#lincoln is there but he's kind of 'sir not appearing in this fic'

[happi-tree]

in somniis, veritas

Lincoln clears his throat. “Is something the matter, my prince? Margarita told me it was urgent.”

“Very,” Taylor replies, with the beginnings of a smirk on his face despite everything. “I need you to sleep with me.”

Sir Lincoln chokes, sputtering incoherently.

“Ah. My apologies, I should have worded that better,” Taylor says, though it is clear to both of them that he is not that sorry.

“Please. Please do that,” his knight mutters.

Or: After an assassination attempt on Prince Taylor’s life, Sir Lincoln has difficulties sleeping well. Taylor seeks to remedy this as effectively as possible - propriety be damned.

ao3

Happy Swiftli Week 2024, lovebirds! Here's my fic for Day 2: Fantasy AU. It's actually set in the same universe as one of my other fics, (i will) stay for you, so, while this can be read as a standalone, make sure to check it out if you enjoy the vibes of this one! That said, enjoy some fun prince/knight Swiftli 👑

“Highness, might I have a word with you?”

The voice is one Taylor seldom hears addressing him, and the sudden volume revives him from his lesson-induced stupor.

“Might this not be able to wait, Sir…?” His tutor drones, voice as dry and dreary as Taylor feels looking out at scrolls upon scrolls of intricate cartography.

“Margarita,” she answers, in the curt-and-clipped tone many of the knights reserve for the more obstinate residents of the palace. “It will only be but a moment of the Prince’s time.”

Interest piqued (as it had been ever since the initial interruption of the lesson), Taylor glances at her.

Sir Margarita’s face is impassive and neutral, inscrutable, as it normally appears.

Beside him, though, Lincoln tenses minutely, so there is clearly some nuance in her face or body language that brings him pause.

(A slight bit of envy briefly squirms in his stomach, wormlike and viscous, at the thought that they know each other so well; it abates as he exhales, closes his eyes, steeples his fingers, and reminds himself of Lincoln’s presence beside him).

“I see no reason why not, if it is urgent,” He concludes.

Lady Hailes, Taylor’s years-long instructor, mutters darkly to herself, so Taylor offers a placation: “Surely, the study of last century’s geography can wait for… but a few moments, correct?”

Sir Margarita nods silently as his tutor grouses and grumbles.

“Fine, so be it,” she relents begrudgingly.

Taylor shifts to stand, joints aching from the chill of the room and the inactivity in equal measure. Wordlessly, Link hands him his cane and pushes the heavy, oaken chair back.

Lincoln hasn’t been much for conversation, lately, but rather is in the kind of mood to follow him two steps behind rather than five, to ensure that his eyes do not stray from him for more than a handful of seconds at a time.

Taylor finds he rather misses their usual rapport, but he can hardly blame his knight. It seems the whole of the castle has been alternately walking on eggshells and shrouded in a stuffy, serious haze, ever since...

“I would prefer if we speak of this alone ,” Sir Margarita clarifies, eyes dragging to the room’s other occupants, and Link stiffens in his place at his side.

A long, silent look passes between the two knights (over Taylor’s head, which he does not particularly appreciate). At last, his guard sighs in defeat, posture sagging slightly, likened to a dog kept from the hunt.

“I do suppose I can keep Sir Lincoln company,” Lady Hailes sniffs. “He would be something of an insurance measure for your return, yes?” She punctuates this with a rather humorless laugh.

“Quite,” Taylor responds equally blithely, looking up to read Link’s expression. Rather than Margarita’s stone-facedness, his knight’s eyes are large in his face, accentuating the darkness that has grown beneath them, and his mouth is pressed into a line that is trying valiantly to not to obviously frown. Were they not in the tutor’s presence, Taylor has no doubt that he would be wringing his hands to rid himself of excess anxiety.

“I’ll be back soon,” he murmurs from the corner of his mouth, with a velvet-gloved hand to his knight’s mailed elbow. “Sir Margarita is a sworn protector and, more importantly, your friend; I trust she will not let anything happen to me.”

“Quite right,” she interjects, having drawn near enough to catch fragments of speech.

She nods at him, sharp and affirmative, but when she glances to Lincoln, her features melt into something softer, offering him the slightest of smiles.

“I would never let any harm befall the Prince,” she tells him, voice low but with a stern edge. “You know this. I’ll only keep him but a moment, and soon you’ll have this scholarly type out of your hair, eh?” She claps him on the shoulder, and Lincoln smiles easily, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“Now that that’s settled,” Taylor says, attempting not to feel strangely unmoored by their carefree closeness, “I believe you had news for me, Sir Margarita?”

In lieu of an answer, the knight simply nods once more, and leads him beyond the bounds of the library.

As he leaves, Taylor catches a flash of Lincoln’s concerned expression, and makes up his mind to have this talk as efficiently as possible.

The knight leads him to a small, unoccupied sitting room after only a few purposeful turns through the twisting corridors.

Taylor gestures to one of the chairs for her to sit; Sir Margarita remains standing, gaze affixed out the window.

“Lincoln worries about you,” she says, still not looking at him.

This statement is both blatantly obvious and frustratingly vague.

“I’m well aware,” Taylor replies with the slightest bit of annoyance. “He’ll worry himself into an early grave if he doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

“And that’s precisely what I want to talk to you about,” she says, finally turning. “He hasn’t been sleeping of late.”

Taylor thinks back to the bags accentuating Lincoln’s eyes, to the increasingly silent air about him, to the moments where he paused slightly too long before replying to something he’s said, to the fact that his smiles seem more and more forced.

“I had figured he hadn’t been resting well,” Taylor muses.

“Not resting at all, more like,” Sir Margarita replies, then sighs in frustration. “He hasn’t slept a wink in the last three nights since the attempt on your life, in spite of my own efforts to calm him. Moreover, I’m starting to feel the effects as well! All his tossing and turning about makes far too much noise,” she huffs. A wayward curl that has escaped its tight ponytail flutters away from her face with the force of it.

“At this rate, I fear it’s only a matter of time before the Captain takes notice,” she frets. “I can only cover us both for so long, and he’s held to much higher standards as prince-guard. He still passes muster, of course, but if this goes on for much longer, then…”

“They wouldn’t… remove him of his post for lack of sleep, would they?” Taylor asks, aghast.

“Likely not,” Sir Margarita replies. “Not with you and your mother’s favor. But even then, he would only think more harshly of himself. You know well how he is.”

“I do,” Taylor admits. “So, what do you propose I do about this, then?”

“Talk to him?” Sir Margarita says, with an air of are you daft that would be quite bold for any other knight, save Lincoln. “I have tried my best, and still nothing. You are the only one who might make him see reason. Though, with his paranoia, you may well need to resolve to something rather drastic.”

Taylor furrows his brow, trying not to let guilt overwhelm him as he thinks.

Then, he asks somewhat helplessly, “What shall I do, if he will not listen?”

The knight simply hums. “I haven’t the faintest idea. But I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You and your schemes.” She briefly allows herself a crooked grin, teasing and exasperatedly fond. “Just… take care of him. Please,” she adds, and there is a firm set to her jaw that is belied by the soft light in her eyes.

“I… I will try,” he finally responds.

Sir Margarita does not smile again, simply nods in that sharp, professional way of hers.

“Good. Now, hopefully the Lady Hailes isn’t boring Lincoln to death.”

-

“You called for me?” Sir Lincoln inquires later that evening, after the sun has dipped below the horizon and supper has been had. He stands stiffly at the threshold of the prince’s chambers, pointedly not toeing a single millimeter past the doorway.

“Ah, good,” Taylor says, shifting the collar of his nightshirt just slightly. “Sir Margarita passed along my missive, then?” Sir Lincoln’s eyes follow the movement, then widen and quickly look askance. 

“Erm, yes,” he replies, though his voice is a few shades softer and a few octaves higher than normal.

It’s quite adorable, Taylor thinks, how easy his dear knight is to fluster. 

Framed by the doorway of his chambers and backlit by torches, the silver of his armor dulled and darkened by the pink-purples of twilight, Sir Lincoln’s features look all the more darling. 

Lincoln clears his throat. “Is something the matter, my prince? Margarita told me it was urgent.”

“Very,” Taylor replies, with the beginnings of a smirk on his face despite everything. “I need you to sleep with me.”

Sir Lincoln chokes, sputtering incoherently.

“Ah. My apologies, I should have worded that better,” Taylor says, though it is clear to both of them that he is not that sorry. 

“Please. Please do that,” his knight mutters, looking as if he is recovering from a minor heart attack. 

“It has come to my attention that you have not been resting well,” Taylor begins. “And that will not do.”

“My sincerest and deepest apologies, my prince,” Sir Lincoln says quickly - so quickly and ardently, in fact, that he very nearly begins to trip over his words. “I know that I have not been as cheerful in demeanor as of late, but I assure you, I would never endeavor to render myself incapable of protecting you and thus lower myself to someone unworthy of my post-”

“Not purposefully,” Taylor responds, voice intentionally kept calm and even. 

This does not help matters much, as his knight’s expression reads nothing but naked distress and perhaps even fear.

That simply will not do, either, so Taylor steps toward him to rest a placating hand on his knight’s arm.

The mail is starkly cold against his ungloved hand, and the young prince fails to suppress a shiver.

“You have done nothing wrong,” he tells Lincoln, his voice tottering on the blade’s edge between reassuring and firm, and here he runs his fingers along the metal links, trailing over where he knows a scar to be.

Before him, his knight shudders. “But - But I -”

“Margarita informed me that she worries for you and instructed me to step in however I saw fit,” Taylor continues, attempting to cut off Sir Lincoln’s objections.

His brow furrows. “Of course she did,” Lincoln mutters, gloved hands clenching into fists.

“And I am glad for it,” Taylor nods. “Your lack of sleep… Sir Margarita suggested that it may be due to the foiled assassination, yes?”

Lincoln, for his part, briefly glances skyward, as if begging the gods for some shred of mercy.

“Yes,” he admits, voice low. “I cannot bear the thought of you in danger while out of my reach.”

“Well, then,” Taylor replies. “There’s quite a simple solution to that.”

Lincoln finally looks upon him, scanning his face with a dawning realization. 

Taylor gestures behind him to his chambers helpfully.

“No,” he says, aghast, “Absolutely not. I cannot abide by this, it simply isn’t proper for me - for us? -” He swallows, as if having difficulty digesting the mere idea of what Taylor insinuates. 

“There’s - there’s bound to be talk,” he continues, altogether beside himself. “Are you mad? Margarita will know what is afoot if I fail to return to the barracks - she’s very clever - and then not much will stop the other guards from knowing, and the servants that come to dress you for the morning will know, and, gods, I’m not permitted to even stand within your chambers barring emergencies, and -”

“ Link ,” Taylor says firmly, hand at his arm squeezing enough that it must be felt through layers of armor. 

His knight’s gaze snaps to his face, though his own expression remains panicked. 

“Please, calm down. You are bound to worry yourself into a fainting spell, and that is not the way I would like for you to get rest tonight.”

Taylor reaches for one of Lincoln’s hands, using their interlocked palms to drag him past the doorway. Reluctantly, Lincoln allows this.

“I’ve dismissed the servants for tomorrow,” Taylor says, voice softer now. “Sir Margarita will cover for you. Even my mother is aware of this and she has allowed it, And, most importantly, I am asking this of you because I am worried for you.”

Lincoln looks down, cowed, and does not meet his eyes. Seeing this, Taylor raises their joined hands to nudge his knight’s jaw upward.

Sir Lincoln meets his eyes, and Taylor desperately hopes he can find the fond affection that shines within them.

“Not just because I need you to guard me,” Taylor continues, barely above a whisper, “but because I need you… to be alright. You may protect me, but within the castles, you are under my protection, too, and I will not see you tear yourself to pieces over circumstances beyond your control. Understood?”

And maybe it is the feel of their hands interlocked against the fullness of his cheek, or perhaps it is something in the young prince’s expression that convinces him, but Lincoln’s posture softens, lips curling in the smallest of frowns.

“Understood,” Lincoln echoes, “Though this still feels… highly inappropriate.”

“Well,” Taylor says, wry grin returning as he drops their hands to gesture about, “The standards of propriety can be bent a little, unless you are implying that as Prince, I cannot do as I please…” He looks up at his knight teasingly through short lashes. “Are you questioning my orders, Sir Lincoln?”

“I would never,” Lincoln replies seriously, though hesitance is still etched into his every nerve.

Taylor sighs. “If this… arrangement… truly makes you uncomfortable, there are other options, I suppose,” he offers, “But I should like for you to rest well tonight, and what better way to assure yourself of my safety than to be at my side even in sleep?”

Lincoln exhales slowly. “Alright, you’ve convinced me.”

Then, “I can hardly sleep in this armor, though,”

“Worry not, I have just the thing,” Taylor half-fibs, wracking his brain for any suitable nightclothes in his extensive wardrobe that might fit his knight. “Come along.”

And with that, the door to the prince’s bedchambers closes, and Taylor drags Lincoln further within them.

Rifling through his drawers, Taylor selects a light-colored nightgown he has yet to grow into, a silky thing, all billowing sleeves and overlong, full skirts. 

Taylor squints at his guard, who is well over a foot taller than him, and nods to himself.

It could not hurt to try, he supposes, passing the garment over to Lincoln, who handles it as if it is some holy vestment.

“Are you s-”

“Humor me and try it on, I think it might fit.”

Taylor dutifully turns about as Lincoln changes into his borrowed sleep attire, pretending to be interested in tracing the lines of the intricate damask painted along his walls. Despite his efforts, his face feels rather warm upon hearing the sounds of heavy armor and mail being placed gently upon the floor.

A clearing of the throat behind him. “Y-you can turn around, now.”

Taylor does so and is greeted with a sight perhaps better than his most desperate fantasies.

His knight looks the picture of beauty in his clothes, eyes downcast and meek as he picks at the draped sleeves self-consciously.

The nightgown, however sweet and dainty it looks, also belies Lincoln’s strength; while the hemline of it swamps Taylor, on his knight it flutters prettily about his muscled thighs. 

Taylor briefly thinks about what those thighs would look like bracketing his own, knees pressed into the plush featherdown of his mattress, leaning over him, eyes gleaming with want -

“My prince?”

Taylor instinctively knows that the whole of his face is flushed crimson.

“You look lovely,” he blurts, edging backward to his large four-poster canopy bed and casting the sheets aside, clambering rather gracelessly to the far end while pointedly steering his thoughts to something less… untoward. 

“Thank you,” Lincoln replies, though the end pitches upward like a question as he fidgets nervously. 

Taylor pats the empty expanse of mattress between them with a welcoming smile.

Quietly, Lincoln crawls between the covers beside him, and with a final “Thank you, my knight, sweet dreams,” from Taylor, they settle in for the night.

-

“Link, are you awake?” Taylor whispers across the veritable ocean of bedding. 

There’s a slight shifting from the opposite end, and he glances over to see Sir Lincoln laying stiffly, hands folded across his chest, gazing up at his canopy.

“Yes?” Comes the equally hushed reply. 

Taylor shifts to lay on his back to mirror him, studying how the sworls of gold embroidery above them glint silvery-white in the weak moonlight. 

He breathes out, closes his eyes.

“At this time of night, I often find myself wishing that I was not royalty.”

There’s another shifting beside him (though not nearly as close as he desires), a questioning hum.

“I delude myself into dreaming that maybe then, you would not feel the need to… distance yourself from me so much.” Lincoln is in this room, yes, dressed in his nightclothes and laid out between his sheets, and yet the space next to him feels so painfully cold. Taylor feels the longing that grips icy claws around his heart, draining it until it is utterly bereft, desperate to be filled. 

“I acknowledge that things might be rather… difficult, for me, were I common-born,” The prince continues, “But things are difficult now, and the notion that I will oversee a kingdom in its entirety is quite a lot of pressure. It terrifies me, to be completely forthright,” he admits, and Lincoln is still and silent, but he does not need to look to know that his knight is listening, as he always is.

“It seems as though there is so much left to learn, and yet so little time to learn it, and I am nineteen summers already…” he trails off, hands fisting in his silken bedsheets in an attempt to strangle out his line of thought.

Sir Lincoln silently stretches out a hand through the great cushioned divide between them, and Taylor gladly takes it, trying not to immediately lose himself in memorizing the pattern of his callouses by touch alone. 

“Sometimes,” he murmurs into the night air, “I wonder how circumstances might change, were I not your prince, were you not my knight.” Taylor smiles, a wan, bittersweet moon-crescent of a thing. “I should like to think that we would find each other, even then. And then, perhaps… perhaps we could exist this way more often.” He squeezes Lincoln’s hand meaningfully. “Perhaps even closer, if you would allow it. There would be no worry of… of prying eyes, whispering servants, assassination attempts-”

Lincoln squeezes his hand back, briefly cutting off his grievances, and Taylor’s smile feels all too fake on his face.

“As it is now, though, we cannot have this, as you so often remind me.”

“My P- Taylor…” Sir Lincoln says, but then fails to say more.

“I do not begrudge you this, Link,” Taylor says, thumb stroking gently across the side of his knight’s hand in reassurance. “You are only holding yourself to what is right, though at times, I wish you would forget yourself every so often.”

“Taylor -”

“But at these late hours, I wonder if you hold yourself back solely due to our differences in station, your duty and my honor… Were I not Prince, would you hesitate to do so much as touch my shoulder? Would you still glance away when I catch you looking upon me? Were I not given my title, my kingdoms, would you still be afraid to hold me close, or would you whisper sweet things in my ear, wrap me in your embrace? Would you bestow every affection upon me, were we equals?”

“Of - of course,” Lincoln says, sounding altogether dazed and bewildered.

“My -” he breathes carefully, then starts once more, “Taylor,” he says, simple and serious. 

Taylor is already looking his way as Lincoln turns his entire body to face him. 

He looks decidedly holy like this, Taylor thinks, silhouette outlined in taffeta moonlight, draped in fine bedsheets, more precious to him than anything else in this opulent room.

“If,” he continues, squeezing their joined hands once more, “If you had no title to your name, no fortune or inheritance or kingdom, I would still find a way to protect you until my dying breath. I would be at your side, always, so long as you wished for me there. And, if I may be so bold...”

He closes his eyes, exhales shakily, inhales, exhales again. Taylor strokes the side of his hand once, twice, thrice more, comforting and uncharacteristically patient.

His eyes open, locking on Taylor’s own, full to bursting with emotion.

“Were you not prince, or were I not common-born,” he says with clear difficulty, “There would be nothing to stop me from pulling you into my arms. There would be nothing improper in desiring you as my only, in desiring for myself to be yours. In that life, I would still wish to be your lover.”

“Still?” Taylor cannot help but ask, pulse pounding against his ears.

His knight nods simply. “Still.”

The admission hangs in the air between them, gossamer-twinkling like starlight.

“I know,” he adds lowly, “I know that I mustn’t, that I shouldn’t, but I can scarcely help it, not when you - when you -”

“When I?” Taylor prompts, a quirk to his brow and a disbelieving smile playing at his lips.

Sir Lincoln covers his eyes with his free hand, clearly flustered as a noise of frustration escapes him. 

“You are insufferable,” he grumbles.

“You wound me, beloved,” Taylor replies, free hand pressed to his chest.

“Oh, gods, what have I done?”

“My sweeting. My heart’s gleam. My only, my dearing, o love of mine,” Taylor intones, attempting to think of sweet names to add to his litany. “My knight, my protector, my personal savior, my Lincoln.”

“Cease, please,” his Lincoln replies weakly, though curiously, he still has not let go of Taylor’s hand.

“Mm, only if you close your gorgeous, beauteous eyes and sleep,” Taylor replies.

“I - you think my eyes are -? Yes. I will go to sleep. Sleeping now.”

-

Taylor is awoken by the sound of sobbing.

Opening his eyes, he shifts to see his knight in fitful slumber, expression not lax with peaceful sleep but pinched with tension. His skin gleams in the scant moonlight from the wet tear tracks that have carved rivers into his cheeks, from the sweat that beads on his forehead.

Lincoln’s breath hitches with horrible gasps, punctuated with murmured snatches of nonsense.

He’s in the throes of a nightmare, Taylor realizes.

In an instant, the young prince is at his side, shaking him awake as gently as he can manage, though his joints ache from the sudden flurry of movement.

“Lincoln, Link, Link ,” he whispers with increasing urgency. “Wake up.”

All at once, his knight awakens, eyes wild as he pushes himself to sit.

“You’re alright,” Taylor soothes, attempting to wrangle his voice into something less unsteady. His Lincoln needs steady, right now. “Everything is alright, I’m here.”

Lincoln’s eyes are glazed over in fear as he takes in panicked gulps of air.

“Breathe, breathe,” Taylor tells him, trying not to feel altogether useless.

Slowly, gently, he brings his hand from Lincoln’s shoulder and up the side of his neck, tilting his face in his palm to force their eyes to meet.

“You’re alright,” Taylor repeats, more firmly. “You are safe.” Then, hedging a guess, “I am safe. I’m right here, I’m not leaving.”

It takes a moment for Lincoln to make sense of what he sees, but in the space of a few heartbeats, his eyes focus upon him, and something within him seems to snap.

“You’re real?” He asks, voice hoarse and wrecked and near-childlike, and heat builds at the corners of Taylor’s eyes.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Yes, Link, I’m real, I’m here, you’re with me. No ill has befallen me.”

Link’s hand rises toward Taylor, outstretched, and wavers mere inches from his face, its fingers trembling something fierce.

Taylor takes it in his grasp, brings it gently to rest upon the side of his own face, and feels he may cry at the sound of his knight’s relieved sigh.

“My sweet prince,” Lincoln murmurs, voice and hand shaking in equal fervor as his calloused thumb strokes feebly along his cheek. “I thought - I thought I lost -”

Taylor lets the tears fall.

“You haven’t,” he replies. “You won’t. Not ever.”

“You - you know you cannot promise me that,” Lincoln says, and even with the syllables stretched out between sniffles, the notion is every bit as infuriatingly Lincoln as it always has been.

“Just let me say it for tonight, at least,” Taylor responds, and desperation leaks through his words like wounds through flesh, like tears through expensive linens. “Tonight, I am yours, and no-one else’s.”

More than anything, Taylor wishes to stretch this promise into the light of day, to the edges of his kingdoms; as his knight so dutifully reminds him, however, he knows that this simply cannot be.

He decides to console himself by wrapping his arms around his knight while he can, and with the cloud-veiled moon beyond the turret window as their only witness, Lincoln finally allows himself the luxury of melting into his embrace, a puppet with its strings cut, a warrior without armor, a boy overrun by fear, relief, and love in equal measure.

“There, there,” he murmurs as wetness seeps through the costly silk of his nightshirt. “I have you, sweeting. You can rest now.”

Carefully, he leans back to lie down upon the plush mattress and fluffed pillows, and Lincoln follows without argument, pliant and near-limp in his hold.

“You’re alive,” Lincoln mutters, as if attempting to convince himself, and his voice breaks over the simple phrase. “You’re alive, but you were dead , and I hadn’t -”

“Shh, shh,” Taylor soothes. “I’m alive, I’m here, you have done your job well.”

After only a moment of consideration, Taylor brings Lincoln’s head to rest upon his chest, directly atop his heart.

“You see?” Taylor asks, even as heat suffuses his cheeks at the sensation of his knight pressed so close to him. His heart pounds faster than it ought to at this hour, and for once, he hopes Lincoln can hear it. “This is real. It was just an awful dream. I’m right here, I promise.”

Lincoln nods against his chest, and though his gasping breaths have evened out a bit, he still trembles as he cries. His knight’s tears seem to have no end in sight, and Taylor tries his best to brush them away with gentleness and care.

“It’s alright, love, it’s alright,” Taylor repeats, just above a whisper so that Lincoln might hear it through the fog of his fear-tinged thoughts. “Not going anywhere.”

Lincoln, for his part, simply leans further into him, craving his touch so unabashedly that Taylor knows he is not quite yet in his right mind. His knight’s hands clutch at his arm, at his waist, as if he will slip through his fingers into nothingness if he cannot hold him, and Taylor feels the terror-chilled clamminess of his palms through the thin fabric.

His knight’s lips move silently against his ribs, inaudible even as Taylor strains to hear.

“What is it, dearing?” He asks, hand moving hesitantly through his soft curls and drawing a whimper from Lincoln’s mouth.

“I love you,” Lincoln murmurs into his chest, and Taylor’s breath hitches. “I love you so much, and it horrifies me. I will lose you, some - someday, and I will love you still, and I -” He shakes his head as if to banish the thought. “I’m so selfish,” he says mournfully, hands fisting in Taylor’s shirt. “I love you. My heart’s gleam, my dearing, my sweet, sweet Taylor.” With every affectionate name that spills from his knight’s lips, long-trapped, tears flood Taylor’s vision. 

“Oh.” The syllable wrenched from his jaws is simple and paltry in comparison, but in this moment, red-cheeked and choked with overwhelming affection and sorrow both, it is the only word that Taylor can manage.

Oh, he loves me.

Oh, I’m his heart’s gleam, his dearing.

Oh, he called me his .

Oh.

Taylor swallows down the ball of emotion sitting high and throbbing in his throat; he does not quite succeed, and his voice warbles out, discordant and weak.

“Link.” Carefully, he tilts his knight’s face toward him, meets his weary eyes, takes the sides of his face into his hands with as much reverence as he can.

Lincoln’s gaze casts downward, and a tear streaks down one of the well-traveled tracks on his face.

“Oh, lambkin,” he murmurs, thumbing the moisture away. 

Slowly, gently, Taylor bends downward to press a kiss to the crown of his knight’s head, lingering and soft, trying to convey what his words can never quite manage, even for all his years of schooling.

Lincoln shudders at the gesture, and it travels through Taylor, though he wills his hands not to shake as his palms cup his knight’s jaw, as his fingers smooth along his cheekbones, as his lips press against his skin.

“I love you, too,” Taylor tells him, hoarse and insistent. “I love you so dearly. You have ruined me so wholly for anyone else, my knight -” he pauses to briefly kiss his forehead, drawing a choked sort of sound from Lincoln’s throat - “my moon and stars, my heavens and hells. I love you, Lincoln. I love you so much.”

Tentatively, his hands migrate back to smooth through his knight’s curls, and a sound somewhere between sigh and a sob escapes his lips.

“Shh, rest now,” Taylor croons, weaving his fingers through his close-cropped locks, attempting to ignore how his own hands are shaking as Lincoln sobs against him. “I have you, we’re safe, we’re alright…”

In the early hours before the dawn, Taylor’s ministrations turn to something meditative, all repeated motions and reassuring murmurs as his knight’s breathing gradually evens out once more.

Once he runs out of words, too exhausted to form the shapes of them, Taylor allows his mind to drift back to the lullabies his father had sung to him as a small child, accompanied by the soft thuddings of drumbeat when Taylor had managed to keep from wriggling into King Nicholas’ arms. 

He hums snatches of familiar melodies long-buried, presses his lips once more to his knight’s forehead so that the vibrations may aid his descent into slumber, a hand moving from his hair to draw meaningless patterns between his clothed shoulder blades.

Taylor does not recall when he succumbs to sleep himself, but he does it with a tune on his lips and hands caressing his beloved knight and a warm, soothing fondness in his chest. 

And when he awakens, the sensation persists as he gazes upon Lincoln, body limp and heavy with sleep atop him, strong arms wrapped about his torso, long legs intertwined with his own. 

Taylor should like to stay in this moment until the end of time, he thinks, but at the very least, until his knight recovers all of the rest he has lacked.

“Sleep well, love,” he mutters, pressing the ghost of a kiss into Sir Lincoln’s hair, and settles in for a long, lazy morning as the birds begin their dawn chorus. 

#truly this au makes me insane. it really does #also! minor speaking roles by mae hailes and margarita pizza u love to see it!!! #i have been scheming abt this one for. quite awhile. hehe :]c #dndads #fic #swiftli #dndads swiftli week 2024 #happi scribbles #shield and scepter

[freaoscanlin]

Given Unsought, Part 1

A/N: This fic is something I’ve been working on and I’m pretty deep into it now. I’ll be posting the full thing on AO3 as soon as I figure out just a bit of it, but I thought I’d put the first part up now. This is a retelling of season three of Agents of SHIELD where Jemma came back from Maveth just a liiiiittle bit different. The final fic will be about 40-45k, and it’ll be broken down into weeks. Jemma/Daisy with mentions of other ships. Warnings for language, injury, isolation, past abuse. I’ll be posting the fic in chunks and tagged on my blog as “given unsought.” Thanks to @insidiousmisandry for encouraging this, you enabler.

Love sought is good, but given unsought is better.  The Twelfth Night, Act III, Scene I, Line 147

Week Four

In her years at SHIELD, Daisy had learned to evaluate the silence of the post-mission flight. The grim quiet of a failed mission had an entirely different flavor to the quiet of exhaustion after a successful op. And a truly successful op didn’t usually contain great stretches of time without talking. Bringing an agent back from the dead usually called for breaking into one of Hunter’s many secret stashes of beer on the quinjet and cracking open a cold one. If Bobbi was the pilot, she’d play cheesy eighties pop on the intercom and Daisy could get a dance party started in the hold.

She’d even twirled May once. That had been very, very strange, and Daisy still wasn’t sure she hadn’t dreamed that.

The flight from Gloucester should have been jubilant, full of dancing and music. They’d brought Simmons back. She was safe, and coming home, and Fitz—after months and months where Daisy had lost hope—had done it, the cheeky bastard. He’d gone to another world and had come back clutching his friend. By all rights, even though she’d drained all of her energy, Daisy should have been standing on her seat, holding a beer aloft and shout-singing Captain & Tenille with Mack. Instead, she sat quietly in the co-pilot’s seat and watched his giant hands as he moved them over the controls.

“Feeling okay?”

“Nothing sleeping for a year can’t fix.” She stretched out her arms, grimacing as her muscles creaked. “I still can’t believe Fitz did it.”

“Can’t you? He’s a determined one, our Fitz.”

Daisy nodded. She could have flown back on Zephyr One, but she hadn’t wanted to abandon Mack. Plus, she suspected that she’d only be in the way as Bobbi checked Simmons over. And maybe there was a desire to avoid more unnecessary medical checkups herself. Sure, she had the mother of all migraines, but the nosebleed had stopped. She’d be fine. “What do you think it was like over there?”

“Looked like it was pretty dusty.” Mack flipped a couple switches overhead.

Daisy glanced down at her front, still covered in dirt from the explosion of the monolith and hugging Jemma afterward. “Well, you’re not wrong.”

“We’ll find out more soon enough, Tremors.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just impatient. I can’t believe she’s back. Like finally, something’s going our way.” Chasing down the rapidly expanding inhuman outbreak pattern had grown exhausting. Convincing Dr. Garner to let even one of the people onto her team of secret warriors doubly so. She’d fallen into the classic pitfall of being evaluated by him herself earlier that day and even though she hadn’t wanted to rail at it as much as she would’ve in the past, he did leave her feeling frustrated and annoyed.

But Simmons was back, and she was going to be fine, so that had to count for something.

“A much needed win,” Mack said, smiling as he agreed. “Seatbelt on, we’re coming in.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. Pilot sir.”

Mack rolled his eyes at her, but she caught the smile he tried to hide.

The Zephyr had beaten them back to base. Though Daisy expected everybody to be busy with Jemma, Bobbi stood with her hip cocked and her arms crossed over her chest, waiting for the loading ramp to descend. Daisy groaned.

“Time to head to the lab. Coulson’s orders,” Bobbi said.

“I’m fine. I just need to sleep and I’ll feel like a human being again. Things just got a little shaky for a bit—ha. Literally.”

“You passed out twice,” Bobbi said, tilting her head. “We’ll put you on a bunk next to Simmons.”

Okay, that might not be terrible. With all of the science that needed to be run, it wasn’t like she would be able to see Jemma at all otherwise. Daisy followed Bobbi out of the hangar, both of them waving cheerily at Mack as he sarcastically called that, sure, he’d be happy to handle the post-mission checklist by himself, no problem.

“He loves us,” Bobbi said as she walked Daisy to the lab.

Bobbi had lied: they’d put Jemma off to one side of the lab and Daisy was led to the other and checked over by a SHIELD tech. With their leading inhuman biology expert on another planet for months, the rest of the lab workers had had to step up, and it just wasn’t the same. None of them ever gave her lollipops the way Jemma had sardonically taken to doing to keep Daisy from griping about getting poked so much. She wanted to complain, but Bobbi kept looking over and raising an eyebrow at her. Daisy decided it was easier not to cause a ruckus.

“Can I go yet?” she asked.

“Just a couple more tests, Agent Johnson.”

“Sameer, we’re poker buddies. You know all my tells, I think that entitles you to call me Daisy.”

For that, he took another vial of blood, though he assured her he would’ve done that anyway. Daisy grumped at him and leaned back on her cot. Movement on the opposite side of the room, near where Jemma still slept, caught her eye. One of the techs running blood tests did a double-take at something on his screen and began gesturing, wildly. Fitz and Bobbi immediately raced over. Daisy rose to her feet, too, only for Sameer to grab her arm.

“You probably should give them a moment,” he said.

“If she’s hurt—”

“They’ll figure it out much faster without distractions.”

As much as she hated it, he had a point. Daisy allowed herself to be pulled back, and sat down on the cot while Sameer ran the rest of his tests. She kept an eye on things, monitoring the way the surprised tech gesticulated while talking to Fitz and Bobbi. Fitz shoved him to the side and typed rapidly into his computer. Whatever he saw on the screen made him shove both hands into his curls and rest his hands on his head, elbows out.

Bobbi put a hand on his shoulder and said something to the tech.

“Something’s wrong,” Daisy said. “Something’s wrong with her—I need to—”

But Fitz stomped right past her when she stood up. Bobbi looked over, met Daisy’s eyes, and shook her head. She gestured for Daisy to stay put.

“She can’t expect me to just sit here when something might be wrong with Simmons,” Daisy said.

“Looks like she does.” Sameer rummaged in the pocket of his lab coat and held out a grape lollipop. “Will this help?”

“No.” But Daisy took it anyway. She flopped down, determined to stay until Bobbi gave her some answers. She missed the needle until Sameer had it in her arm. “What the—hey! What are you doing?”

“Dr. Morse’s orders. It’s just a sedative.”

Daisy felt her eyes begin to roll back into her head. “I’m cleaning you out next time we play poker,” she said and the last thing she saw before she slept was Simmons, curled up on a cot, asleep.

The only mercy when she opened her eyes was that her head no longer ached, but everything else pretty much sucked. Her mouth felt like it was stuffed with cotton, her left arm had fallen asleep because she’d apparently laid on top of it for hours, and Mack hadn’t carried her back to her bed like he occasionally did whenever somebody (Bobbi) knocked her out. She’d apparently been kept in the lab, drooling into a pillow for all the techs to see. Not that there were many of those around at the moment.

Daisy rubbed her hand over her face and grimaced at the gritty sensation. She glanced at the clock, saw that it was just after four a.m., and groaned. “I’m quaking Sameer into a wall next time I see him.”

“I’d advise against that.” Bobbi’s voice sounded rusty. Daisy looked over her shoulder and saw her on the chair beside her cot, eyes open and arms crossed over her chest. The knee brace had been set aside for the night. “He was following my orders.”

“Yeah, well, don’t think you’re forgiven either, Barbara.”

Bobbi made a face and sat up. “Like you’d have gotten any sleep with that migraine you tried to hide. You can thank me later.”

“Thank. Right. That’s exactly what’ll happen.” Daisy sat up and stretched. She looked over across the lab, to the other cot on the far end. “Is Simmons okay?”

Bobbi paused for so long that Daisy swiveled away from Jemma to face her coworker. “Is something wrong? The planet wasn’t killing her slowly, was it?” Best to blurt out the worst possible option, get it out of the way, even while her brain hammered Not Jemma not Jemma not Jemma.

“No. Her body adapted to what we suspect is a lower level of oxygen, so that will cause a few problems in the short term. Her metabolism’s changed. But she’s healthy.” Bobbi folded her arms over her chest. “But there’s something else, though. She’s pregnant.”

The word slammed into Daisy so hard it might as well have been a punch to the face. “She got sucked into an alien planet and came back pregnant? Was it something in the air? Or was it the planet? Wait, how is that even possible? And is she okay? Is the baby okay? How far along—”

“Easy there, motor mouth,” Bobbi said, and Daisy abruptly shut up. Hysteria, she realized. That was what coursed through her veins. That, and adrenaline. “One question at a time.”

“How?” was all Daisy can manage.

“She hasn’t talked much, but as far as we can tell, it happened the usual way. As far as we can tell, she’s about four weeks along. That’s early to tell, but we’re SHIELD. Cutting edge is kind of our thing.”

“She wasn’t alone over there?”

“There was an astronaut with her. She didn’t say his name, but we’re assuming that he’s human.” Bobbi shrugged.

Daisy looked toward Jemma. In sleep, she remained twitchy, pale and drawn like she constantly awaited danger. For all they knew, she did. Daisy’d barely heard her say five words since Fitz pulled her out of the portal.

Speaking of…

“Guess there’s no need to ask how Fitz is taking it?” Daisy asked. Late one night, drunk off cheap tequila and sitting in the middle of the room he’d turned into a conspiracy theorist’s wet dream in search of Simmons, he’d confessed that he’d made his move. Daisy, not nearly as drunk, had found herself struggling to congratulate him, with no idea why. They’d be cute together, she’d said, when they got Jemma back. Of course they would be. They were Fitz and Simmons. FitzSimmons. They already had a smushname all their own without even trying.

And hell, Fitz’s mania had paid off, hadn’t it? Fitz had doggedly and methodically followed the steps to save her for months, while Daisy threw herself into finding inhumans so she wouldn’t have to think about the grief and fear waiting just around the corner, far too close for comfort.

“I don’t know,” Bobbi said. “He didn’t say much when he came back.”

She gestured. On the other side of the lab, Fitz had a studied frown on his face as he stared into a microscope. From the set of his shoulders alone, Daisy figured bothering him would be one of the worst ideas she’d entertained since trusting her mother.

“You know she asked him to dinner right before…” Bobbi trailed off.

“I know,” Daisy said. “Should I—I don’t know? Talk to him?”

“You can try, but I don’t think it’ll work. I’m sending Hunter to annoy the truth out of him if he gets back soon.”

Daisy raised her eyebrows. “You’re going straight to the nuclear option?”

“For a man whose talents are very annoying, he’s also very good at what he does.” They both paused when Daisy’s wrist-unit beeped with an alert. “See you later.”

“Um, if she wakes up, tell her I’ll stop by?” There was too much she wanted to ask, as she was burning with curiosity and kind of a weird sense of unreality and terror. Her friend was pregnant. With an actual human child. Well. Daisy looked at her hands. Maybe mostly human. Who knew? Daisy sent one last swift look at Jemma and left to handle whatever emergency had arisen on the inhuman front.

What the hell happened on that planet, and what would Jemma do now?

Week Six

For the next two days, her timing was so terrible, it might as well be one of their plans. She dropped by whenever she could get one of the other agents to cover the enforcement agency channels, but Jemma was always sleeping. Daisy busied herself with briefings and seeing Joey, and worked on trying to track Lincoln, who wasn’t answering her calls. Finally, she escaped and made it to Jemma’s bedroom, but there was no answer to her soft knock, so Daisy moved on to her own quarters two doors down and passed out face first into the mattress.

Coulson called her in before she was even fully awake the next morning, to a distress call in Tallahassee. It turned out to be a false alarm—just a kid with a lighter and some superstitious neighbors—but the mission still nearly went sideways three times. Daisy couldn’t deny that she was frustrated. Searching for other inhumans was beyond trying to find a needle in a haystack. More like a needle in a field full of haystacks.

And behind all of that a constant tattoo beat in her head: Jemma is pregnant, Jemma came back from an alien planet with a baby.

In the hangar bay after nearly five days in Florida, she stepped off the quinjet and frowned. “Why don’t you go on without me?” she asked Mack.

“Tremors?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “Got something on your mind?”

“Nah, I just—I just—” Stop babbling, Sk—Daisy. He’s going to know something’s up. “I think I’ll take a walk, clear my head before I get stuck in an underground base and feeling all claustrophobic. Or worse, somebody needs me to do something.”

Mack eyed her, but he nodded. “I’ll keep your paperwork warm for you.”

“My hero,” she said, and waved at the rest of the support team as they headed in for post-mission grub. Daisy moved back to her quarters to grab a set of civvies, pulling a dark beanie over her hair, and made for the secret exit that put her on Fourth Street. From there, it was only a few blocks to the bookstore.

She kept an eye out, just to be sure nobody tailed her, before taking a deep breath and stepping resolutely to the appropriate shelf. Wow, this area of the bookstore was huge. And there were so many books with similar titles. Daisy stared at the bookshelf.

Rows and rows of babies stared back at her from the covers. She picked up What to Expect When You’re Expecting because even a homeless hacker living in a van had heard of that one, and paged through. More than part of her felt ridiculous. It was absurd that she’d even be here looking at these books. Jemma had, like, a gazillion degrees, she was bound to know everything that went into pregnancy. But Daisy didn’t, and she felt kind of stupid about it.

Even worse, there wasn’t really a What to Expect When Your Best Friend Went to an Alien Planet and is Now Expecting. Unfair. There seemed to be every other super-specific topic of baby raising on these shelves. But that was Jemma Simmons for you. Always going above and beyond in the most endearing way.

Daisy selected a couple books that didn’t look as schmaltzy as the others, ones she suspected might be written with the fathers in mind, and carried them to the counter. She paid cash and made sure not to be memorable, neither staring nor avoiding the cashier’s eyes. When she left, she kept the beanie low.

At the next store over, she picked up a cloth shopping bag just in case the plastic bag they gave her wasn’t opaque enough. She also rooted around in a small gift section, as she didn’t want Jemma to think she was avoiding her or weird about anything. So a little trinket, that seemed like the ticket. A little blue vase of bright yellow daisies, cheerful and bobbing gently in the breeze of a ceiling fan, caught her eye, and Daisy paid for them almost without thinking about it. Books safely hidden, flowers in hand, she went home.

For once, she was in luck.

“Skye!” Jemma’s face lit up when Daisy stepped in. Then she looked down and away, sheepish. “Daisy. Sorry.”

Daisy held out the flowers. “It’s a multipurpose gift,” she said. “It’s pretty, and it’s a reminder. You can call me whatever you want.” She absolutely meant that. Everybody else had an adjustment period where they called her Sk-daisy, which was aggravating but at least they were trying. With Jemma, Daisy was so happy she was back that she didn’t care.

She studied her friend, pale and diminished but vibrantly alive, and words came tumbling out. “I can’t stay for too long, I’m tracking law-enforcement channels, but I’m really sorry that I haven’t come sooner. It’s—there’s just a lot going on.”

“And I’ve been sleeping.” Jemma’s voice cracked, but her smile felt real and familiar.

“Which is good,” Daisy said a little too fast. Sleep was good for the baby, right? It seemed like it would be. “Do whatever you need to do to get better. We need you. And I…” What did you say to somebody who comes back from another dimension with an amniotic passenger in tow? She sat down on the bed, glancing once at where Jemma’s hand resting on her abdomen. Absently, like an afterthought.

Jemma sighed. “Bobbi told you.”

“The tech who ran your tests wasn’t exactly discreet. Coulson fired his ass, don’t worry, but Bobbi told the team in case it got out. I know you probably don’t want to talk about what happened yet, but when you do, I’m here to listen.” Daisy set the bag of the books on the floor and sat on the bed, close to but not crowding her friend. Bobbi had warned her that Jemma still jumped at everything.

“I’d rather listen now, if that’s okay.” Jemma leaned forward. “The terrigen is spreading?”

“And so’s the paranoia.” Shoptalk. She could handle shoptalk. Daisy filled her in on the nightmare of the past few months, the way cocoons spread all over the world, with inhumans popping up—

“Like daisies?” Jemma interrupted, giving her a small, real smile.

“I’ll let you have that one,” Daisy said, unable to stop her laugh. “We found a new one a few weeks ago. Joey Gutiérrez. He’s very sweet. He just melts metal, like, poof, wow. I think once he gets a handle on it, he’ll be incredible. If we can ever get Dr. Garner to sign off on letting him be a full-time team member.”

At this rate, Andrew was never going to sign off on anybody for a secret inhuman team.

“And you?” Jemma asked, surprising Daisy. “How are you handling all of this?”

“I…” Daisy blinked. She hadn’t really thought about it. How was she handling Lincoln being a fugitive, the ads from politicians on TV, the fearmongering and spreading hate toward what she was? The message boards about “How to Hunt Inhuman Scum” that twisted her stomach into knots? Even at SHIELD, where she was insulated, a couple of the new agents still twitched whenever she walked into the room. “I’m handling it. I’ve been more worried about you, to be honest. You’re really okay?”

“I think so.” Jemma’s voice was soft, like talking too loud hurt her ears. “I just…there’s…some of it is hard to talk about and—”

She jolted like frightened prey when Daisy’s cell phone buzzed. “I am so sorry,” Daisy said.

“N-no, it’s okay. You should take that.”

Guilty, Daisy picked up the phone and answered. Lincoln’s voice, distressed and just as afraid as Jemma seemed, filled her ear. She gave Jemma one last apologetic look and, passing the daisies on the nightstand, hurried off go to handle yet another crisis.

Part 2.

#skimmons #bioquake #agents of shield #daisy johnson #jemma simmons #bobbi morse #mack #avengers #avengers fanfiction #aos fanfiction #fanfiction #given unsought #lincoln is there but he's kind of 'sir not appearing in this fic'