. Each going through a different stage of working off their anxiety. Morgan is sitting back on his thighs, rubbing two hands down his face and Dave is mumbling a prayer to himself.

“Don’t hate you,” he croaks, softly.

JJ reaches down, soothing the tear that runs down his cheek. “We know,” she promises.

He turns his head into her palm. His body feels so heavy and he knows it’s the drugs. “ ‘s good.” But he’s struggling to fight his exhaustion.

JJ presses a kiss to the top of his head. “We love you too.”

Hotch feels his left hand being squeezed gentle before several other voices softly agree. His eyes move around the room until he spots Garcia. With a small grunt, he manages to move his head better to see her. “Sorry if I scared you,” he whispers, throat raw and body rapidly shutting down.

Garcia steps closer to him and he can feel her hand on his, squeezing. “Don’t be silly,” she says. “I have complete trust in you, sir.”

Hotch smirks. Unable to keep his eyes open any longer with Dave’s hand resuming its soothing trip through his hair and Emily and Garcia’s tight grips on his hand. He caves to the drugs and falls into the painless heat. Trusting that when he wakes up he’ll be home.

#criminal minds #criminal minds fanfiction #aaron hotchner #david rossi #penelope garcia #jennifer jareau #jennifer jareua #derek morgan #spencer reid #emily prentiss #whumptowninwhumptober #hotch whump

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comradekatara · 4 years

Note

okay gaang + fiona apple if people haven't asked yet, i live for ms fiona 🥺

as u wish!!!!! (lol)

aang: the child is gone, better version of me, relay

katara: carrion, on the bound, paper bag, a mistake, tymps (the sick in the head song), daredevil, regret

zuko: pale september, the way things are, extraordinary machine, please please please, i want you to love me, newspaper

sokka: o’ sailor, window, jonathan, shameika, on i go

toph: sleep to dream, limp, under the table

suki: i know, anything we want

azula: every single night, left alone, werewolf

ty lee: fast as you can, periphery, fetch the bolt cutters

mai: sullen girl, the first taste, to your love, get gone, parting gift, red red red, not about love, heavy balloon, cosmonauts, drumset

yue: slow like honey, ladies

iroh: waltz (better than fine)

#the gaang and #synthesis #asks #rangisgf #ofc mai katara and zuko have the most songs...#dramatic bitches..... full of Feelings #thank u for asking #usually i get so many asks i dont know what to do w them but ur the only person who asked!!!#i guess its bc its early so there arent many ppl online #shrug #atlamusic

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samstree · 3 years

Text

You are too well tangled in my soul (2/4)

Inspired by The Time-Traveler's Wife.

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Geralt is a time-traveler, and Jaskier falls in love in a slightly misplaced order.

Warnings: referenced child abuse and mentions of chronic pain

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Calling the Witcher ‘old friend’ at the tavern was probably a mistake. The Geralt walking in front of Jaskier looks exactly the same as he remembers: golden eyes and rugged jawline. And yet, this is the furthest Jaskier has ever felt from him ever since the first sunset at the lake.

There is no warmth to greet him, no knowing smile or softness, only indifference that bleeds into annoyance. The gut-punch is as loud a declaration as it gets. This Geralt is the youngest Jaskier has ever seen him, hardened with weary travels and open night skies, and yet seasoned enough to have settled into distrust and isolation.

As they trudge through Dol Blathanna, the notebook filled with their encounters sits in Jaskier’s pocket, every date recorded with the utmost carefulness, burning a hole onto his mind. How does he explain it? How does he explain that he’s been friends with the Witcher for eight years while he only glares at Jaskier with derision? No, that is too unfair.

Besides, even if he dumps it all out, Geralt is unlikely to just…transform into the person in Jaskier’s memory. This Witcher is not the ever-present friend of Jaskier’s childhood, not yet. He knows better than most that you can’t force people into becoming someone they are not.

Jaskier leaves the notebook at the bottom of his pack.

At the edge of the world, he witnesses the heartbreaks of an elf king. The second-hand stories he knows by heart now pale in comparison. A taste of the real world, of the real pain humans have been ignoring is all it takes for Jaskier to be sure of his path. He is a storyteller. Destiny has decided that when it brought the amber eyes into his life at the age of eleven, so he tells the story. He writes the song.

Jaskier starts following Geralt.

They settle into a routine: monsters, songs, and nothing more. There are no mythical powers that can bring his best friend to him anymore, only the newly acquainted Wolf Witcher who now tolerates him with glowers.

It shouldn’t sting when Jaskier sings their adventures at taverns and Geralt only grunts as feedback. It shouldn’t sting when his chatter is only answered with silence or an absent-minded hum. It shouldn’t sting when Geralt flinches upon hearing Jaskier refer to him as friend while begging to see the hunt himself.

“We are not friends, Jaskier.”

It shouldn’t because it is where their story begins, properly this time. And yet it does.

Seasons pass. Jaskier cannot stop searching for recognition in those amber eyes. Nothing comes up. Still, he searches.

Geralt notices.

Of course. As subtle as Jaskier would like to believe he is, his companion is too perceptive. We can tell by the heartbeat when someone is lying or hiding something. He learned this long ago by the lakeside, when Geralt indulged his curiosity by debunking all the Witcher myths. No, Julian. We cannot read minds.

His excitement that day reflected in the Witcher’s eyes that were amused by a child’s wonderment.

Can he tell what Jaskier is hiding now?

Jaskier stares long at his form on Roach when a throw-away comment from the Witcher brings him right back to the lake, all the words stuck at his throat.

“You’ve been quiet, bard.”

“What? Miss my lovely voice?”

“Glad for the silence.” Geralt drops it, but his gaze lingers for a moment.

At night, Jaskier helps the Witcher remove his armours, a newly formed habit as their travels settle into a familiar rhythm. His fingers untie the complicated knots. Geralt’s breaths brush by his ear.

A warm hand comes up to steady Jaskier by the elbow, the thumb drawing small circles on his chemise. It’s a comfort that he has received so many times before, a reassurance that he can trace by heart. And yet, Geralt is unaware.

Jaskier’s breath hitches in his chest, his heartbeat suddenly rabbiting.

“Alright?”

He cannot acknowledge the concern, scared that more will be revealed. Muttering something about being late, he fumbles away to his bedroll and burrows deep. As the churning in his mind subsides, Jaskier falls asleep hoping that it never comes up again.

It comes up again.

They sit by the glowing campfire, Geralt having just returned from a hunt in the forest. Despite the Witcher’s reluctance, Jaskier nudges him to spill the details and takes them down for new songs. The scratching of his quill fills Geralt’s contemplative pauses.

“This is all very good, Geralt. It’d make a great song. But what was the wyvern like? Come on, help me paint the picture.”

“It was…big, and green.”

Jaskier chuckles, his quill hovering mid-air. So many times before has Geralt only described a monster as ‘big’ or ‘fast’, even the older, more mature Witcher he met in his teenage years sometimes struggled with more adjectives. Being the curious child he was, Jaskier pestered incessantly for more during their short encounters. At night, he would lie in bed, playing out the scene in his head, clashes of magic and steel lulling him into sleep. Now, almost a decade later, he sits in the exact same spot in front of the Witcher, desperate to learn anything from a quest, just to be stunted by Geralt’s inability to form words.

“Some things never change.”

Jaskier smiles to himself and continues to fill in the blanks with more theatrical touches. A song does not become the greatest hit on the Continent just with plain facts and verbs. Chewing on the quill, he barely notices that Geralt’s posture has stiffened.

“Why do you say that?”

“What?” Still distracted with composing a melody for the words, Jaskier looks up at Geralt, whose expression now full of alert.

“What never changes?”

“Um…Just you?” Jaskier stammers, “Stingy on the details, as usual.”

“It’s not just today.” Geralt scowls and stands, pacing around camp irritated. “You talk as if… as if you know me a great deal, Jaskier. You look at me as if you see an old friend. You were familiar with me from the very first day. You didn’t run away in fear like so many others.”

Oh well, subtlety is not exactly Jaskier’s forte.

“You know me,” He tries to gloss it over. “the ever so friendly bard.”

Geralt considers him skeptically. Under the intense scrutiny, Jaskier swallows a lump in his throat. The Witcher finally relents.

“Whatever you see in me, bard,” Geralt lets out a resigned sigh, “it’s not there. So stop looking.”

It’s too late for that, Jaskier thinks. Or too early.

“I mean, why can’t I just tell you everything?”

Geralt walks beside Jaskier, his hair in a simple pony. A long scar runs down his left eye, barely missing it.

That one’s new.

It’s so jarring that Jaskier cannot stop staring at it from time to time. Added with the well-trimmed beard, framing his rugged face, Jaskier is almost looking at someone else. Witchers don’t age like the rest of them do, but the years are clearly showing on Geralt’s face, giving him more gravitas. The White Wolf, indeed.

He has a slight limp in one of his legs, also something new. The breastplate of his armour is worn and beat after what looks like decades of use.

A strange sight. Jaskier has only witnessed the man’s younger counterpart buy the same plate a week ago at a market in Cidaris, brand new and shiny. It was right before Jaskier decided to stay and perform at the local court and Geralt traveled on by himself.

The small garden behind the main hall is where he has found the older Witcher, who embraced Jaskier immediately without a beat. It is when Jaskier breathes in the familiar pine and leather that he realizes how much he’s missed his old friend, even though he’s been traveling with the same person for the past year.

Keeping the secret has taken a toll on Jaskier, as he only notices now that he is completely relaxed. He desperately wishes to unload it.

“You are going to know anyway. When you inevitably end up in Lettenhove, pimpled teenage me in front of you.”

“Jask,” The endearment comes out of the older Witcher so naturally, his voice deep and rich as wine. “You have seen me in my younger days. I was quite…let’s say, untrusting. I was determined to be alone. Telling me that destiny has bound me to a bard with no self-preservation instincts would only send me running away screaming.”

Jaskier teases, “Now that’s something I’d like to see. The mighty Witcher running and screaming because of a bard.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smiles in return, “There are things that we have to experience for ourselves. Just wait a bit longer. I’m unlikely to be pulled away when we are together. It’ll have to be when we part ways. As I said, it’s like a homing beacon.”

An anchor.

“And now, you are only here when Geralt is gone. I mean, you. The younger you.” Jaskier muses, “Destiny has a way of keeping you from running into yourself. Hah! Probably a good idea. Imagine the brooding doubled.”

Geralt stays oddly silent and guides them both to sit on one of the benches, his knee stiff and slow to bend. It slipped Jaskier’s notice that now there is a sheen of sweat on Geralt’s forehead, his brows furrowing in pain. He starts rubbing at the knee with a wince, breathing through the discomfort. His right elbow also creaks like an old ship, followed by a pained gasp.

With the fast healing, it must be a particularly bad injury for it to affect Geralt this much. Jaskier rubs his hands together to warm them up and places them on the Witcher’s elbow, slowly massaging it to ease out the tension. He’s quite unsure of his touches but judging from Geralt’s gradually relaxing posture, it is working nonetheless.

“What kind of beast hurt you like this? Can I warn you when the day comes?” Jaskier’s worry clenches in his chest. After a moment, Geralt places his larger hand on top of Jaskier’s, an unvoiced thanks. So Jaskier lets go.

They are sitting too closely together. Jaskier can see the tiny scars on Geralt’s face, thin lines that disappear into the thick beard. Leather and pine, the most reassuring scents in the world, overwhelm his senses and draw him closer.

“I wish we could take away all the hurt that will happen.” Geralt says with regret, “But no, Jask, I’d rather not. Some things need to happen for us both to be here today. Not to mentions many others.”

“I can just warn you about this one thing.”

Geralt’s gaze meets Jaskier’s, the long scar prominent. “Some things are too important to risk. I now have people who are dear to me. They – they’ve all come a long way. I wouldn’t change it for the world if it means they are safe. Even if I have to go through this.” He rubs at his knee again.

The wight behind the words settles in Jaskier’s chest.

The Geralt he has been traveling with is so determined on isolation and detachment, rejecting even simple friendship. He cares, in his own silent, brooding way. Jaskier sees it when he refuses payment from people who are struggling to make ends meet. He sees it when he buys Jaskier new boots when a pair has worn out. And He sees it when Roach’s coat is always kept pristine when the Witcher cannot afford new clothing for himself.

But the man in front of Jaskier speaks of people in his life with love and openness, all his rough edges softened and smoothed. Whatever happened in the years in between, Jaskier is eager to learn.

“You are a self-sacrificing idiot as usual.” He jokes.

The adoration in Jaskier’s heart unfurls into something more, something he does not dare to name. The same something, he realizes, is the gravity behind Geralt’s golden eyes that he’s been unable to name.

Jaskier is twenty-four when Geralt finds out.

He has just spent a winter at Oxenfurt after being offered a teaching post while Geralt returned to Kaer Morhen as usual. The job is exciting and the students cannot be more pleasant. Adding the occasional visits from Essi and Shani, Jaskier doesn’t have many complaints.

And if he lingers too long in the greenhouse, standing wishfully for something to happen, that’s no one else’s business.

Usually Jaskier waits until the ground begins to thaw before departing for Kaedwen, where he will continue to roam and perform in major cities and possibly run into Geralt. Their shared journeys are never planned and they never agreed upon any meeting places, but somehow the bard can always find the Witcher in the springtime, so that they may resume their on-and-off travels.

This spring, however, an unexpected cold spell hits Oxenfurt after buds have sprouted from bald branches. A blanket of snow covers the cobblestone streets overnight, driving students and staff alike indoors with sniffles and shudders.

Jaskier is intending to retreat into his bedroom with a cup of steaming ginger tea, when he hears of two professors talking about the famous White Wolf being stopped at the city gate. Perplexed, he puts on a heavy coat and walks across town, blowing at his frozen fingers to desperately warm them up.

Geralt never seeks him out when the season turns, despite Jaskier’s attempt at hinting at his wintering plans multiple times every fall. If the Witcher is here this early in the spring, he must have left the Blue Mountains when the howling wind of winter was still raging. Traveling across the continent in the cold cannot be easy even for the Witcher, especially when contracts are still scarce.

Jaskier’s boots crunch the snow beneath them, his vision filled with the clear, grey sky and snowflakes scatted in the air. Outside the city gate, a tall, cloaked figure is being told off by a guard. A chestnut mare waits loyally in the distance.

Geralt is right there, snowflakes peppering his dark cloak. His complexion is sour as ever.

Gods, Jaskier has missed him.

“Geralt! What brings you here?” Jaskier shouts to get his attention and jogs on the slippery road to embrace the Witcher. The hug is brief and impersonal, and when he steps back the misery is still present.

“Aren’t you happy to see your best friend? After all, you’re the one who traveled in this sodding weather just to see me.”

Jaskier expects a rebuttal of the claim ‘best friend’, but it never comes. The Witcher’s comprehension is mixed with travel-weary, souring him even further.

“I have something of great importance to discuss with you, Jaskier.” Geralt gestures to the guard. “But this man won’t let me into the city.”

Jaskier turns to the guard and explains that the Witcher is an esteemed guest of the university, before they are both let in with Roach in tow.

The walk to Jaskier’s lodging is silent with a tension in the air. The Witcher looks tired, disheveled from the wind and cold. Jaskier will warm them both up with a fire and ginger tea then.

“So,” Jaskier tries to make conversation, “Before we discuss the thing of ‘great importance’, how was Kaer Morhen? You know, the mythical Witcher keep nobody knows anything about.”

“It was…fine.”

“Masterful conversationalist as ever.” Jaskier takes in the curt response and fills the silence with stories of his winter at the university. He chuckles at the funny bits himself when Geralt seems deep in thoughts the entire time.

Once they have put Roach in the university’s stable and entered Jaskier’s warm bedroom, the tension can be cut by a knife. An inexplicable nervousness bobbles up in Jaskier’s throat as Geralt puts down his pack by the door and begins to speak.

“Jaskier –”

“Before you say anything,” he interrupts, pulling out a bottle of wine and two glasses. It seems that ginger tea might not be enough to get him through this conversation. “We should warm up a little. Can you believe the weather!”

He puts one glass on the table near Geralt and downs the other in one go.

“Jaskier,” Geralt reasserts himself, the golden eyes determined. “Why didn’t you tell me you’ve met me before?”

Jaskier studies his glass as if it is the most interesting thing in the world. The Witcher continues.

“There was a lake, in the woods. You were young, and you…you greeted me by name. You knew me.” Geralt’s brows scrunch up in confusion. “You knew me before we met.”

“Um…yes?” Jaskier grimaces.

“Why haven’t you told me before? Damn it, Jaskier. You knew this whole time that I –”

“That you can magically time travel to my childhood?” Jaskier puts down his empty glass next to Geralt’s untouched one. “What was I supposed to say back then, Geralt? ‘Hello, you don’t know me but I know everything about you. And that includes your secret power because I’ve met you twenty times before –’”

“Twenty times?”

“Well I haven’t counted in a while so I could be off.”

Geralt sighs, palming his face. They both look away. The weighted silence in the room is only interrupted by the occasional crackling in the fireplace.

“Twenty times.” Geralt mutters to himself. “How – why?”

Jaskier tries, “You told me yourself. Your powers have this…pull. It’s like –”

“Gravity.”

“It pulls you to certain places or certain people.” Jaskier vaguely gestures around himself.

Realization dawns on Geralt’s face.

“That’s why you followed me. That’s why you weren’t scared of me, why you look at me…” He trails off. “Because destiny already forced me into your life.”

Geralt’s features morph into a stoic resignation, something Jaskier is too familiar with. It’s what Geralt looks like when someone chases him out of an inn or throws things at him, or when mothers yell at their children to get away from him.

No. Jaskier won’t allow it now.

“No,” His voice is desperate, “It was because you were my best friend. You are my best friend. You were there for me by the lake when no one else was. I followed you because you are kind and brave –”

“Because destiny already decided for you.”

“No –”

“Gods, Jaskier. You were so young. You shouldn’t be bound to me by something I cannot even control.”

Jaskier takes in a shuddering breath. “It’s too late for that.”

He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt, who looks so guilty through Jaskier’s blurred vision. He feels weak and hollow.

The conversation continues but Jaskier pays no attention. Geralt says something about traveling separately for a while and begins to leave. Golden eyes meet Jaskier one last time before the door clicks shut.

Running away while screaming indeed.

Sagging into a chair, Jaskier remembers the worn-out notebook sitting on the shelf, untouched.

Once again, Jaskier is left alone, his best friend disappearing right in front of his eyes.

Jaskier tries to find Geralt but always falls a step behind.

He travels and plays, pleasing tavern audiences so he may get a place to sleep. He asks about the white-haired Witcher everywhere he goes, hoping he can catch up with him just like so many other times. But the Witcher is gone whenever Jaskier sets foot into a town, as if sensing his presence.

“Isn’t that your Witcher? The one from your songs?”

Jaskier tries not to wince.

“He was here days ago, but I heard he left for Novigrad.” The innkeeper says in confusion, “Why aren’t you with him?”

Putting on a bright smile, Jaskier answers, “Even the most talented artist cannot stay with his muse at all times. Lest the creativity runs dry too soon.”

He sets out for Novigrad, but never reaches it.

Jaskier does not see the bandits coming, nor is he capable of fending off all five of them. The dagger he hides in his boot and the sword fighting lessons that tutors once forced upon him can only do so much against these fully armed men.

After stabbing one of them in the shoulder, causing the man to yell and cuss, Jaskier is knocked out from behind.

Jaskier wakes up flung across the back of a dark horse. The pain at the back of his head throbs with every step it takes, the moving ground makes bile rise in his throat. The men talk about ransom from the Count de Lettenhove for his only son.

Oh, dear.

There is no way to tell how they learned, since Jaskier is gagged and tied to a tree when they set camp. He doubts his kidnappers are willing to indulge his curiosity anyway. A growl comes from his stomach. The fire and roasted dinner warm in the distance but clearly these men are not the sharing type.

Frustrated, Jaskier dozes off as night falls, listening to their constant chatter about how to spend the ransom. Too bad for them, Jaskier thinks half-asleep, they are not getting any money. Father will probably thank them for stopping the family embarrassment from tarnishing the Pankratz name any further.

Jaskier wakes up again, to the sound of yelling and weapons clash.

Bodies are flung across the campsite; his captors scream in pain and scatter. The startles horses gallop away with some of them on top. A flash of black and silver moves with an elegance that can inspire songs after songs.

A hand comes to remove the gag in Jaskier’s mouth and continues to undo the ropes around his wrists. Concern sparks in the gold, the softness overlapping with Jaskier’s distant memories. He should greet an old friend, or it’ll seem rude –

“Julian,” Geralt says, “That’s a terrible name for you.”

Jaskier blinks. Now Geralt is reaching to untie the knot behind Jaskier, their breaths only inches away. No scar. These are the same eyes that left him in Oxenfurt months ago, with the click of a door.

Not an old friend, then.

“That’s why I changed it.” The rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists sting when he tries to flex them. He states the obvious, “I see my Witcher in shining armor has come back to save me, again.”

“It’s like you are looking for trouble, bard.”

“Not like it was my fault.” Well, only a little bit his fault.

“Hmm.”

“I was looking for you.”

“I know.”

Of course, he was avoiding Jaskier on purpose.

“Why did you have a change of heart then? Missed my charming personalities?” Jaskier intends a joke, but the old name reminds him. “Wait. You were at the lake again?”

Geralt hums as Jaskier gets up to rummage through what his kidnappers left. Thank the gods they thought his lute and bags might be worth something and didn’t chuck them in a ditch.

Neither the lute case nor the instrument inside received much damage, to Jaskier’s relief. He should check for his bags as well –

“You kept asking when I would be back.”

Jaskier pauses. “And you couldn’t answer.”

“You asked me not to leave. You cried.”

Yes, he desperately grasped for any semblance of certainty as a child, and when he couldn’t get it young Julian spiraled into a panic, begging the Witcher not to leave. He remembers trying to hold back the tears but it came out with snot and hiccups. The embarrassment is still fresh after a decade.

“Well, there’s no need to remind me.”

“No, I –” Geralt struggles with words, “You said you kept records for me. I don’t want to disappoint you again, if I go back there. When I go back.”

The leather-bound notebook is still sitting at the bottom of Jaskier’s bag. He can feel the shape of it through the fabric. It is what Geralt came back for, just so he can have an answer for that child, so he will not disappoint him next time.

“That’s sweet.”

“Jaskier. I would never choose to entangle your life with mine, a Witcher’s. It’s –” Geralt breathes, “You were so young.”

So he said, months ago. Jaskier digs into the bag and retrieves the notebook, walks up to Geralt, and presses it on his chest. Geralt catches it, his gaze never leaving Jaskier’s.

“I wrote down the dates after each of your visits. All you need should be in there.” Jaskier suddenly notices how tired and hungry he is, the headache flaring up once he’s upright. He sways as a clink of metal hits the ground and Geralt’s strong hand steadies him at the elbow. “Oh, thanks.”

Geralt only hums, but his amber eyes keep studying Jaskier.

“You said you didn’t want me bound to your life.” Jaskier tries again, “But Geralt, you were the best part of my childhood. You were the reason I could leave that wretched place. You were the only person who saw me when no one paid any attention. I – I cannot imagine my life if you weren’t in it, if you hadn’t shown up by that lake in Lettenhove. So please…don’t turn away from me.”

He’s begging again, just like ten years ago. He’s begging for the little boy waiting by the water. He’s begging for himself now. It doesn’t matter that it’s embarrassing because after a beat, Geralt nods.

“Okay.”

“What?”

“I said okay,” Geralt’s expression sags with softness. “I – You were so excited to see me. You asked about my hunts. And Jaskier, you were so unhappy in your own home, but my stories – There was a spark in your eyes when you listened to them.”

Jaskier’s breath hitches. He looks into the sunlight gold boring into his with warmth.

“Does that mean you’ll stop running from me?”

“I would never want to snuff it out. That spark.” Geralt sounds apologetic, “I see now that you decided this life by yourself. Travelling and adventures. They suit you well, Jaskier. So yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Because there is a boy in Lettenhove, and he really, really looks forward to seeing you. In fact, he is counting the days right now, for your next return.”

Geralt chuckles, “That’s not how this works.”

“You know what I mean.”

Jaskier grins in return, patting the Witcher on the arm. Geralt looks at the notebook in his hand and says solemnly, “I won’t disappoint him again.”

The door of their shared inn room creaks open and it sounds like a bag of coin is dropped on the table.

“Ah. I see you collected payment for the Griffin.” Jaskier looks up from the music sheets spread out on the bed.

“I was at the lake with you.”

Jaskier feels a big grin spread across his face.

“You made me tell you about the hunt.” Geralt says.

“Yes, I remember. And I composed my very first Witcher song two days later. Well, only in my head and it lacked a bit polish, but you know, I was eleven.”

“Does that mean I’m spared now?”

“Yes, my dear. You may be spared of recounting your mighty battles for now. I still remember it quite vividly. Did you tell me you bit feathers off its wing and choked?”

“Fuck off, bard.”

Jaskier chuckles and gets back to his composing. It might be time to revisit an old song yet.

“I was at the lake with you.”

“When?”

“Last month, when we were apart.”

“No, when for me?”

Geralt looks down at Jaskier, who is lying in the meadow of wildflowers next to the Witcher’s crossed legs, trying and failing to braid a flower crown of dandelions. The afternoon heat is relentless, drenching them both in sweat before they have to take a break.

Tall shrubs cast down a cool shade where they are sitting, shielding away the scorch. Roach is nibbling at some flowers in the distance, the same flowers that Jaskier cannot seem to bend into shape without crushing.

“You were…older.” Geralt says after considering, “You braided flowers into my hair.”

“Oh yeah. That day. Can I do it now?”

“You are not a child anymore.”

“No, but this is not working.” Jaskier throws away the dandelions that are now in pieces, pouting. He lies back on the grass, inhaling the fresh smell of grass and letting the breeze cool him down a little. Above him, Geralt looks refreshed after a short meditation.

“You were getting restless. In your own home, about your own future. You kept asking me if you were going to leave Lettenhove.”

“And you distracted me by letting me braid your hair. I totally forgot about pestering you for the rest of the day.”

“It worked.”

“Hmm.” Jaskier is almost impressed.

Geralt pauses for a moment. “You were so unhappy, Jaskier. You couldn’t see a future for yourself.”

“Well, that’s why I left. It’s all fine now. I’m living my best life with my favorite time traveler. Don’t worry, dear.” With his forearm placed on his eyes, Jaskier is completely relaxed.

“Should I have told you, just so you had an idea?”

Sometimes Jaskier still thinks about his childhood in Lettenhove, how miserable he was under all the expectations that he was never going to meet. No, he couldn’t see a future for himself as the Viscount, neither did his father, as the falling of canes and sticks proved. Sometimes Jaskier still wakes up from nightmares rehashing those beatings.

Would it have been better if his younger self had known what the future had in store?

“No,” He says, “Don’t tell me anything. What I went through put me here. It made me what I am. Telling me the future might change things, and I would never take that risk.”

“Hmm.” Geralt sounds apprehensive. “I’ll have to keep you in the dark.”

Sitting up, Jaskier places a hand on Geralt’s knee, the one that’s going to retain an injury that doesn’t heal well, the one that’s going to creak and spasm on a rainy day. Geralt from the future is willing to endure the hurt just to make sure everything goes right, young Julian will have to as well.

“I wish there’s another way. Believe me, I do. But…it’s too much at risk.” He squeezes, hoping it’s reassuring. “I know you don’t like this, Geralt. But time is too tricky, you can’t tell me anything about my future. That’s the rule.”

“Says who?”

“Says me.”

“It might be the first rule anyone’s had about time travels.”

“Right,” Jaskier smiles tightly, “The very first one.”

They go back to cooling off in a companionable silence before moving on again. Geralt rides on Roach’s back while Jaskier strums his lute on the ground, playing a song in Elder absent-mindedly.

For what it is worth, Jaskier’s past is already too well tangled with this beautiful Witcher in front of him. There is no changing his fate now.

A comforting weight unfurls in his heart whenever Geralt is near, regardless of which version of him it is. It unfurls even further with each step they take together over the years. In the blazing afternoon sun, it blooms into something else.

Oh.

He loves him.

He loves him with all he is, was, and ever will be.

No matter. Their days ahead will be just as entwined as the past.

Jaskier strums his lute again, the song turns into something bawdy. The amber looks back at him with mirth and a mirrored smile.

#geraskier #oxenfurt #not oxford #the witcher #time travel #geralt x jaskier #the time traveler's wife au #my fic #jaskier #geralt #hurt jaskier #hurt geralt #chronic pain #jaskier whump

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 4 years

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in the afterlife part two

Summary: can you do a part 2 to the “in the after life” where the reader wakes up after the neibolt’s destroyed and realizes that either she’s back where she died and gets a second chance at life, or that she wakes up outside the house and spend the rest of her life with the losers club?

God himself must be having a field day laughing at you and all the life decision you made to get to this point. The air surrounding you is so dark and impenetrable it’s almost tangible, eluding you to think you might be in heaven or hell. Then your leg kicks out and rams a broken piece of glass in the flesh, twinging an electrifying pain stab conjugated in the back of your mind, and you think assimilate, oh, it’s been a while since I felt that. You’re obviously not an expert in heaven or hell matters, but you do have enough presence of a mind to understand that pain is not something that supposed to be felt in the afterlife. Not dead in that case.

A dust particle flows in your throat, irritating it so hard you undergo a massive coughing spree to get rid of it. In turn, you bring your hand up to cover up your mouth and knock free a rooftop plate, the tiniest sliver of light worming through the opening. You stare at the back of your hand integrating the way it looks clearer somehow, more then it did while inside Neibolt, and then mind reelingly come to the conclusion that you just pushed something away. You touched something, and discerned the material of said thing under you hands, and not ghosted through.

Your throat bobs, putting a lid on your enthusiasm because you don’t want to get let down when the inevitable punchline tales. With a firm shove, something else topples over and the sunlight from outside illuminates your face. It’s warm and the sun burns a streak on your face, but the outside air is so fresh and crisp you can’t even focus on that, to busy holding back tears. Sitting up proves to be an effort, but you manage, albeit with a small huff, and then you’re seated on the runes of the old house that held you captive for twenty seven years.

The details surrounding this are a little hazy, worn down by the incredible and emotionally draining changes taking place, but you can see the boy, Bill, and his friends of misfits clear as day, better friend than you’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.

A car zoofs by, and the drives, on older male, leans in their seat to stare at you for as long as they can, judging you, but never slowing down or stopping to offer up any kind of help. The man disposed of a can of soda out his window, ricocheting against the pathway and luring your attention there.

It looks appealing, but a snide of apprehensiveness holds you back. You’ve tried to leave the house multiple times, but each time had ended with a hand grissing your leg and prise you back inside like you weight nothing, Pennywise savoring the wails of despair.

But you’d never been able to flick anything before either, and with Pennywise dead, who knew the possibilities that laid ahead of you?

Hesitantly, the tips of your toes cross the curb, your breath lodging in your throat as anxiousness compels you to step back equally as hurried. No hand grasps you back into the house, not that there is one to go back to, and no pain shocks prickle every nerve in your body, so you try again, propping your whole foot across this time. A halted breath releases at the painless sensations swooping your body, and gathering all courage, your swing your body to the other side.

You let out a punched out laugh, giddy that you’re no longer bound, hysterically laughing because if you don’t you’ll start crying. ‘I’m free.’

When the adrenaline and the utter amazements wears off, you’re left standing in front of a collapsed, the house no longer of any value to you but a place you’ll avoid for the rest of your days. You have no idea what to do next, it’s been twenty-seven years, you can’t out of bleu show up at your parents doorstep, if they even still live there, how would you explain where you’ve been for so long? And the lack of passing time?

No matter the answer to that question, you decide to set track to your old home regardless, the sight of the silhouette will be enough.

You’re walking with a noticeable limp, tracking the leg the glass stabbed you with behind like a cripple, and your clothes are covered in rubbish and are outdated, yet no one in Derry regards you twice, just turn up their nose when you pass them on the streets.

‘Fuck this town, and fuck these miserable people.’

The cursing of the town works you up so bad you’re lost in engulfing yourself in the new things renovating Derry, an arcade coating the old skaters rink you abolished every day, and mister Keens pharmacy updated with a new layer of white paint. Your own home, close to the pharmacy, is one of the many buildings renewed, so completely unrecognizable you doubt for a second if this truly is the house you grew up in.

‘Hey? A-a-aren’t you the girl f-f-from Its layer?’ Bill’s sauntering on the street, trailing his bike with him but not riding it, staring at you from afar. He’s cleaned up, washed away the grime from the sewer water and the red around his eyes has faded away, but it’s definitely the leader of the losers club. Bill speaks softly, as to not attract any more attention than necessary, which is stupid, since no one in Derry cares for anything but themselves.

‘I- yeah I am, my names Y/N, by the way,’ you walk on over to him, nodding your head and coming ot a stop a few feet from him.

‘H-h-how did you get here?’

‘I don’t know, I guess when’, a person passes and you fall silent, starting back up when she’s gone. ‘When Pennywise died I got set free.’

‘You’re h-h-hurt’, Bill observes, glancing at the injure you obtained. Strangely, you’re not bothered by it at all, you like the sting of it, proving that you can actually feel things again now.

‘If you w-w-want, you can come with me to our c-c-clubhouse? My friends are on their way and they’ll h-h-help us.’

Your house being demolished carves room for a nagging feeling, a feeling that tells you don’t belong anywhere anymore, and you have many places to be now anyway, so you agree. Hopping on the carrier of Bills bike, you swoop your legs up and enjoy the inkling of movement ripped away from all those years for a stupid mistake you made.

---------

The clubhouse is bigger than you imagined, and is filled with life. The others haven’t arrived yet, but based on the poster and gadgets scattered all over the place, it’s obvious they have a lot of personality to share.

You meddle with everything, savoring the textures of different objects and in turn accidently knocking some things over. You smile sheepishly at Bill as an apology, but he doesn’t respond and simply watches you as you go on. At one point, a splinter sticks in your thumb, and like a toddler you show it to him.

The latch unlocks and the other losers all stream in to take their place in the cottage, halting as they spot you.

‘Holy shit,’ Richie, Bill told you all their names before they arrived, says fidgeting with his glasses.

‘I f-f-found her on t-t-the streets w-w-wondering around, she n-n-needs our h-h-help.’ What their leader proclaims is what happens, and they all scramble to help you as fast as possible.

Eddie disinfects your wounds, Ben, Mike and Stan go digging for books on the subject matter, Bill and Richie distracts you from the ache, and Beverly retrieves clothes that allow you to blend in perfectly.

They’re all very sweet and considerate, attending to you and being friendly while they’re at it, kinder than your best friends at the time had been towards you.

‘You got a second chance in life, it’s a miracle’, Mike concludes after the last book on his stack in cleared.

‘That’s really cool actually. What do you plan on doing with your new found freedom?’

And endless sea of possibilities with waves drowning you and fluctuating you up awaits in the unknow stage of life, but it’s intimidating to start that life with no one behind your back to support you.

‘I don’t know yet. I had a plan before I died but I’m not sure I’m going to pursue that now. In all honesty I have no idea what to do.’

‘Here’s a glorious idea from the smartest kid in the room, your height is the same as ours, you could totally fucking pass as a twelve year old.’

Eddie snorts, the fizz bubbling out his nose, all the while shrieking.

‘Hey, come to think of it, maybe you and Eds should pretend to be siblings, you’re both small for your ages.’

Eddie’s laughter dies out in hurdles, and when he’s done he raises and eyebrow to dare Richie to say anything else. ‘That’s not fucking funny.’

‘You were laughing before though’, Richie proudly answers, his smile positively beaming.

‘I can’t be a twelve year old. I flat out refuse to go through high school again, no thank you’, you shiver, the memories of highs school horrific.’

‘J-j-just stay h-h-here until you f-f-figure it o-o-out then.’

‘Finally, a true genius talking.’ Richie flips Stan off at his words, sticking out his tongue for good measure.

‘Really? You would let me do that?’

‘Well, us losers got to stick together.’

#x reader #my writing #the losers club x reader #the losers x reader #young losers #bill denbrough x reader #stanley uris x reader #eddie kaspbrak x reader #richie tozier x reader #ben x reader #Mike hanlon x reader #beverly march x reader #part two

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lostinmysticfalls · 4 years

Text

Safe to Fall - Javi x Fem!Reader

Summary: Javi made it very clear from the beginning that there would be no strings attached. He calls you up when he needs you and you’re more than happy to be of service. But when he changes his mind about sending you on a dangerous mission, you realize that perhaps he hasn’t been following his own rule as closely as he thought.

Words: 4,127

Warnings: smut, angst, emotional hurt/comfort, abandonment issues, implied violence briefly mentioned

A/N: Wow… this one took a turn. It’s a little darker and more angsty than I anticipated. Reader’s got quite a bit of emotional baggage but so does Javi so, they’re kinda perfect for each other? (title taken from lyrics of Finally // beautiful stranger by Halsey)

Javi pushed himself up on the granite counter, his denim clad legs and bare feet dangling as he poured two glasses of whiskey over ice. One for him and one for you. The smoke from his lit cigarette billowed like a gray cloud underneath the warm glow of the kitchen light.

“So you really haven’t changed your mind?” He asked.

You set your things down on the small coffee table in the living room. Replying loud enough so he could hear you. “No. I told you I want to help.”

He remembered what happened the last time he had a girl get information for him. The memories of her helpless body curled on the soiled mattress on the floor, immobile and barely breathing. The stench of decay and mold, the creaking sound of the rotting wood in the room, it still vividly haunted him years after the fact.

She couldn't have been older than you, and she too had been brave, willing to help because she felt loyal to him. Because she had also gotten dangerously close even when he thought he was keeping his distance. Angel wings burnt like Icarus by the invisible fiery rays that radiated off of him like a death curse.

Her light was gone after that night. No amount of time was long enough for her to heal. A life ruined forever because of something he'd wanted.

Javi had been afraid for the girl, of course he had been. What kind of man would it make him otherwise? During his time at the DEA he’d seen some of the most fucked up shit anyone could ever witness, but he wasn't a soulless monster. Not even after all that carnage and violence he’d experienced. It was something the cartels hadn't been able to take from him and it was the one thing he kept most guarded.

He’d never admit it but that brutal happening was the reason why he was always careful to the point of being paranoid nowadays.

Why he'd never allowed things to go too far with any of his girls, why he brushed off any kind of compliment and instead of building relationships with women, he built walls. Keeping things professional. All business. It was his way of protecting himself and keeping those around him safe.

Everyone knew Javi was more than willing to share his body with any pretty little thing that gave him the time of day, but sharing his entire being? Even just a glimpse of the man underneath the hardened exterior? That was out of the question.

Or so he thought.

As he stared at you from atop his kitchen counter, he could feel his heart rumbling in his chest. It was yearning but also paralyzing fear, a mix of effervescent joy but also agonizing pain. A turmoil of emotions that he’d been trying to keep bottled up and locked away like a dirty secret.

Something else had clicked in him. An unplanned tethering had formed as a result of all the time you'd spent together. Of your scheduled and unscheduled romps between his sheets—ones that had slowly transitioned from casual and meaningless fucking to sweet and tender love-making without him even realizing it. Of the sound of your velvet voice over the phone during your late night chats when he needed to vent. And of the way you leaned your head on his shoulder and sometimes fell asleep while you watched TV.

Javi had made the same mistake yet again and he knew it. He’d been naive enough to think that you would be the exception to the rule, no matter how close he allowed you to get. He had ignored all the red flags until you gradually imprinted yourself on his skin. A permanent mark that he would carry with him forever, no matter where life took him.

He stupidly chastised himself in silence, as if doing so would sever the ties that bound you.

You swayed your way to him, unaware of his predicament, little dress hugging your figure as you took off the leather jacket he'd gifted you for your birthday a couple months back. Your hair getting caught on the metal buttons as you slipped it off your shoulders.

"It's gonna be fine." Your voice had an air of confidence and reassurance. "I'll do exactly as you say and nobody... well, almost nobody... will get hurt." You took the glass of whiskey that was meant for you and sipped it, grimacing and sticking your tongue out when the flavor hit your tongue. "Javi. I trust you." You smiled.

Maybe that was the problem. Blind trust.

He looked down at you, putting out his cigarette in the ashtray and swirling the contents of his glass before downing it all in one gulp. His brown eyes were trained on your face, like he was getting a good look at you just in case everything went to shit that night.

"Maybe it doesn't have to be you." He said, his voice deep and laced with trepidation.

"Cómo?" You questioned his sudden change in plans after all this time. For weeks he'd been coaching you, training you for that exact mission. "Si esos hijos de puta me la deben también." You snarled, reminding him that you had scores to settle with those assholes too. He wasn't the only one who'd lost people in this war.

“I can do this, Javier." You cocked your head. Swallowing the rest of your drink as you looked up at him and smirked. After a little while, you bit down on your crimson tainted lip, asking coyly. “Am I still your favorite?”

You pushed up on your toes, your hands on his thighs as your plump limps brushed against his mouth. The taste of whiskey and cigarette infusing your tongue as his mustache scraped the delicate skin of your upper lip, tickling the tip of your nose.

“You know you are, sweetheart.” He kissed you again, his actions more fervent the second time around. “Y eres la más hermosa también.”

“Then if tonight’s plan is settled, why’d you call me? We weren’t supposed to see each other until afterwards.” You teased, kissing him and biting his lip. Pulling it with your teeth until he exhaled a little moan.

“You know I care about you.” He growled, his hands running down your arms.

You laughed through the shivers that his touch produced, pretending like you hadn't notice the goosebumps that formed on your skin. Trying to ignore the way your heart beat for him and your stomach twisted with excitement as a million butterflies took flight. You'd caught yourself slipping more often than not these days.

"Sure." Deep red lips pressed against his once again, attempting to dismiss the meaning behind his words. "We'll go with that."

"Is that so hard to believe?" He asked, one eyebrow perched.

It's not that it was hard to believe. On the contrary, you knew that Javi had a good heart, you'd seen it time and time again no matter how much he tried to downplay it.

But he knew better than to bring any kind of emotional baggage to the agreement you two had made. He had been the one to set the rules, for god's sake. The fact that you had been on the same page had actually been what earned you the coveted role of favorite girl. You were clear on the terms, believing you were smart enough not to form real relationships with clients. Up until that point, you thought he was too.

"I just don’t want you to get hurt." He said, touching the side of your face with his hand, his forehead resting against yours as he caught his breath, stopping himself from saying more.

“Javi. Stop with the sentimental bullshit.” You said quietly, breath swirling over his parted lips as you purred. “Will you just fuck me already? I’ve missed you.”

His thumb caressed your chin ever so lightly. Lips crashing into yours as he jumped off the counter. Both hands cupped your face, his body moving against yours. His closeness lighting a fire deep in your core and igniting the aching throb between your legs. Your breathing was growing heavy, the pulse at your neck pounding with rabid need.

You raised his buttoned shirt over his stomach, breaking from the kiss for just a short moment to take it off. You kicked off your shoes, feet stumbling as you walked backwards, his body guiding you at an unhurried pace toward the unlit room that was at the end of the hallway.

Overzealous hands moved along your bends, trailing over the small of your back and down your ass until his fingers had hooked onto the fabric of your dress and you felt it leave your body. The cold air in the apartment hitting your exposed skin.

You had just crossed the threshold into the bedroom when he stopped you.

He grabbed your arms, twirling you until your back crashed against his stomach and chest. You squirmed and giggled, enjoying the way he took command and allowing him to do as he pleased. Your body whirred with arousal, the touch of his hands gliding over your breasts and pulling down the cups of your bra, making you shudder.

You moaned. “Touch me, Javi.” Snaking your body into him wantonly, your ass rubbing up against his hardness.

The straps of your bra fell over your shoulders, and you reached behind your back to unclip it as fast as you could. His large hands covering your supple mounds, massaging your full tits as his lips trailed over your jaw. He felt so good, your entire body hummed, wetness pooling in your underwear as your nipples pebbled between the clutch of his fingers.

His mouth bit your chin as you cranked your head to look at him, your sensitive skin burning from the scratches of his facial hair and the gentle scrape of his teeth.

Javi kept one hand on your breasts, playing with your stiffened peaks as his other hand slid down the length of your upper body. His back hunched over slightly as he reached inside your underwear.

A whimper floated from your lips when his fingers made contact with your soft flesh. Your delicate flower blossoming for him as he slid between your moistened folds.

“Oh, you’re so fucking wet already.” He muttered against your ear. “I could slip right in if I wanted to.”

He went on with his ministrations, making you writhe against his chest the more he teased your pulsing center. His fingers traveled up and down your slit, getting closer and closer to your heat each time, finally reaching your tight entrance. But he only circled his way around it for a few seconds before he retreated.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You whined, your complaint being cut short by the feel of his arms swooping you off the floor.

He carried you the rest of the short distance to the bed and set you down atop the fluffed up comforter that had been left undone from that morning. He smiled, pulling your underwear down your silky legs until you were completely naked.

You watched him, biting down on your lip as he got out of his pants. His beautiful cock, rock hard and swaying as he got on the bed. Dark eyes transfixed on your nakedness, knowing you were all his in that moment. He climbed on top of you, hovering over your body and kissing your mouth as his eager fingers returned to the place they’d abandoned just moments prior.

“You want this?” He asked, his mouth trailing over your jaw and then down your neck. Tongue licking its way down your chest until his tongue was encircling one of your nipples.

“Yes.” You cried, as his index finger penetrated your slick walls. Your tight flesh wrapping around his digit as he began moving in and out of your crevice.

You arched your back, craving more. Even though you knew that when it came to him, it was never enough. You could never suffice. After a few moments he slipped in a second finger, his thumb moving over your clit as he started to finger fuck you more vehemently.

“Oh my god!” Whimpers left your lips. “You’re so fucking good!”

Javi kissed your face, the feel of your skin hot against his lips. Your body began to spasm as a result of his actions. His fingers moved rapidly in and out of your opening, curling and stretching your insides now and again. His other hand paying attention to your pulsating center, circling over your clit, determined not to stop until he’d made you come.

“Just like that, mmmm… así, Javi…” You repeated the words over and over until they eventually died in your mouth, replaced instead by unabashed cries of gratification as you reached that blissful finish.

An explosion of fireworks went off behind your closed eyes as the heat rippled through all your extremities. Your core swollen and tender from his touch and its sensitivity heightened by your triggered orgasm.

You laughed, kissing him. “You’re amazing, Javier.” With your hands on his arms, you pulled yourself up. “Come here,” you patted the bed, gesturing for him to lie on his back.

You stretched across his upper body, opening the drawer in the nightstand next to him. You’d been at his place plenty of times before to know where everything was, but it was almost like unspoken rule between you. One that if acknowledged, would give away the deep intimacy you both already shared. He slapped your ass as you reached for the box of condoms buried underneath his socks.

Moments later, you sat astride his thighs, unrolling the rubber over his length and pumping it with your hand a few times before positioning him at your entrance. He looked up at you, his slightly opened mouth exhaling a groan as he slowly invaded your heated depths.

He allowed you full control of the movements as he slid inside you, even though he was dying to grab your hips and ravish you without restraint. You blurted out his name as you started to move up and down his length, the thickness of his cock stretching your wet walls, instilling you with indescribable pleasure each time every inch of him filled you up.

You rocked your hips back and forth, riding his cock like you owned it, alternating your speed as the minutes ticked by. Eventually turning your movements into that undulated dance that you knew he loved so much. Your breathing became ragged and your bodies sweaty from the heated friction. Grunts and moans, fused with curses and dirty talk, permeated the air.

Javi held on to your hips, fingers gripping your skin as you bucked your hips into him harder and faster. You leaned your upper body forward, mouth nipping his neck as you bounced your ass up and down over his thighs, taking pleasure in the sound of your wet bodies clashing against each other.

Your heart was beating so fast, the exertion making your legs tired and numb from being bent in the same position for so long. Javi sensed your fatigue when you slowed down your pace. He wrapped his arms around your back, holding you close to him as he lifted his hips off the bed and slammed his cock into your core a few times, giving you a bit of a break from your movements.

He took a second to catch his breath and then rolled over with you on the bed, pinning you underneath him as he adjusted himself inside you. Taking both of your hands, he raised them over your head, binding your wrists together with one of his hands as he began fucking you again. It was the first time you could recall him doing that, but something about it made you feel absolutely comfortable and safe. It wasn’t aggressive or even forceful. No. It was like he was claiming you as his own.

“I can’t let you do this.” He said, making you mewl and flail as he hit your sweet spot with just the right amount of force.

He was breathless, but his words were gentle and full of the love you told him once he could never feel for you.

“I care about you too much.” He said your name, repeating it one more time before he made his final confession. “I love you.”

The rousing feelings overtook you, pleasurable sensations flowing through you as you came undone one more time. His hips banged into you over and over, the ache intensifying in your core, your walls quivering and contracting as they burst with release.

You were still in the midst of your orgasm when you felt his body go rigid for just a second, his grunts becoming loud and incessant as he came inside you. The rapturous seconds of physical climax evaporated after a few moments but the emotional effects of it lingered long after.

Your exhausted bodies lied next to each other, legs still entwined as you remained still for the minutes that followed.

Even after you both had come down from your respective highs, you stayed put, afraid to move in order to delay the inevitable explanation that was coming after what Javi had just said.

* * * * *

You came out of the bathroom, trajectory set on your scattered clothes on the floor. Legs were still wobbly and heart was still beating fast but maybe this time it was from anxiousness and fear more than anything.

Javi had said those three words to you, knowing that you didn’t want to hear them.

Before then, all he’d done was toy with the idea of you leaving the trade for good. Deep down you suspected his reasons for asking but he had never really elaborated on what his intentions were for you if you did decide to quit. Not that it was a big secret. You were aware that he’d sent some girls across the border to live a life under witness protection, and others to monasteries or safe sanctuaries far away from their homeland. None of which was for you.

You gave him the same answer every time he brought it up; you belonged to no one but yourself and you didn't need a savior to rescue you.

Javi reached for your hand as you finished getting dressed. He’d sensed the coldness you emitted. He could feel you drifting from him, shutting him out.

“So you’re just going to ruin your team’s operation because of me?” You couldn’t believe you were saying that, it didn’t sound like the Javi you knew. His job had always been his priority.

“It’s still happening. You’re just not a part of it.” He buttoned his jeans, frowning when he heard the contemptuous laugh that left your lips a second later.

"You can't save me from this, Javi." You pulled away, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Because I don't need to be saved. I thought you understood that.”

His nostrils flared, one hand running through his hair as he looked at you. Face painted with despair. “Why are you acting like this? I just told you I loved you—“

“And I warned you not to fall in love with me.” You retorted, your voice cracking from the influx of emotions he’d stirred in you.

You wanted to cry. There was anger in you but you weren’t angry with him. How could you be? No. You were angry with yourself because you too had allowed it to get this far even though you told yourself you wouldn’t. Your carelessness had led you to grow attached.

“Well, I do love you.” He shrugged like there was nothing he could do about it.

“Es la verdad. Te amo.”

“Estás loco, Javier.”

He smiled, inching closer to you. “Loco for ti nadamás.”

“Fuck.” You huffed under your breath. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I. Come on, talk to me.” He put his hands on your shoulders, tipping his head down and searching for your eyes. “Why is it so bad that I fell in love with you?”

“You wanna know how this story ends?” Your eyes narrowed, mouth twisting in disapproval. “I’ll tell you. Hell, I’ve lived it plenty of times before to know the ending never changes.”

You sighed, the twinge in your chest threatening to make you fall to pieces before you could even speak.

“You tell me that you love me and I believe you… because I want it to be true,” you said quietly. “And it’s fine for a little while. But you never truly get over it. You’re not able to forget my past. The countless men that crossed my path before you…”

You stopped to take a breath, trying to get rid of the knot that had formed in your throat. “And then that love you said you felt for me. The love story that you made me believe in… it begins to turn into a nightmare. Chipping away at any feelings we might still have for each other. Until one day… you grow tired… and you leave. You leave and all I’m left with is bitterness and hate.” Your eyes were filled to the brim with tears.

He shook his head. “I would never do that to you.” His kind eyes displaying a glint of hopelessness as he began to realize why you’d been so put off by his declaration.

“But you will.” Your lip trembled as you began to sob. “Because they always do. They never stay, Javi. You won’t stay.”

He took you in his arms, your composure crumbling all at once the moment you felt his warm embrace. Your head was pressed against his bare chest, your whole body enveloped in his scent.

“You’re a good man. I know you are. And I don’t want to hate you.” You said between sharp intakes of air, feeling completely vulnerable as he held you. Knowing that now that your truth was out in the open, there was no point in denying your own feelings for him. “I love you too much to ever hate you, Javi.”

That bit of confirmation that you felt the same way was reassuring to him. He held you tightly, kissing the top of your head. “And do you trust me?”

You laughed between the tears, thinking that earlier you’d been dead set on putting your life on the line for him—he knew you did. “Of course I trust you.”

He nuzzled your temple and then spread kisses over your flushed, dewy cheeks in the most delicate and loving manner. The tender brush of his lips made you shiver in delight, like a hit of ecstasy had been shot straight into your veins.

“Then believe me when I tell you that I would never…” He gently took a hold of your chin with his fingers, wiping the tears from under your misty eyes. “I would never break your heart. I would never hurt you, amor.”

You closed your eyes, feeling his proximity close in on you. The touch of his lips on yours made your heart sputter. Hooking your arms around his neck, you kissed him again, gently sparring with his tongue as you relished in each other’s taste for a long drawn-out minute.

Breaking away slowly, you said. “I know but I’m fucking terrified to fall… to completely give myself to someone other than me.”

“So am I.” He said. “But not of falling. It’s too late for that.” He caressed your face, the tears no longer trickling down your cheeks. “What terrifies me is the thought of not being with you.”

You sighed deep enough that it made your chest hurt. “You really believe in us?”

“Yes.” He replied without hesitation. “I do.” His words drenched in sincerity.

You knew the absolute soundness you felt in that moment could only be found in his arms. Javi had always cared for you, protected you, kept you safe. He offered all the things that those who had wronged you had failed to provide.

“It’s safe to fall.” He whispered. “I’m right here.”

You knew that the deep rooted fear inside you that made you question every relationship you’d ever had wouldn’t just magically disappear overnight. But you also knew that he would help ease your mind whenever you were in need of it.

Javi had never failed you and never would.

You shut your eyes, breathing him in, not wanting to let go of him just yet. With each passing minute you grew more convinced that perhaps what he had said was true. Maybe it was finally safe for you to fall.

#pedro pascal #javier peña #javier peña x reader #narcos #narcos netflix #javi x reader #fanfiction #oneshot #thinking of starting a masterlist maybe because i obviously have no plans to stop #i love this man so much you guys

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scruffandyarn · 4 years

Text

The Guardian

(we’ll see how I feel about that title if I actually do more of this story)

Anywho...this all started with a dream about rescuing a dog and Cassian Andor chewing me out. Good times.

This is set prior to Rogue One.

I have no idea what I’m doing or where this is going or if there will actually be more of it. We shall see.

Many, MANY thanks go to several people who have encouraged me, proof read for me, let me lose my absolute fucking mind with this. @only-a-mindless-creation you were the first person I even mentioned having an idea to, thank you for letting some random stranger bombard you with her insanity. @shenanigans-and-imagines thank you for being a sounding board and helping me figure out some specifics. @shejustcalledmeafish thank you for your help with grammar and smoothing this out. @yougottakeeponkeepinon thank you for answering all my random questions and giving me a confidence boost. @itsspacecowboys thank you for commiserating with me over the lack of Cassian content. Last, but definitely most, @stevieharrrr for putting up with all my nonsense, you deserve an award, along with my heart and my eternal gratitude. I hope this lives up to everyone’s expectations.

There are probably others I’m forgetting, and I apologize if I said I’d tag you and I missed you. I’m horrible at remembering shit. Please forgive me, and drop me another line reminding me, so if I ever add onto this, I can make sure to tag you.

Now, onto the story

It’s Cassian Andor x f!Reader (no romance in this part)

Warnings: Swearing (this includes f*** and s***, yes, I know they aren’t canon, but fuck it), death/killing of imperials...uh...I think that’s it? Let me know if I missed something.

Word count: approx. 4.2k

It was the modified voices of the stormtroopers that roused you from your pitiful attempt at sleep. They’d been walking by in small groups every few hours the whole time you’d been in this cage, and each time, you’d jolted awake, making sure to catch as much of their conversations as you could. Just in case.

So far, nothing you’d heard seemed to have any value.

“Throw him in there with the other one.”

Looks like you were about to get company.

Sure enough, a moment later, two imps stopped right in front of your cell, their white suits a sharp contrast to the dark ensemble worn by the man they had restrained between them. You’d never seen him before, but you sure as hell recognized the insignia he wore.

You looked up into the eyes of the Rebellion captain who was about to become your cellmate. He seemed to be trying to communicate something to you if the subtle movements of his head and eyes meant anything.

Before you could try to decipher what he was telling you, the cell door slid open and he was shoved unceremoniously, his knees buckling, so that he fell at your feet. His arms had been bound behind his back, so his face hit the ground, a grunt of pain escaping from his lips.

“Seems like there’s Rebel scum everywhere you look.” His captors slid the door closed again before heading back the way they’d come.

You waited until you heard them turn the corner at the far end of the hall before you dared to move. When you were sure they were gone, you gently lifted your foot and nudged the top of the man’s head. “You alive?”

He rocked himself until he was able to flip over on his back. “You were supposed to rush them.”

“What?” His accent threw you a bit.

“Did you not see me signalling you with my eyes?!” He snapped, his eyes narrowing in frustration. “You were supposed to rush out at them as soon as they unlocked the cell.”

You held up your left wrist. “And how would I have done that? Hmmm?” The chain from the wall attached to the cuff around your wrist clinked a bit as you tugged on it.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh.” You rolled your eyes. “You think I want to be stuck in here, captain?”

“Cassian Andor.” He nodded as you gave him your name. “Then you are definitely the woman I was sent to rescue.”

“Rescue? This is a rescue?”

“Yes.” He grunted in the effort it took to sit up without the use of his hands. “Draven sent me.”

“Let me guess, he didn’t seem too pleased about it?” You scoffed. “I mean, more than usual?”

A wry smile found its way onto the man’s face. “I take it you know the general?”

“I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with him.”

Ungracefully, your cellmate scooted himself along the ground until he could rest against the wall of your prison. “What makes you worth saving?” His eyes seemed to search your face for something.

“What?”

“Draven didn’t tell me why you were so important that I was pulled from a mission to rescue you.”

He had been on a mission? Like Leia’s mission? The one that wound up with you chained to a wall? What were you supposed to say to that?

“You keep saying that you’re here to rescue me, but the binders around your wrists and the fact that you’re in here with me don’t really scream that you can help me.” The guilt of screwing up his mission didn’t settle well in your stomach, so you went with tried-and-true deflection.

“I am part of a crew--”

“So, you’re the decoy?” You cocked your head to the side.

“No.”

“Where’s your crew?”

“I’m...not sure.” He started glaring at you again.

You could feel your blood pressure starting to rise. “Do they know where we are?”

“Probably not. We split up before the imps found me.”

You growled low in your throat. “I’ll take a wild guess and say they took anything from you that might get us out of this?” You yanked on your chain again.

“I don’t understand why the general would be so hesitant to rescue you. You have such a pleasant personality.”

“I can see why Draven sent you to rescue me, considering the bang-up job you’re doing so far.” You huffed. “So, what? We’re just stuck here now?”

Before he could answer, a new set of voices echoed down the hall.

“Here.” One lieutenant and one droid now stood in front of your cell. “He was just brought in. How would they already know about him upstairs?”

“I do not know, sir. I was simply told to collect the prisoners.”

Shit. What were they going to do to you? You’d been in this holding cell since they’d caught you, chained to the wall like some sort of animal since you’d attempted to barrel your way out the first time they’d brought you food.

Were they going to torture you? Attempt to extract Leia’s whereabouts? Kill you?

Well, whatever their plans, they were stupid to send only one measly officer and one droid.

The two of them stepped into the cell and the lieutenant moved towards you. “You’ll want to keep this one on a short leash.” He jerked on your chain.

As soon as you were free, you reached to grab the sides of the man’s head and jerked him forward, shoving your knee up. No, you weren’t at a great angle to connect with much, but you knew instinct would make him double over. Sure enough, his head lowered as he folded, and you wrapped your arms around it, twisting as violently as you could manage, until you felt more than heard the give and snap.

You snatched the blaster from his belt and whirled around, ready to put a hole through the droid, only to find its metal arms in the air.

“Cassian, please don’t let her do that to me.” It seemed to be addressing your cellmate.

You looked down at the man, puzzled. “What’s going on?”

“K2SO is my droid. He’s going to get us out of here.” He looked past you to the officer’s limp body. “That was fast.”

“I can be fairly useful when I’m not chained to a wall.” You tucked the blaster into your belt and straightened your tunic to hide it before helping him to his feet. “If you’re getting us out of here, I’m assuming you have a plan?”

“You’re my prisoners,” came the droid’s almost cheery response.

“I mean,” the captain cut in, “unless you plan on snapping the neck of everyone we pass.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.”

Captain Andor nodded to the body. “If you’re a prisoner, you’ll need to look the part.”

You cocked your head to the side.

“Grab the binders,” he sighed in frustration, “and the fob.”

“Right.” You knelt down and pulled the items from his belt before draping the binders over your wrists. Then you held out the fob to the droid. “Ready whenever you are.”

“I can’t believe we pulled that off.” How you’d all managed to get out of the base and onto their ship without setting off any alarms was a bit beyond you.

“Get me out of these.” Captain Andor snapped at K2SO. The droid dutifully moved to unlock the binders that still held his wrists behind his back.

“Thank you.” You hoped to diffuse some of his anger. “Thank you for rescuing me. I know you weren’t really given a choice in the matter, but I appreciate it.” You sighed when you were met with silence. Was he still thinking about his botched mission? You turned to the droid who’d also played a role in your rescue. “And you, too, K2SO. Thank you.”

“Well, it’s nice to see that some royalty still has manners.”

His tone would have made you laugh...except… “Royalty? You...you think--I’m not royalty.”

Two sets of eyes, one human, one AI, turned to stare at you.

“Le--Princess Leia, I--no one told you who I am?” Why did you suddenly feel like a fraud? Like you weren’t actually supposed to have been rescued? Was this all a big mistake?

“This is what we were sent.” K2SO held a datapad out in your direction.

There, in the middle of the transmission, was your name, age, physical description, and last known coordinates. Underneath all of that was the order for your rescue and return to the palace of Alderaan.

“Is that not you?”

“No, that’s me. But Princess Leia, she’s my...my charge.”

“Your charge?” Cassian spoke for the first time since you’d boarded the ship. “You mean--”

“I don’t know what your clearance is, Captain, so I can’t tell you all the details, but I can tell you that Leia and I ran into some trouble on her last, um, assignment, and there wasn’t enough time to get us both out.”

“Draven pulled me from an extremely sensitive mission to rescue a...a...a palace guard?” Cassian slammed his hands down on the control panel in front of him, “Unbelievable!” before spinning around to face you. “Do you have any idea what this might have cost the Rebellion?”

“I never asked to be rescued!”

“Well, you’re not rescued yet.” He turned back to the controls and began making adjustments. “I may still have time to finish my mission before I must return you to your princess.”

“Cassian, are you sure that is wise?” K2SO chimed in. “Surely, without any sort of training, she will just get--”

“She’ll be fine. You can make sure she stays out of trouble.”

“Now hold on, just one damn minute!” The disgruntled noise from the droid told you that you weren’t the only one not on board with this half-assed plan. “Captain--”

“No time.” With one final button, the three of you were flung into hyperspace.

You drummed your fingers against your knee for what was probably the thousandth time since the captain had left. A million thoughts seemed to be flitting through your mind, but you couldn’t quite focus on any of them for more than a moment. This unease was foreign, and it didn’t sit well. You were used to having one job. Yes, life as Leia’s bodyguard could be chaotic at times, but you had a singular purpose. Keeping her safe. Everything else could be falling apart around you, but as long as she was protected, nothing else mattered.

Finding yourself on a U-Wing sitting on a planet in Hutt Space while waiting for the pilot to be done with some sort of spy mission...

“So, what’s here on Dandoran that’s so important?” You chanced, looking over at K2SO.

The droid was so still, you’d have thought he’d shut down.

“K2S--?”

“Cassian told me I have to watch you. He did not say I have to entertain you.��

You pursed your lips, holding back your sarcasm. “You’re right. I don’t need you to entertain me. I’m sorry that my presence is such an inconvenience for the both of you.” You pushed yourself out of the chair, needing something to do. “Is there something I could help with?”

“The probability of your involvement causing a catastrophic end to this assignment is very high.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Even without my programming, it is easy to see you have no experience in subterfuge, ergo, your failure would be inevitable.”

You ignored the pain in your palms where your fingernails were digging in. “So, I’m just supposed to sit here and do nothing?”

“No.” The droid finally turned to you. “You could also stand there and do nothing.”

You decided then that you absolutely hated this. “I need some air.” You needed a minute to clear your head. That certainly wasn’t going to happen on this ship.

“My sensors indicate that the air quality in here is suitable.”

You turned and headed for the hatch. “Then I need a walk.”

“Cassian said--”

“Cassian said you had to watch me.” You growled without looking back. “He never said I had to stay put.”

You could hear the droid following you off the ship and fought the scream that threatened to erupt.

“It was implied.”

It took longer than you’d anticipated to find anything other than trees, trees, and more trees. Oh, and did you mention, trees? You hadn’t been paying close attention to where the captain had landed his ship--no, your focus had been more on trying to make him see reason and take you home. A lot of good that had done you.

Now, walking through the dense forest, you had no idea where you were or where you were headed. Was this even the direction the captain had gone in? Were you just wandering around in circles, hopelessly lost forever?

Maybe. But maybe not. Up ahead, it looked like...

Your heart sank to your feet as soon as you spotted the field.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.” You spun around to face K2SO. “Fuck.” He froze at your sudden movement. “They have him.”

“I don’t--”

“Shhhh!” You hissed, glancing back over your shoulder. Thankfully, no one from the group you’d been eyeing looked over in your direction. “The Imps over there. Behind me. About 400 paces. They have Captain Andor.”

“I must go retrieve him.”

You pressed your hand against the droid, hoping to still him again. “And how do you propose that?”

“I am an Imperial--”

“I know, and I also know I don’t see any more like you around here. You’re gonna stick out like a Wookie in Aldera.”

“Then what do you propose I do?”

You looked back to see the three stormtroopers pointing their blasters at the captain, even as he set his on the ground near his feet. “Shit.” You took a deep breath. “I’m going to walk out there.” You glided your free hand over the blaster in your belt. This was something you could do. “Let me get no further than ten paces from him…” You hastily scanned the forest for something...anything… “See that tree over there? The one that looks like a strong breeze could knock it over?”

“It appears it has been struck by some sort of electrical charge.”

“Yes, that one. Get over to it, and when I’m close enough to the captain, push it over.”

“I do not see--”

“I may not be good at subterfuge, but I can keep someone safe. Captain Andor is my charge right now, and I’ll keep him safe. Alright?”

“Very well.”

You waited until you saw K2SO in position. Then you squared your shoulders and headed towards the clearing.

“You there, freeze.” Three blasters were now fixed on you. Good.

You forced a look of surprise on your face. “Me?” You refused to even glance at Captain Andor as you stepped further out of the trees.

“Yes, you.” The trooper closest to you waved his weapon. “Keep coming, nice and slow.”

“Well, which is it? You want me to freeze or keep coming?”

“Shut up and move.”

Widening your eyes in what you hoped made you look frightened, you started walking closer. “What’s going on?”

“Don’t you worry about it, sweetheart, just keep moving.”

Almost there.

Three.

Two.

One.

Right on cue, a crack, and then a loud crash echoed through the canyon. Like clockwork, all three troopers spun around towards the sound. You grabbed your blaster and fired off three consecutive shots, all of them finding their mark in the unprotected necks of your victims.

“You alright, Captain?” You finally looked over to see the man scowling at you as he retrieved his blaster from the ground.

“Why did you leave the ship?” he spat out at you.

Before you could answer, K2SO lumbered into sight. “That was very good work. I did not expect you to be able to get all three of them like that. How did you come to be that proficient?”

“Uh, I’m a bodyguard to a princess who dabbles in espionage. It’s a necessary skill.”

The droid nodded and turned to Cassian. “Oh. You are not happy we left the ship.”

“What gave it away?” He snapped, brushing past you to head into the woods.

“I told you it was implied.” The droid hissed at you before following.

Your jaw dropped in frustration before you scurried to catch up. “Captain, you did not specify that I was to stay on the ship.”

“K2--”

“--is a droid that followed your order to keep watch on me. Don’t yell at him because you’re upset with what I did.” You grabbed his arm to stop him, but he yanked it out of your grasp. “What is your problem?”

“My problem,” he finally spun around to face you, “is that I have a mission to complete, only my droid is having to babysit you, and you can’t even stay put!”

“You would be dead if I had.”

“No, I would have been taken to a cell. Then I would actually know where the holding cells are on this planet, and I wouldn’t be back at square one, trying to find where they’re keeping the people they’re smuggling through as slaves!”

He turned back around and continued on, leaving you standing, in shock. Fuck. How had you screwed this up so badly?

“I--I didn’t know, either.” K2SO stopped next to you.

You looked up at the droid, trying to make sense of all this. “I thought I was saving him.” It was what you did. What you were good at. “How do I fix this?”

“Cassian will have a plan.” A metal hand rested on your shoulder. “We should go back to the ship now.”

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

The response you received was a curt nod before K2SO followed after the captain.

Taking another moment, you ran your hand down your face. It didn’t matter anymore that you’d tried to get him to take you back to Alderaan and that if he’d just listened to you, you wouldn’t have screwed this up for him. You needed to make this right.

You just had no idea how.

Turned out, K2SO was right--Captain Andor did have a plan. It wasn’t exactly new, rather, he flew the ship to a different location, after sensors had picked up movement. Once he was able to confirm the presence of stormtroopers, he landed again.

This time, you paid attention to where he was setting down.

“I shouldn’t have to tell you to stay put this time, yes?”

Quickly, you jumped up to block his exit. “Let me help you. I screwed this up. Let me fix it.”

“I don’t need you to fix what you broke. This is my mission. I’m in charge.” He turned his attention away from you. “K2, neither of you are to leave this ship.”

“Captain Andor--”

He completely ignored you. “Got it?”

“Cassian, I do believe that if--” K2SO began.

You couldn’t tell from where you were standing, but there must have been something in the captain’s eyes that silenced the droid mid-sentence.

“Got it.”

Cassian gave a curt nod. “I will be back before nightfall.”

With that, he was gone.

Light had started to fade from the sky when you were jarred into consciousness. You hadn’t planned on falling asleep, but since being left behind, neither you nor K2SO were inclined to chat. With little else to do other than sit and stare out into the green scenery surrounding the ship, it wasn’t a huge surprise that you’d dozed off.

“That will be Cassian.” K2SO acknowledged the sounds coming from outside the ship that had woken you, before reaching up to open the hatch. “Cass--”

The man ran up the ramp as fast as he could. “Get us up in the air, right now!” With his speed, he was unable to stop before slamming into the far wall of the ship, but somehow, he managed to twist himself so that his left side took the brunt of the impact. On his right side, he had his arms wrapped around what appeared to be a child who was burying their face in his neck. “K2--”

As the droid moved to follow the order, the sight of white plastoid caught your eye. Immediately, you drew your blaster and began firing at the stormtroopers that the captain had obviously been running from. “I’m assuming it’s alright if I shoot these troopers, yes?”

“Yes!”

You could practically hear his eyes rolling as you moved to close the ramp, firing every time you caught a glimpse of white. Blaster shots were still pinging off the outside of the ship as it finally began to lift. K2SO had you up and out of Dandoran’s atmosphere a short while later, and you were finally able to breathe.

“Hey, you’re okay.”

Captain Andor’s voice caught your attention, and you looked over to see him trying to calm the child in his arms. Judging by the fur, you assumed the little boy was a Bothan, and one that didn’t seem to understand Basic, if the frantic way his skin was moving was any indication.

“Captain, I don’t think he understands you.” You holstered your blaster before inching closer to the two. “Do you speak Bothese?”

“No.” He looked up at you. “Do you?”

“I’ve seen them before, when they’ve come to visit the Organas, but I don’t know the language.” You knelt down in front of the child. “I do know my parents and I were referred to as ‘Kas’ whenever they’ve been there.” You pointed to yourself. “Kas?”

Immediately, the child let go of Cassian and latched onto you, his arms snug around your neck. “I guess that was the right thing to say.” You shrugged, wrapping your arms around his shaking little body. “Where did you find him?”

“I was able to open up the holding cells.” He grunted in discomfort as he tried to move. His right hand cradled his left shoulder, trying to work out the pain from his crash. “His mother--she was in the cell with him.” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. “He didn’t run out like the others. Just clung to her body.”

“Fuck.” You rubbed your hands across the boy’s back, hoping to offer some bit of comfort. “What about the others?”

“There weren’t enough imps to take them all on. He was the only child in any of the cells.” He hung his head. “I needed--”

“You don’t have to explain anything to me, Captain.” You maneuvered yourself around so you could lean against the wall next to him. It was more than a little challenging, seeing as how the boy refused to release you, but you finally made it. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“I don’t know. He could join the Rebellion, but… If he doesn’t understand Basic--I don’t know of anyone who speaks Bothese.”

“Would you be averse to me taking him when you drop me off on Alderaan? I’m sure Leia will be able to contact someone from his home planet who can take care of him.”

The look on his face was something you couldn’t quite figure out. Something was haunting him, something about this whole situation--but you didn’t have the familiarity to feel comfortable asking about what had him so troubled.

“In the meantime, we should probably see about fixing your shoulder.” You nodded towards his injured side. “Can’t imagine slamming into the wall felt particularly good.”

He choked out a laugh before turning to look at you. “You know, you really aren’t a bad shot. Could use someone like you.”

“Like, to travel around with you and screw up your missions?” You cocked an eyebrow, not really sure where he was going with this.

“I mean with the Rebellion. We need all the help we can get.” He seemed to sense your confusion, so he pressed on. “I know the princess is your charge, but you could be doing so much more.”

“I don’t--” you shook your head “--it’s my job, I protect her. I don’t...I don’t know how to do anything else. It’s what I was raised to do.”

Cassian leaned his head back against the wall and looked up to the ceiling. “You snapped that officer’s neck like it was nothing. You killed three Imperial Storm Troopers before I could blink. You convinced K2 to cause a distraction to help rescue someone you just met. You managed to recall enough Bothese to calm him.” He nodded to the child still holding you, pausing long enough for you to register that yes, the boy’s skin was no longer twitching beneath your palms. “Think about it.” Gingerly, he pushed himself up from the floor and headed towards the rear of the ship.

“He’s crazy.” Your brain was having a hard time wrapping around what you’d just heard. There had never been anything else you were meant to do with your life. You had a purpose, and you did your job well. How could you possibly think you could--

“Actually, he’s not wrong. Your abilities would go far in aiding the Rebellion.”

You looked up to see K2SO towering over you.

“I thought my failure was inevitable.”

“Perhaps my calculations were incorrect.”

#star wars #cassian andor #cassian andor x reader #rogue one #probably some other tags I'm forgetting #ahhh #scruff's stuff #my writing #mine

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banashee · 3 years

Link

Part 4 of my @badthingshappenbingo

Prompt: Undeserved Reputation

Please mind the tags and warnings!

Moving on together

The people at SHIELD know better than to outright bully someone. No, they are way more subtle about it. Usually.

Clint doesn’t expect anything less than cold, dirty looks when he sets foot onto the Helicarrier for the first time since the Battle of New York. For the first time since Natahsa knocked him unconscious to get Loki out of his brain, the first time since the world almost ended.

It is bound to be an interesting day.

Piercing eyes glare as Clint is making his way past, but no one dares to say anything. He is walking with the other Avengers and he is well aware that this is the only reason they keep it down. Once they’ll get him alone, well. That will be another story.

He can’t hear them - his aids are good, but they are not that finetuned - but he knows that there are whispers and hushed conversations as soon as his back is turned. Very carefully, he doesn’t react. His fingers are twitching in an attempt not to curl into fists and his jaw is clamped shut so tightly that it makes his teeth and muscles hurt. Under different circumstances, Clint wouldn’t care about them.

Any other day, if only things had gone differently, he would be a lot more level headed, but as it is, Clint is responsible for a lot of deaths, injuries and damages. Mind controlled or not, it doesn’t matter. Certainly not to his - former? - coworkers.

The thoughts make his heart race way too fast, and Clint is faintly aware that his hands are getting sweaty.

The next time he’s at SHIELD, he is alone but the rest is pretty much the same. Looks, distant muttering he can’t make out. In the meeting room, no one wants a seat close to him and people do their best to ignore his presence whenever possible - talking over him, not passing the relevant papers to him - it’s small things like that, but Clint notices. Of course he does.

He keeps his face neutral and pretends like it doesn’t sting.

When Clint walks out that night, in a half dark, empty hallway, he isn’t surprised when the group of four Agents jumps him.

“Traitor” they call him while two of them hold him in place while the others break his nose and dislocate a kneecap. There are other, much more crass and personal insults, but “traitor” sticks - it hits a nerve.

Clint doesn’t even try to fight back, and that’s probably the worst part. He deserves this, he thinks, so he doesn’t even bother to fight them off. Maybe they’ll leave it once they get the anger out of their systems.

The attack doesn’t take long, but Clint knows how little time is really necessary to cause damage.

The other Agents leave him in the dark hallway, bleeding, dizzy and in pain. It’s only when Fury himself of all people comes across him, that he is brought into medical. The director doesn’t say anything that Clint could remember, and his face is unreadable as always.

They treat his injuries and treat him like air after that. Clint isn’t surprised.

He leaves right after. No one stops him from limping down the hallway and out into the night.

Clint is empty and numb. He forgets to take his painkillers, forgets to eat. The painkillers barely make a dent, anyway. He wasn’t given anything by SHIELD doctors, so he has to make do with over the counter stuff. It’s a joke.

All he wants to do is sleep for about a year, but not even that works out.

If he wasn’t so goddamn tired, he probably would have seriously hurt himself by now. He’s not sure if it’s a good thing that he doesn’t.

Soon after, the world security council finally gets tired of waiting. Clint knows this, and truth be told, he’d expected to be taken away and locked up much, much sooner. But it happens, and just like when he was attacked, he doesn’t resist.

They constantly prob him with questions and needles, voices just as cold as their touch. Clint answers questions mechanically, wondering when it’ll stop and what they’re going to do to him. He hopes that at least, it'll be quick.

What he doesn’t expect is to be sent off with a slap on the back after three months.

There must be a mistake, he thinks, and even back home in his apartment, Clint can’t sleep, can’t relax. People are calling him, but he never answers. At some point, he opens a message from an unknown number:

“Since you’re not answering calls: Drop by the Tower any time you want to, we’re bringing the band together. Speaking of, bring Romanoff, she keeps ignoring me.”

Must be Stark, he figures, but isn’t sure what to say. So he just types,

“OK”

and throws his phone back onto the table.

Clint stays awake for days on end, until he physically can’t handle it for any longer and passes out. If he is lucky, he ends up on the couch or in bed. He’ll curl up on the bathroom floor if he’s not.

Any given time, he expects to be taken away again and he can barely breathe with fear.

When one day, his front door opens and the vibrations of footsteps come closer, he expects rough hands and a cold voice. A blade against his throat, the nozzle of a gun against his temple, anything.

What he doesn’t expect is Natasha in his personal space.

“Oh, hi.” His voice feels like sandpaper.

“Did they send you to finish me off?” Clint asks her, and stares at him in disbelief for a moment. Then, a deep sadness seems to be radiating off of her.

“No, of course not.” she looks right at him, making it easier to read lips. Natasha reaches out, slowly enough for him to pull away - he doesn’t. Her touch against his cheek is the most warm and gentle thing he’s felt in months, and Clint can’t help but lean into it. He hadn't even realized how touch-starved he must have been the whole time.

Natasha leans into him, too. Open and unguarded affection is rare with her, but Clint has always been one of the very few lucky people to recieve it. Despite their history, he still isn’t sure he deserves it.

“And even if they did - I wouldn’t do it. I’m sorry I couldn’t be here sooner.”

Natasha moves closer, until they sit in a tight embrace. Clint isn’t 100% sure, but he is quite certain that both of them are crying. Most importantly though, he believes her. How could he not? His best friend is all he’s got left at this point.

*+~

It’s a strange thing, how so many years spent frozen in cryo, again and again after each mission, can leave such an impression. When it comes down to it, Bucky wasn’t awake for more than a few years at most, but it feels a lot longer than that. He feels older than he is - tired. So tired of everything that life has thrown on him.

Due to some sort of miracle, Bucky manages to escape from Hydra for long enough to become a little bit more Bucky and a little less Soldier. The longer it lasts, the more he remembers, and he is terrified out of his mind.

He doesn’t sleep - instead, he watches the news on a grainy, old TV in the little apartment he found, reads the papers.

They’re looking for him, wanting to lock him up for all of the murders and crimes. Bucky can’t blame them - he knows how much of a security risk he is, hence him staying away from people as much as he can. Part of him agrees that he should be locked up in a windowless cell to rot. The other, slightly selfish part of him wants to experience freedom, wants to live. Just live, nothing more.

None of the things he did for Hydra was his choice. But then again, the Soldier doesn’t know choice, only obedience. Bucky is tired of it.

Sometimes, he thinks back to that fateful day in DC. He’d almost killed Steve, then. That in itself is bad enough, but the worst part is, the stubborn bastard would have let him.

This, of all things, scares Bucky the most. It’s why he hides from Steve, too, because he knows he is trying to find him.

Eventually, he does.

How in the world Steve manages to convince him to come with him to the Avengers Tower in Manhattan, he couldn’t tell. It might have something to do with the fact that he always had a hard time to say “no” to his best friend - 90 pounds soaking wet or built like a brick wall, it doesn’t matter. On the inside, he’s still the stubborn, loyal kid from Brooklyn who is family to him. He’ll always love that guy, no matter what, so he finally agrees to come with him.

“Home”, Steve says, but this might be pushing it. Bucky will be happy if he doesn’t accidentally kill anybody when he next freaks out.

When he first arrives there, tense and ready to bolt at any second, things don’t go nearly as bad as he’d feared. No one seems to be worried or awkward, which is impressive. They simply welcome him, as if he was any other new housemate and that’s it - if the surprise is showing on his face, no one comments on it.

Steve shows him around for a bit, which he is grateful for. Having someone he knows close by helps, and he relaxes a bit. At least, he does until he finds out that they gave him an apartment big enough to fit any entire army - all for himself. Bucky is more than a little overwhelmed by it. He’s never had so much space for himself, never would have dared to dream of it. But now it’s given to him, just like that, and he can’t help but blurt out

“I don’t deserve this - Steve, there must be a mistake, this can’t be for me”

“It is, Buck. It’s all yours. You deserve nice things.” Steve gently puts an arm around him and Bucky dives into the hug, if only to hide the fact that he is starting to tear up.

Getting used to being a person again is hard.

After the majority of hydra’s brainwashing has worn off, Bucky has spent those days and weeks in a constant state of either numb or terrified and very little in between. Always tense, always on the lookout for another threat.

Now, he is in a safe environment with people who know who he is and what he did and they don’t seem to mind. It’s strange, to walk into a room and get offered a seat, a drink or a plate of food - whatever it is that everyone else is having.

At first, he doesn’t talk much, and people seem to accept that. As it is, Stark talks enough on his own for all of them combined, so that helps, too. Bucky likes to listen, though, just being part of the group without inserting himself too much. It works, for the most part, but some days, he can’t stand being in the company of others for too long. He gets anxious then, and Steve especially worries about him. But even though he knows he means well, Steve hovering and trying with everything he’s got to fix everything wrong doesn’t help at all. Most days, Bucky doesn’t have the heart to tell him this.

One particularly bad day, Bucky hides in a utility closet of all places when he can hear his best friend calling for him. He means well, he knows that, but he just can’t deal with his hovering now. So Bucky leaps to the nearest door, opens it and closes it behind him as quickly and quietly as humanly possible. He finds himself in a dark, cramped room and he almost gets hit with a mop when he turns to what he hopes might be something usable to sit on. Only, it’s soft and when he lowers himself the “chair” clears its throat and then says,

“So, this is awkward.”

Bucky almost jumps out of his skin, but he is ridiculously proud that he didn’t start screaming - or more likely, throwing punches.

“Fuck! I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize you were in here.” he scrambles up from what he is pretty sure was Barton’s lap, almost knocking over a bucket with cleaning supplies.

“No harm done. Are you ok?” Clint asks, and scoots over to the side to make space for Bucky to sit down before he breaks his neck on a broom or something.

The ridiculousness of the situation actually startles a bark of laughter out of Bucky - it’s been a long time.

“Sorry. I’m just… Hiding, I guess. What about you?”

“Same.”

Bucky can feel the other man shrug next to him, and he looks over in his direction. His eyes are slowly getting used to the dark.

“How come?” he finds himself asking, before he can even stop himself. ‘This is none of your business’ he scolds himself in the privacy of his own head, but there is nothing about this situation that isn’t weird. To his great surprise, Clint actually answers.

“Had a meeting at SHIELD. It… didn’t go too well… I guess I don’t want to answer any questions about it or see anyone getting mad on my behalf. It is what it is.” he shrugs again, but he doesn’t sound half as casual as he is trying for.

Bucky has read his file - he’s read everyone's file - and his guess is that this is absolutely fair. He wouldn’t want to talk, either. As a matter of fact, he is hiding for very similar reasons.

“Yeah, I get that.” he says, leaning his head on the wall behind him, closing his eyes for a moment.

Next to him, Clint hums in agreement.

“You would.” and then, after a pause, he continues, “Hey, tell you what. If you ever get tired of hanging out next to the cleaning supplies, there is a pretty decent access point to the rooftop near the elevator at my level. The view is nice.”

This is not what Bucky expected to hear at all and it takes him off guard. It’s not just a nice gesture, it’s the offer to use a (more or less) secret hiding place where people won’t come looking right away.

“Thank you.” he says quietly. “You wouldn’t mind?”

“No. I get the urge to get away when things are shitty, so…” he shrugs. “Besides, I don’t mind your company.”

With that, and a light tap to his metal shoulder, Clint get’s up, climbs over the fallen mop and to the door before Bucky can say anything to that last statement. Then, Clint turns around, with a mischievous grin on his face.

“I could make a real corny joke about coming out of the closet right now.”

Laughing kinda hurts his throat, but it feels so good to be able to do this - Bucy surprises himself with it.

“You’re terrible!” he accuses, but doesn’t mean it at all.

“I know. See ya around, Barnes.”

The next time they meet, it’s fuck-o clock in the morning and Bucky is staring at the toaster oven in the communal kitchen as if attempting to set it on fire with his eyes. The bagels in it are not impressed and don’t toast any quicker.

Clint is shuffling past Bucky, with a low grunt that could mean just about everything, and makes a beeline for the coffee machine. The noise and movement is enough for Bucky to stop glaring at his food and look over though.

Clint looks like a hot mess - well, more so than he usually does. He’s in pyjamas that could stay up on their own at this point, and his hair sticks up in every direction, as if he spent a good amount of time tossing and turning in bed before giving up on sleep. The purple bags under his eyes are another indicator for that.

He watches silently, as Clint pours not one or two, but six whole espresso shots into one of the giant mugs they keep in the kitchen. Bucky’s eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“Does that even taste good?” he asks, unsurprised when Clint shakes his head.

“No. But it works.” He shrugs, trying to seem casual, but he can’t hide the tremors in his hands as he pours mug after mug in the bigger one on the counter.

‘Do you want to talk?’ is a dumb question, for one, and Bucky can already guess that the answer is ‘no’ so he doesn’t ask it. He knows these kinds of nights - hell, he is having one himself, hence the midnight snack.

The ‘pling’ of the toaster oven makes both of them jump a bit, and Bucky prepares his food while Clint starts making another mug of too-much-espresso for himself.

Both of them sit down by the table, eventually. They don’t talk, but having silent company of someone who understands, makes breathing a little easier.

When the sun goes up behind the large windows in the living room, they start a pot of coffee and then leave the kitchen. As they depart, they do so with a slight shoulder bump and nothing more.

But meeting up in sleepless nights becomes a thing after that.

The next time, Bucky is actually hiding again.

About half an hour earlier, he wakes up drenched in sweat, clawing at his throat and screaming from a very vivid nightmare. This right here is the reason he avoids sleep whenever he can.

Faintly, he can make out JARVIS asking him if he is in need of assistance, but Bucky shakes his head ‘no’ vehemently. He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this, not even Steve.

He knows he’d come to comfort and stay with him in a heartbeat, but he’ll worry. More so than he already does, and Bucky doesn’t want that for him. His best friend is happy, and he doesn’t deserve to be dragged down. Steve would very much disagree and he knows it.

So, Bucky remains alone in bed, hands fisted into the sheets and letting the storm pass over him.

When his breathing is more even again, he’s got a headache and he’s still shaky, but Bucky knows that staying here won’t help. He needs some air - and also a place to hide out for a bit.

The conversation with Clint the other day comes back to his mind, but he hesitates. Should he really go there? Well, it was offered to him, after all.

He gets out of bed and into the elevator.

Just like Clint said, the access point is pretty easy to find - for people like them who are always on the lookout. Bucky climbs up, and the night air hits him in the face. It feels good - soothing.

With a sigh, he sits down on the concrete floor and leans against the wall.

The sight really is beautiful - he can see pretty far from up here, and the lights of the city below have their own charme. It’s different than he is used to - much louder, busier and a lot more neon lights, but it’s not bad. New York is still home, after all.

His thoughts are particularly overwhelming that night. Bucky’s brain is a mess on a good day, and trying to sort it out is hard. Memories are chopped and muddled. Sometimes, he can’t make out faces or voices of people he knows were important to him while others stand out clear as a day.

Bucky can’t remember what his Mom looked like, or if he had sisters, but he’ll always remember the faces of the people he killed. Every single one of them.

‘ I’m sorry ’ he thinks, over and over, ‘ I’m so sorry .’

He still hasn’t found a therapist that doesn’t make his skin crawl, as much as he would like to. How someone would even attempt to treat him, he doesn’t know, but damn it if he doesn’t want to try. Bucky wants to live , not just survive.

There is a painful lump in his throat, choking him up. He is trying as hard as he can to swallow it, but fails.

The concrete under him and behind him is hard, and not very comforting and he keeps whispering his mantra, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry’ over and over again, until his voice gives out and all he can do is hold onto sanity with the tips of his fingers.

He doesn’t realize that there are steps coming closer, and he doesn’t realize that someone is calling for him until they change up “Bucky” for “James”

“...James? Are you with me?”

Clint, he realizes, and nods.

“Okay, that’s, that’s good. Can you breathe? Slowly. In - hold - out - in… Yeah, like that. You’re doing well.” He keeps talking to him, like there is nothing odd about it, kneeling on the floor near Bucky, who is equal parts mortified and grateful. Without realizing it, Bucky leans forward until his forehead hits something warm and solid. Human contact - it’s nice. He didn’t get a lot of that in the last few years.

A hand is carefully rubbing his shoulder, and Bucky leans into it without even realizing. Then, Clint asks quietly,

“Is it okay when I come closer?” and Bucky just nods. A moment later, a pair of warm, strong arms wraps around him and he practically melts into the embrace. It’s been a long time since he let himself be held like that, but it feels so good - he doesn’t want it to stop. So, he just does the next logical thing and hugs back.

After a while, breathing is a lot easier, and he doesn’t feel as cold anymore.

“Hey. Can I ask you something?” Bucky asks later that night, when he is still sitting on the roof, next to Clint who has kept him company the whole time.

He blinks, and nods slowly.

“Yeah, sure.”

For a moment, Bucky hesitates.

“You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“...Okay?”

For a while, neither of them says anything. Clint is almost sure that Bucky changed his mind about the question, but then he fixes him with a desperate look in his eyes, and it tells Clint enough so that he can just prepare for it, before Buck asks him,

“How do you cope with it? The Mind Control.”

Clint stays silent for a bit. He is trying to keep his emotions in check, telling himself that he is safe, he is himself and those days are over. Talking about this is hard, and for good reason.

“Honestly? I don’t.” he confesses, forcing himself to look at Bucky. Under normal circumstances, he’d have brushed off a question like this, but this is different - Bucky is different. He understands better than most people what it is like, to be trapped in the back of your mind while someone else takes over, takes control.

“It’s… hard. I was in therapy. Didn’t help much, but that’s because I don’t trust the SHIELD shrinks. It’s a whole thing… And finding someone else is…” He shakes his head, wiping one hand over his face. He hates talking about this, but he figures any common ground might help Bucky.

“I learned to live with it. Kinda. Not well, but. I’m still kickin’, so that’s gotta be worth something. Having something to do and people around you, who you can count on helps. A lot. But… It’s been years. I still have to deal with it. Some days more than others.”

He looks over to Bucky, who listens to every word with an intense stare that is almost uncomfortable.

“I’m sorry I can’t give you anything more helpful. Fuck.” He laughs, but it’s not a happy sound.

“It was about a week for me. I can’t imagine 70-odd years...”

“Hey, no. It’s not a competition. It just sucks.” carefully, he reaches out with one hand. Clint doesn’t pull away - on the contrary, he returns the grip on Bucky’s flesh hand and doesn’t let go.

“Thank you, Clint, for telling me. It means a lot.”

After this one meeting on the roof, the two of them have grown a lot closer. They still don’t talk very much about what happened to them, but knowing that there is another person who understands, really understands what it feels like to be violated in this way - it helps. Bucky and Clint keep each other company whenever possible, spending days together, snarking over the comms when they’re in their respective perches, sharing drinks or snacks at night in their favourite hiding spots, when the company of other people is too much.

They also learn that sleeping together helps to keep their nightmares at bay - at least a bit.

It all starts out one night, where most of the team is out of town for various reasons, and the two of them pretty much have the tower to themselves. Bucky isn’t up for much, and he is curled up on his couch, watching a movie that doesn’t really interest him but is considered a classic, so he vows to suffer through it at least once.

He is almost relieved when a knock on his door interrupts him, but that only lasts until his eyes stop by the clock - it’s two in the morning. Shit.

Bucky is at the door in a matter of seconds, and when he opens it, he is greeted with a very sorry sight.

Clint is standing in front of him, dressed in old, wrinkled pyjamas and he’s shaking like a leaf. His eyes are wide, terrified and rimmed red. He tries to form a sentence, but it gets stuck in his throat, almost turning into a sob. Without thinking, Bucky pulls him into his arms and inside.

He never finds out what exactly was bothering him that night, but the two of them do end up wrapped in blankets and around each other on the couch, with the muted TV still flickering. The caps are on, in case Clint wants to distract himself. He doesn’t wear his ears at the time, and he isn’t really interested in reading anything, be it caps or lips. As it is, he simply holds onto Bucky while he is trying to calm down, trying to ground himself.

One arm remains tightly wrapped around the other man’s waist, while his other hand is moving constantly. He is drawing invisible patterns on his back with light fingertips, and it seems to help him. Bucky himself is enjoying the physical contact a lot, and if he wasn’t so focused on making sure that his friend is okay, he would have fallen asleep on the spot. Instead, he keeps himself busy by playing with the dirty blond strands of hair, combing his fingers through them again and again, even when all the little knots are gone.

Eventually, both of them drift off into sleep. Surprisingly enough, there are no more nightmares for either of them that night.

It’s a thing after this. They spend the nights together whenever possible, falling asleep wrapped around a warm body and holding each other through the nightmares that lurk in the dark corners of their subconsciousness. Company doesn’t erase the trauma or the memories, but it makes it a lot easier to deal with.

The team notices how much better the two of them are doing, too. They seem happy and relieved for them, and occasionally say as much.

“Are you going to tell him?” Natasha asks one evening, from where she is sitting on the carpet in front of Clint while he is braiding and twisting her long red curls into a complicated updo. He hums questioningly, trying not to accidentally swallow one of the hairpins that he’s holding in between his teeth.

“James.” she clarifies, and takes a sip of her tea.

“Tell him what?” Clint asks, and pins another strand of hair in place. He has a feeling where this might go, and he can feel the heat of a blush creeping up his neck. Thank god Nat doesn’t face him right now - not that she needs to. She knows him better than anyone else.

“A hundred bucks say he feels the same as you.” Nat replies instead of answering his question, and Clint huffs a laugh.

“Well, just one BuckY would be enough for me, you know.”

“See, there you go.” she replies, sounding way too smug. And really, when Natasha turns around, there is a lopsided smile on her face, slightly mischievous.

With a heavy sigh, Clint picks up more hair pins from the side table.

“I don’t want to fuck up what we have now. It’s… I trust him, and I like him. A lot. And he trusts me, too, at least as far as I can tell.”

“Of course he does. You two understand each other in a way that not many people do.”

“You understand, Tasha.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to sleep with either of you.”

“That’s your loss.” Clint is grinning, always happy to make corny jokes.

“Oh well, I’ll live.” Natasha is laughing now, and he does, too. For a moment, Clint rests a cheek on her shoulder and she leans into him. The two of them hold onto each other for a bit.

They may not always agree with one another, but they’ve called the other family long before any other person earned that title. They know each other, in a bone deep understanding that is rare for most people. After so many years, there is nothing left but love, trust and honesty.

“You two are good for each other, you know. It’s nice to see that, and you deserve to be happy.”

Later that night, kneeling on his couch with a towel in both hands, Clint is carefully drying off Bucky’s soaked, tangled mess of hair. He just came in from a thunderstorm and resembled a wet, pissed off cat, up until Clint offered to help out.

Doing other people's hair is relaxing, helps him to calm down and focus. Physical contact plays a big part in it, of course, but so does the activity itself. The other plus is that the people he is with tend to enjoy being taken care of, so it’s an arrangement that makes both of them happy.

Natasha went out with Pepper for a Lady’s Night in a local bar, hence the styling, and Bucky just spent the day with Steve and Sam around town. The weather turned on their way back, and naturally, no one carried an umbrella.

So when Bucky turns up on Clint’s doorstep, soaking wet and with a dark scowl, he steers him straight towards the bathroom, throwing a big towel over the heater and a change of clothes into the sink on the way there, telling him to get warmed up.

“Trying to get me out of my clothes already, huh?” Bucky jokes, with is met with

“I’ll buy you dinner, first.” and then the door is thrown shut behind him so he can shower and change in peace.

‘ Jeez Barton, obvious much. ’ Clint thinks on his way to the kitchen, where he starts a pot of coffee for both of them and tries very hard to stay busy and not think too much.

A few minutes later, the coffee is done and Bucky is sitting in front of Clint, head slightly tilted back for him to reach. He is wearing his borrowed clothes, which are a bit short on him, but luckily, Clint likes his lounge clothes big and comfy, unlike the tight shirts he tends to wear out. Bucky would have burst those at the seams, especially with the metal arm. He is not that much taller than Clint, and the archer is far from scrawny, but it doesn’t change the fact that Bucky can pick him up like a sack of potatoes when he wants to.

Damn supersoldiers.

Clint squeezes the rest of the water out of Bucky’s hair with a towel, careful to get every single strand of it. Then he starts to detangle the knots with his fingers, gently running them through the thick, dark hair that is long enough to reach past Bucky’s shoulders by now.

The feeling of fingers running through his hair, tugging gently and massaging his scalp make him melt into the touch. He soaks up every bit of gentle touch and tenderness like a sponge, and by the time his hair is only slightly damp and brushed through completely, his head has fallen back against Clint’s chest and he hums happily, especially because the touch doesn’t stop once his hair is done. Clint keeps running his fingers through his hair, occasionally brushing a cheek with his thumb and stroking over the bit of stubble there, and Bucky loves every second of it.

He didn’t think he’d get to experience something like this ever again, let alone be comfortable with someone coming this close to him. But he is lucky enough to be here, and that means the world to him.

It’s moments like this where Bucky thinks he should just say something - tell Clint how he feels, in the hopes that it’s mutual. Which, if he is to believe Natasha and Steve, who have both been bugging him like annoyingly correct shoulder-angels, is the case.

“Are you about to fall asleep on me?” Clint asks him with a hint of humor in his voice, but he keeps scratching his scalp and his hands are so incredibly warm, it’s all Bucky can do to hum in agreement and snuggle closer.

He realizes that suddenly, he is pulled sideways, but doesnt protest, because it means that both of them are laying down now, which only gives him better access to snuggle into Clint, who puts away his ears and wraps a blanket around both of them. Once they’re settled, he keeps stroking his hair.

“You’re the best.” he tells him sleepily, and smiles into the soft shirt under his head when the other man buries his nose in his hair. Clint wouldn’t have heard that last part, but the sentiment seems to come across.

Outside the window, the rain keeps splattering against the glass, lulling them to sleep. The rain, and the calm, even breathing of one another are the last thing either of them can make out before drifting off. Although for Bucky, whose head is still pillowed on Clint’s chest, the heartbeat under him is probably the biggest source of comfort.

Unfortunately, no matter how happy Bucky was before falling asleep, his subconciousness is always ready to fuck him over. He wakes up thrashing and screaming, only realizing where he is when gentle hands catch his flying fists and a familiar voice next to his ear says,

“Bucky, you are safe. You are at home in the tower, in my apartment and you are safe. No one is attacking, you are safe. Please keep breathing. I’m here, I got you. I got you…”

Home… He’s home. With Clint, who is holding him and stroking his hair again, reassuring him that he is safe.

Zola is nowhere to be found, because that time is long over, and his arm is okay - the old, heavy thing that Hydra gave him is long gone and replaced by a better, much lighter one from Tony Stark, because Bucky has a new life now, where he is safe… He’s got friends, a family even… He’s safe…

Only belatedly, he realizes that he is crying, but even if he tried to, he wouldn’t be able to stop. The hug around him tightens, and he is pretty sure that his hold on Clint is too hard, it probably hurts him, and he tries to soften his grip. But then the fear overcomes him, and he holds on as tightly as he can, shaking violently with fear.

“It’s okay, I’m here. Not going anywhere… I’m here Bucky, and I love you. I’m here, you’re safe…”

The three words almost don’t register with him, but a part of him notices, and despite everything, they spread warmth through his entire body. Bucky presses closer, allowing himself to let everything out until he feels more like himself again. He is exhausted though, so before he can say or do anything, he falls back asleep.

Over coffee and breakfast the next morning, he asks,

“What you said last night. Did you mean it?”

“Hm?” Clint looks up at him, not quite awake yet.

“When I was freaking out. You were calming me down and said-”

“Oh. Oh ! Yes, of course I - I mean that. Because I do… Love you. Didn’t mean to tell you like that, but, yeah. I do.”

Hearing this is the best thing that happened to him in a long time - Bucky reaches out to get a hold of Clint and he lets him. He’s still stammering, but smiles as soon as Bucky takes his hand in his own. Something eases in his chest.

“I love you, too. Wanted to tell you for ages…”

They close the distance between them and the breakfast is forgotten on the table. The world around them seems to have come to a stop, and they’re perfectly content with that.

“...Can I kiss you?”

“Yes!” before he can say anything else, the last few inches of distance are crossed and their lips meet. This first kiss between them is a soft and gentle thing. Reassuring, steady. Tasting a bit like the coffee they just drank.

After a while, they grow hungry for more, and Clint is straddling his lap. He is rewarded with strong arms wrapped around him and by the time they break apart, their coffee has gotten cold. But it doesn’t matter because they are happy and giddy, like teenagers in love.

This happiness seems to be radiating off of them, or maybe the goofy smile on both of their faces are telling on them. Either way, when they enter the common kitchen, they are met with a quick look from Tony, who just nods to himself, says, “finally” and then there is money exchanged between several people at the table. Most of it goes to Natasha, naturally, who looks satisfied but also shoots both of them a genuine smile.

Later that day, Steve catches Clint in the hallway, but the expected shovel talk doesn’t happen. Instead, he pulls the archer into a bone crushing hug that lifts him off of his feet. When he puts him back to the floor, Clint is utterly confused, but Steve just beams at him.

“I haven’t seen Buck this happy since the 40s!” he hugs him again. “You two are good for each other. Thank you - for being there for him.”

“Thanks, uh- I’m glad to have him, too.”

“If you’re both happy, that’s all I care about.” and with a clap to his shoulder, the Captain has disappeared into the elevator,waving at him as the door closes.

When Clint joins Bucky on the couch in front of the running TV, he nuzzles into him and says,

“Your Bestie is like an excited puppy. It’s kinda adorable.”

“What, did he launch into a cheesy speech of happiness?”

“He hugged me. Twice in a span of like, a minute. And yes, he did launch into that speech. How much money did Tasha win in the bet?”

Bucky laughs and pulls Clint closer to himself. He is ridiculously happy right now.

“She didn’t tell, but she said she’ll spring for dinner some time.”

“Sweet.”

One evening, a little later down the road, they’re walking hand in hand underneath old street lights. It’s getting colder now, what with fall slowly approaching. There are barely any people around, which is rare enough here in the city.

They’re in good spirits, having come from a dinner date and decided to go for a walk after, and take their time.

They laugh and joke, talking about everything and nothing. It doesn’t matter - they’re happy, much, much happier than either of them has been in a very long time, and they stop under one of the lights to share another kiss, holding each other close. When they move along to get home, they walk just a little bit closer to each other.

The last few weeks have been hard. There have been news articles, twitter posts, anything and anyone with an public opinion writing about the two of them since paparazzi have managed to get a shot of them holding hands while entering the back door to the tower.

There are the typical homophobic idiots opening their big stupid mouths, but those don’t bother Clint or Bucky very much, because they know they’re wrong. What’s worse and much more hurtful are people who try to dig up dirt about either one or both of them, falling back onto the crimes they committed while being mind controlled.

It hurts, in a deep and personal way, and it makes going out on the streets a lot harder than it was before. Let alone SHIELD - Clint avoids going there at all costs. He still couldn’t shake off the undeserved reputation after the Battle of New York, and the recent news articles have only made it worse. As for Bucky, it is pretty much the same. Many people simply don’t care or think enough to distinguish between the Soldier and James Barnes.

Some time has passed since the first articles hit, and while the talk hasn’t died down by any means, some days are better than others.

They manage, with the love and support of their team, and of course, each other. They’re simply moving on together.

*+~

Prompt: Undeserved Reputation

Warnings: - Attack/violence/blood - PTSD - suicidal thoughts - Loss of control - Panic Attacks, Anxiety - neglect from medical personnel - Survivors guilt - Trauma - Bullying - references to homophobia

#Bad things happen bingo #banashee writes #marvel fanfiction #winterhawk #angst #hurt/comfort #tw violence #tw mental health issues #angst and fluff

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millipedegf · 4 years

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when the pawn fiona apple? <3

oh one of my favourite albums of all time !! <3

on the bound

a mistake

the way things are

fast as you can

paper bag

i know

to your love

limp

love ridden

get gone

#thank u !!!#💌#this one was so hard.... i really love this album so deeply so ranking it was a struggle lol

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dancefloors · 4 years

Note

rank when the pawn songs!!

get gone nation...

get gone

paper bag

I know

a mistake

love ridden

on the bound

the way things are

limp

fast as you can

to your love

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hardyimagines · 5 years

Text

Part 1 — SOLD!

———

may I ask you to write Something about a girl who is sold to alfie (by her father, boyfriend or else) to repay a debt, the girl is terrified by him the whole story, and he won’t soften because of her, he is as harsh and tough as in the show.

Part 2 Part 3

———

The bounds tied around your wrists were securely knotted in an impossible to escape manner. It was rope. Braided strands tied so tightly around your flesh that the sharp wiry strands that stuck out in multiple places were embedded deep within your skin leaving you to wince each time the leash-like material was yanked on. The alley you were being pulled through was dark and silent apart from the quiet thudding that echoed throughout the small space as you were led along the pavement and toward an abandoned building in the decreasing distance. The exterior was gray and rundown. Windows were cracked in some places, others were completely shattered and gone. The stars that twinkled above were too beautiful for the angry world below to be able to look up at and enjoy. Your gaze was pulled away from the night’s sky when you were pulled forward and indoors at an even harsher speed.

Eli, your boyfriend, stood in front of you with no regret in his orbs. His eyes were so dark brown they looked almost black. His gaze was infused with worry and a little bit of hope, but no regret and he offered no explanation as he cradled the opposite end of the rope. You’d been fast asleep in bed and then all of a sudden hauled up and off of the warm, comfy mattress and jerked into the cold streets. Eli hadn’t even bothered to grab a coat for you, he’d merely led you outdoors in your nightgown. Neither of you looked to each other. Your heart ached with betrayal and his heart ached with hopeful relief.

Months ago, before he’d met you, he’d made the poor mistake of screwing over a few gangsters. That term wasn’t used lightly. These were criminals, dangerous men who wouldn’t hesitate before taking illegal actions to settle debts. Eli had been trying his hardest to earn back money to pay back said gangsters, but there were too many of them and he was running out of time. When he’d seen you, so beautiful and pure and willing to converse with him, a complete stranger, he’d decided you’d be the perfect pay off. Or at least brief pay off. He’d approached and within a week you’d fallen for him. A charming smile and smooth words were all it took for you to become attracted to the man you hated so much in that moment. This was the second time you’d been used to settle a form of payment, only the first time you’d been given away had been by your beloved father. He only had one child, you, and he, without hesitation, had sold you to a bloke about four years ago when you were in your later teens. It had been the worst months of your life. It was a time that was infused with cheap meals and stomach aches. An uncomfortable environment to sleep and an impossible environment to get clean in. The water stunk which meant you felt filthy even when you bathed. The man who’d purchased you had used you as nothing more than a punching bag, something to let his anger out on. You worried for nights that his physical abuse would turn sexual, but it never did. Now, you found yourself in the same situation. Being sold as an object was a way to make a woman feel small and useful in such a horrible manner. The door in the corner opened with a loud moan, an irritating sound which made you want to clasp your hands over your ears until it was finished. The ties on your wrists made that impossible though, so you stood with your shoulders squared and your head forward. Despite your strong, sturdy stance, the tremble in your bottom lip and closed eyes gave away the fear that welled up inside you. No man blamed you. They wouldn’t want to be sold to a gent either. Especially not the one sauntering into the room. Alfie Solomons, a gangster in Camden Town, had been threatening him for months. Men could be seen lurking over his shoulders, revolvers in hand as they silently warned Eli that if he didn’t pay Alfie back for all the money he’d taken then it would be his life at stake. The cold room grew even colder when a foreign voice flooded the entire building. It was deep, hoarse and gruff. The accent was thick, definitely cockney, and he dropped a swear word into his sentence after almost every other word.

“Fuckin’ hell, mate. You could not have picked a fucking shittier place, right, to have this little fucking meeting.” Alfie Solomons made his way along the room and toward the pair of you. You didn’t dare look though, your hearing was enough aid to see what you didn’t want to. It sounded like he had men with him, no doubt accompanying him in this meeting to ensure that Eli didn’t try and pull anything. “Right, mate, so, I’m here, ain’t I? Talk.” Alfie came to a stop about three feet away. His hands sunk into his deep pockets, fingers lazily tracing the chains he had tucked away inside his slacks. His blue eyes ran along the length of Eli, a brief inspection to see if there was an outline of a weapon. He didn’t see one. All he saw was the rope the boy held. Following the length of it which led to you, he cocked a slow brow.

“Alfie.” Eli finally spoke. “This is Y/N. My gift to you. I don’t have the money. But I will. But im giving you her — for free. I need more time so I figured I’d pay you the only way I can.”

Dried tears stained your cheeks leaving a sticky trail from your eyes all the way down to your jaw. The dress you wore was thin and the straps barely hid your goosebump-covered flesh. Your nipples were hardened and visible through the cloth. You felt naked and vulnerable beneath the men’s stares and yet, you still didn’t open your eyes in order to face the man in front of you. Hearing his voice was enough.

The previous time you’d been sold it had been horrible. You’d been silent throughout the sale and you’d figured he’d be sweet to you since you weren’t disobedient. That wasn’t the case. No matter how good. How sweet. How obeying and willing you were to listen to his every command, he rewarded you with beatings until he was bored of you. He hadn’t sold you to anyone else, he’d merely told you to go away and you’d listened with a wide smile. You’d left your old town and moved to Camden which didn’t seem to be the best choice right now.

Alfie was still staring you down. You were very pretty. You held your head high, a sign of confidence and bravery. He didn’t care about the tears, nor did he care about the way you shut your eyes. You should’ve been cowering away and then he wouldn’t have dared take you with him. He’d never taken a woman as payment before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything. Brushing his thumb along his bottom lip, he took another step forward.

“Right, mate, take the ropes off her, yeah, she’s not a fucking dog and I can’t have my girl, innit,” He waited for a nod from Eli before continuing. “to be injured.” Eli scrambled toward you. He wasn’t mumbling apologies or asking if you were okay. He roughly pulled the ties from your hands before rolling the bound up into a ball and shoving it into his pocket. Alfie smirked slowly as you lowered your arms. ��Right, boys.” He snapped his fingers. Your eyes opened at the sound of Eli’s sharp wince. The men who’d accompanied Alfie were suddenly hammering their fists into Eli’s face. His stomach, ribs, back, legs, whatever they could hit, they did. You tore your eyes away from the scene when the man who stood in front of you nudged your leg with his cane. “Lass.” You finally looked up at him. The very bravery he’d seen in your stance shimmered just as noticeably in your gaze. It was watery and tears continued to brew in your big eyes, but it was there and it made a little bubble of pride form in his chest. His tongue slid over his lips before in one swift movement, he gripped your forearm and pulled you toward him. “You get in the car, right, and don’t move a muscle. Just sit fucking still and wait until I’m ready to go.” As you stared up at him, your pink lips pressed together, twitching downward. This man was too hard to read. But his name was far too familiar and that alone made you bob your head with an obedient nod before moving toward the car. You’d do anything to get away from his heated gaze and into some sort of warmth.

Said warmth didn’t last too long. The men outside the car piled in shortly after Alfie had told you to go. Your boyfriend’s body was left limp on the cement, blood staining his features. Nose, broken. Lips, cracked and split. He looked unrecognizable as you peered out the window and toward his unmoving form. He wasn’t dead, you noted, when you saw his back twitch with his ragged inhale. The sound of the car door slamming drew your focus away from that man and instead to the one at your side. Alfie. You’d made a mental note when you’d first heard his name. The backseat wasn’t too spacious, so the second he got comfy, grumbling incoherently, his knee bumped yours, cane situated between his thighs. Everything seemed to be an unspoken agreement. Alfie went silent and the driver took off. You watched him from your peripheral, attempting not to quiver as much as you desperately wanted to. That brave facade you’d had would need to stick with you for some time. Being weak wasn’t admirable — and to the rare one’s who might show you some pity well, he didn’t seem like the type.

—

The car was cold, despite all the body warmth it held. Being with strangers, going to an unknown place, being sold as if you weren’t a human being — it simply sucked all that happiness out of your body and left you feeling like a block of ice. No pumping heart or position emotions. No soul. Just a body. A body with a blank face and empty eyes. You’d rather be dead than suffer through abuse again.

The car came to a jolting stop. You extended your arm to catch yourself, effectively preventing your face from slamming into the back of the passenger seat. Alfie climbed out, cane meeting the pavement first and then his feet followed. You were stiff in your seat. You remembered from your original purchaser to wait for instructions. Wait until you were told what to do. But Alfie didn’t ever say ‘get out’, he just stood and waited. It was common sense.

You piled out of the car and shyly made your way around. No other man looked at you apart from him and that was probably wise on their part. An owner didn’t enjoy his belongings being ogled. The space between the two of you grew smaller and smaller as you approached him, only coming to a stop when you reached a few inches from him. Rules would surely be explained at some point in time, but you felt, as he stared at you with a look of hesitance in his gaze, that he’d never done this before. He pinched the sleeve of your dress and drew you toward him before twisting around and leading you into the tall establishment behind him.

Again. No one looked toward you. Not even as you were hauled down a long corridor and toward a flight of stairs. Working men didn’t stray from their task and even people who needed to speak to Alfie, they only looked at him. No greetings or introductions, just silence. Alfie opened the door to his office before instructing you with grumbled and hand gestures to go to the corner. He seemed a bit on edge, like he had something to handle. But it didn’t matter to you. Stuck alone with him, that was when most men like him — men who accepted women as a form of payment — were weakest. Men like that enjoyed being powerful in front of an audience, not in privacy. So you took a chance and you begged for some leniency.

“Sir.. please have mercy on me.” You whispered breathily. “I’ve been sold before and I.. I don’t think I can take going through what I had to previously.” Alfie was rummaging through a drawer as you spoke, blue eyes taking over his cluttered belongings. Your mouth opened though and the words that spewed from your lips were instantly regretted. He looked at you, spectacles low on the bridge of his nose as he stared, unwaveringly.

You realized in that moment that power radiated off of him. Alone or in a group, he wasn’t fearful. He was the owner. He was in charge. He was not to be messed with. A man, one like your last owner, would have chortled at your words. Kept his distance. Brushed you off. Alfie, you could tell as he stepped around his desk, ceasing his task for the moment, was a virgin to having a woman. There was nothing in his gaze but authority.

“Mercy?” His harsh chuckle shook the room as it left his chest. The sound was deep and overpowering, a sound that made you quiver on the spot. “Mercy,” he laughed a little softer now before approaching you. His wide palm opened completely before lifting to your cheeks. He squeezed the flesh that resided there closing his hand around your face so that your lips pushed together. You closed your eyes, afraid of the gangster that stood before you. “You and I, pet, we’re going to have a lot of fun.” He whispered lowly. His hot breaths danced across the flesh of your cheeks before tickling your ear. Wringing your hands together in front of you, you silently pleaded for the man you’d just been sold to to be kind. To be gentle. To be nothing like the last man you’d been given to. “Mercy is a pathetic thing to beg for, pet.“

———————————————————————

Part 2 Part 3

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#tom hardy x reader #tom hardy imagine #alfie solomons imagine #alfie solomons x reader #peaky blinders imagine

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