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shu-box-puns · 9 months

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I would never have given you to them; not for anything.

(Tsu’tey x Reader)

Last Chapter <- Part 2 -> Next Chapter

If you prefer to read on Ao3, you can find the fic here!

Summary: The na'vi say, every person is born twice.

Word Count: 9035

Reader uses they/them pronouns.

NOTE: The term 'Zaza' is a gender neutral way to address a parental figure.

Mo’at allowed Tsu’tey to stew in her tent until eclipse. And for that, he was grateful.

He couldn’t stomach the idea of facing the clan right now. Or Jake for that matter. Eywa, he hadn’t lost his temper that badly in years. And now he was drained. His eyes stung and his shoulders heavy. All his thrashing had upset the carefully applied mourning paint weaving down his body, which he would have to fix soon. But only when he had the strength to move.

The demon wearing a warped replica of his mate’s face still taunted his most recent memories. Anger still curdled his stomach, but it was not as hot now. More subdued. More aimed at whatever unnatural methods the Sky People had used to create it.

Groaning to himself, the Olo’eyktan dropped his head back into his hands, fingers pushing at the pain between his eyes. Failing to relieve the ache.

Why was this happening to him? To his People? Had they not suffered enough the first time the Sky People had invaded?

First the stars fell and the Sky People returned, forcing the Omaticaya clan to leave their new village and retreat to the floating mountains. And now long dead ghosts were appearing in the forests, attempting to steal his son. The bastards.

Mo’at cleared her throat, the rustle of the curtain signalling her return from dinner. Jerking his head out of his hands, Tsu’tey frowned at the flakes of mourning paint that had come off from the rubbing. Absently, he wiped the evidence on his thigh, eyes straying to Mo’at as she strutted over to him. His ears pinned guiltily at the leaf of food she presented like a peace offering.

<”Thank you, Tsahik.”> He whispered, taking the food from her with shaking hands. Even that was draining.

The woman merely dipper her head in acknowledgement, choosing not to comment when he obediently lowered the food into his lap but did not dig in. Even the thought of eating at a time like this turned his stomach. He felt too raw to act like nothing had happened.

Mo’at seemed to know, she always did, and turned her back to him, relieving him of her usually piercing gaze. With the wisdom of her station, she kept her options to herself as Tsu’tey stewed, instead choosing to kneel beside the low fire. Sparks spat and hissed as she added more kindling, watching the tongues of fire leap and grow before she added some larger twigs.

There was that set to her shoulders, the tell she had passed down to Neytiri when she wanted to voice her opinion but did not want to force someone’s hand. When she wanted to allow them to figure it out first, or start the conversation. Mo’at was a good Tsahik because of it.

She had been kind in the years following his mate’s death. Supportive of Tsu’tey’s grief whilst practically taking over leading the people when he found it took hard to roll out of his hammock during those earlier days. She had practically adopted Spider on sight, and had taken to babysitting him whilst Tsu’tey got himself together. He knew he would not be where he was today without her guidance.

<”What is it?”> Tsu’tey finally asked, when Mo’at remained steady in her silence.

The Tsahik peered at him over her shoulder, her expression neutral even if her eyes swam with an untold grief and uncertainty.

<”Speak your mind Mo’at.”> Tsu’tey encouraged. She had never held her tongue before, he would hate for her to do it now.

Mo’at’s tail jumped, before she turned back to the fire, appearing busy. <”Eywa has blessed you with a beautiful gift, you know.”> She stated simply in a tone Tsu’tey could not decipher. A weight clutched Tsu’tey’s lungs in its unforgiving grasp, punching a sad snort from him. He could not disagree more.

Mo’at was not discouraged. <”The Great Mother has returned your mate to you. She is not usually so generous.”> <”That is NOT my mate!”> Tsu’tey growled through gritted teeth, the declaration punching through him with renewed fury. <”That is a puppet. Made unnaturally by the Sky People, not by Eywa!”>

Mo’at turned to him slowly, her knees still facing the fire, but her eyes glowing with a look that mirrored how Tsu’tey felt. <”Perhaps you are right.”> The Tsahik said in a tone that indicated she did not believe he was right at all. <”Or perhaps, this situation is not so black and white. Perhaps not every is as it seems.”>

<”It does not matter.”> Tsu’tey told her dismissively, <”the People would not welcome a Demon back into their ranks.”> He knew he was deflecting, trying to use the clan as an excuse instead of his won turmoil. Somehow, it felt safer; even if lying had always been a foreign concept to him.

<”The People thought they would never welcome a human into their ranks either.”> Mo’at narrated, eyes wistful with memories of a simpler time. <”But now we share camp with scientists. You yourself took a human mate and Jake-Sully walks freely among us. As a clan, we have changed.”>

<”What are you trying to say? Speak plainly.”>

There was a moment of stillness, only disrupted by the unpredictable sway of the flames.

<”I would kill to be in your position right now, Tsu’tey.”>

Any retort that might have been brewing on his tongue was immediately dashed. He could not respond. The tight vice of emotion in his throat choked the words from him.

Mo’at seemed to deflate, her usual spark dwindling. The beads of her shawl clinked softly as she picked up a stick and stoked the fire.

<”Eytukan, has been with the ancestors for fifteen years now.”> She said, and Tsu’tey listened as he always had. Like they always listened to one another when reminiscing on the people that had been lost or stolen from them. <”Eywa allows me time to hold and hear him, but he does not walk beside us. I miss him with everything I am.”>

Tsu’tey winced sympathetically. He shared this pain. And until a few hours ago, he had been in a similar mindset.

Carefully, he set his leaf down to the side and shuffled closer. Resting his hand lightly on Mo’at’s shoulder. She raised her face to the tent ceiling, leaning into his touch and gathering herself. Her back jumped under Tsu’tey’s fingers at her shaky inhale.

Then she turned to him, fully. Her expression was determined. Those wizened old hands clutching his own in their strong grasp.

<”The Great Mother has a reason for everything she does.”> Right now, it was the Tsahik addressing him, not Mo’at who had always been like a mother to him. <”She does not guide without reason. She does not create without intent. For whatever reason your mate walks again, it is of Her doing, and we must honour it.”> <”How?”> <”Return them to High Camp.”> The Tsahik instructed him. <”By whatever means, return them to us. Set aside your grief and be the hunter I know you to be.”>

Tsu’tey could feel himself nodding. It wasn’t acceptance of the situation, but it was an attempt at internal peace. A moment of reprieve, in which he could push aside his personal feelings and hide behind the mantle of Olo’eyktan again.

<”One step at a time, child. You have been angry for so long, it is time to start healing.”>

He was far from a child. The world had taken too much for him to be considered as such. Pandora had sculpted him into one of the best hunters of his clan, had supported him through his grief and grown him into a strong Olo’eyktan.

And yet, it still hurt. The dull pain that used to be background static in his mind had been yanked forward. The battle worn scar harshly slashed open to allow fresh waves of pain to hurt him as if nothing had changed. As if time had not dulled the pain and made him more resistant to it.

It felt like a betrayal when his eyes flickered down to his wrist. To the brown beaded bracelet that had once been worn as a choker, partially hidden by his wrist guard.

Tsu’tey’s ears rose tall as hurried footsteps rapidly approached the entrance to the Tsahik’s tent. The woman in question perked as Jake-Sully shoved his way into the tent, Neytiri piling in not a moment afterwards.

<”What is it?”> Mo’at demanded, rising to her feet before Tsu’tey could gather his barings.

<”It’s Neteyam.”> Jake-Sully blurted, his hand hovering at the communications collar as he swallowed loudly. <”The kids. All of them went with him to deliver the recom to a safe location-”> <”Spit it out!”>

<”The kids lost them. They slipped away.”>

Mo’at shifted uneasily, all earlier tenderness swept away in her agitation. <”And? Quickly now, I know that is not all. We know the recom did not intend the children harm.”> Jake-Sully was breathing too hard to continue, so Neytiri jumped in, her panic evident. <”There are more Demons in the forest. Sweeping the undergrowth.”>

Tsu’tey was on his feet before she had finished, in a heartbeat, his bow was in hand and he stepped out from behind Mo’at. His previously dormant anger was bubbling again, making it hard to speak as he rounded the fire and strode confidently for the tent’s entrance.

The Tsahik grabbed his arm before he could leave. <”I See your pain, child.”> She reassured him, <”but do not allow it to blind you. I trust you will return with everyone in one piece.”>

He nodded, words beyond his grasp, and she let him go.

Jake-Sully fell into step with him, Neytiri falling into a brief conversation with her mother before following them to the ikrans.

<”Is Spider with them?”> Tsu’tey croaked, to which Jake-Sully nodded glumly as he paused to check his ammunition for the gun slung off his shoulder.

<”What is the plan Olo’eyktan?”> <”Retrieve our children. Kill any of them that try to stop us.”> Judging by the dangerous grin Neytiri shot him, she whole-heartedly agreed with his plan.

>_<

The moment you got an opportunity, you slipped away.

With the shock of what had just transpired turning you numb, it was easy to slip into marine-mode as your old comrades used to refer to it.

Tuning out the bickering of the children - the children being all of Jake and Neytiri’s brood who had stealthily followed Neteyam’s ikran, much to the older boy’s annoyance and Spider - you made a swift and clean escape. Or at least, as clean as an escape can be when your wrists are bound and you’re trying to abseil down the side of a very tall tree using nothing but a vine and core strength.

<”I told you three to remain with the clan!”> Neteyam groaned in exasperation, to which Lo’ak immediately responded with something sarcastic and whitty that earned him another growl from Neteyam.

Their voices quickly grew muffled the lower you got, only their ikran paying you any attention with their weirdly intelligent eyes. Thankfully, none of the kids were still bonded to them, so the mounts noticing you didn’t automatically make the children notice you.

Within moments, your toes were touching down on soft grass, and you were another step free. Your chest twinged at the thought, as you reluctantly recalled the expressions of the People. The same People you had thought to be your salvation, only this morning. Many of their faces you recognised, despite the clear ways time had changed them, but many you did not. Regardless of all your training, your ears still rang from the volume of Tsu’tey’s tortured screams, your heart still hurt from the hatred in which he looked upon your new form. Stomach twisting, you thought of Neytiri’s harsh treatment, starkly contrasted by Mo’at’s weary questioning.

It was clear, they were not the people you had fought and died alongside, but mere phantoms of a past that felt like only yesterday. Despite having been back on Pandora for a little under a week, the events that led up to the burning of HomeTree felt vivid and recent. You could still see the colossal structure burning as your colleagues held their breaths. Could still feel the horrible ache for what the clan had lost.

The rage that had awakened in you only burned brighter as Quaritch threw Grace, Norm and Jake in jail, before turning his sights on the Tree of Souls. It festered behind your ribs as you helped Trudy free the trio. It clawed at the back of your throat as you watched their helicopter tear across the tarmac before soaring high into the stars and disappearing from view. The rage turned cold as you had turned your back and slipped back into the building and back into Quaritch’s good graces.

There, you had been called into the Colonel’s office and told - alongside your squad - about Project Phoenix. You had been hungry for knowledge that could aid the People then, and you had gladly signed the contract and slipped into the link unit, already planning on which coordinates to send Trudy to pick you up from.

And that was where your previous memories ceased.

The evidence of that decision manifested itself in your blue skin and sudden growth spurt. It reflected back at you from the anguished expressions of your loved ones.

What remained of that rage had finally spluttered and died between your ribs when Tsu’tey had raised his knife to you. Whatever spite had fueled your actions and encouraged you to flee Bridgehead had evaporated. Leaving your eyes vacant and your limbs heavy.

That was no longer your home. They were no longer your friends. Tsu’tey was not your mate. And whatever relationship you had had with Spider was not long dead and gone.

You were not the person they grieved, but a living phantom. A sick figure of the past who should have remained there.

<”Oi, you!”> Lo’ak’s voice echoed between the tree, startling you from your spiral. Stupidly, you turned your head skywards, to find all five children staring down at you in confusion. <”When did you get down there?”> <”Climbed.”> You very helpfully replied, whilst kicking yourself for getting caught in your head instead of running away.

Oh yeah, you were supposed to be escaping.

In a matter of breaths, you turned on your heels and threw yourself into a run.

<”Hey! Wait!”> One of the children yelled after you, but you were done waiting. You were finished with biding your time. In plotting and scheming just to live. Just this once, you were going to be obvious. You were going to put yourself first and get as much distance from the clan as you physically could.

You could hear them following you in the trees. Cursing and yelling to one another as you wove around plants and chose random intervals to change direction in an attempt to shake them off your trail. The uneven ground was hard to navigate, but your adrenaline high didn’t seem to care. Your body on autopilot.

Every panicked stride taking your cursed existence further and further from the hearts and minds of the Omaticaya. With any luck, you would disappear from their lives entirely.

Their reactions flashed behind your eyelids now, your stomach twisting into tight knots at their expressions. It had been foolish to expect acceptance. To think that you could salvage the wreckage of your old life as if time hadn’t marched on in your absence. These were not the people you once knew.

Jake and Neytiri had a family now. Kids you had never had the chance to watch grow.

Tsu’tey had adopted a child. A human child. He had moved on. Any interactions you had with him from here on out would only reopen old wounds. Best to get away now, before you become a permanent memory instead of a phantom of the past.

You didn’t know where you were going. Just that you couldn’t afford to stay here. For all you knew, you were blindly stumbling into the jaws of your second demise. Perhaps Eywa had a palulukan with your name on it.

You had no knife. No survival gear. No squad.

Even if you wanted to return to the RDA for some stupid reason, you couldn’t. You had seen too much. Walking back into that prison with the knowledge you possessed was as bad as storming into General Ardmore’s office and drawing her a detailed map with one of her fancy pens.

The Omaticaya may not be your family anymore, but you would not throw them to the wolves-

The ground abruptly disappeared from beneath your foot. Your stomach lurched as you pitched forward. Hands straining against their cuffs, you uselessly tore at thin ferns as the ground rolled out from under you and you found yourself hurtling down a cliff face. Grabbing at the undergrowth was futile. The roots were either too weak or the leafed vines slipping painfully through your fingers. It was futile, trying to grasp an overhanging vine or catch yourself on a rock, but you tried anyway, only for the ground to catch you before you could effectively slow your descent.

The impact knocked the wind from your lungs, leaving you to groan breathlessly as you stared blankly up at a cloudy sky.

God, what a day. What a horribly emotional, nightmare of a day. What you would give to go back a week and start over. Better yet, what would you give to go back fifteen years and never sign that stupid contract?

At least your bones were reinforced now, or you would surely have broken several ribs or at least the arm you landed weirdly on. Head thumping back into the moss, you stilled as your eyes caught on an unnatural purple glow emitting from the centre of the bowl of cliffs. Tilting your head back, your throat tightened at the sight of the Tree of Souls standing proudly on its earthy throne, its glowing, willow like vines swaying on a soft breeze.

You had never seen the Tree in person as a human. Only ever in images taken from the skies. Or on the screens of scientists greedily trying to learn everything they could about the tree that lay at the centre of na’vi culture. A site that was sacred to the People. And very much not somewhere you would want to be found, with a pissed off Olo’eyktan intent on landing you a fatal blow.

The thought of Tsu’tey somehow finding you and becoming even more murderous had you clumsily rolling onto your stomach and pushing yourself to your feet. The moss was spongy beneath your sore toes, glowing a magnificent turquoise when you relieved it of your weight.

Heart in your throat, you turned your back to the tree in hopes of finding the entrance to the Well of Souls. If you recall correctly, there was a sloped trail that meandered down into the bowl. Stumbling along the walls of the cliffs, you tried to ignore the unspoken beckoning of the tree. Your kuru tingled at the base of your skull. A current of electricity travelling down the sensitive cord as if someone were trailing a finger down the skin beneath the braided hair.

Some instinct that wasn’t your own, knew the sensation would be elevated if you connected to the Tree.

Of course, because you had common sense and knew nothing about what that would do to your mind, you continued to scan the cliff faces for an exit.

The tingling abruptly cut off when you stumbled across an uneven patch of earth dotted in blooming flowers. Your toes thrummed with something unnatural where they touched the disturbed earth, the moss thinner here, as if it had been disturbed some time ago but hadn’t quite managed to heal.

It was a grave, you realised with a tight bob of your throat.

No, it was a pair of graves. One fresher than the other. Too small to be the resting places of na’vi.

They were human graves. Neatly dug rectangles that the Well of Souls had begun to reclaim and conceal.

There were no headstones. Only names carved into the cliff face at the head of each plot of disturbed earth. The older one carried an inscription that was weather worn, with lichen growing in the grooves formed by a sharp blade.

‘Jake Sully’

Heart hammering, your gaze flicked to the fresher carving. Though old, it looked to have been cleaned recently, unlike Jake’s grave which was on the verge of disappearing like a bad memory.

Your name stared back at you.

It was odd really, to be looking down at your own grave. Knowing that beneath your feet lay the skeletal remains of your human form on a bed of soft brown earth with sun lilies waving about its head. It was weird to know that that version of you lay resting within Eywa’s embrace, finally at peace with no goal for tomorrow and no pinch of regret for yesterday. Ignorant to the fact that everything beyond laying down in the link unit fifteen years ago, every adventure and your glorious demise, was not lost to you.

Who had brought you here? Who had tended to your wound or ailment? Who had prepared your vulnerable body to return be sent Eywa, uncertain if the Great Mother would even take you? Had they laid you to rest beside Jake’s soulless form, under the false hope that it would keep you company even whilst in the cold embrace of death.

More importantly, what had put you here? What had killed you? It had not yet been long enough for time to have dealt you a mortal blow, nor did the diseases of Pandora threaten human forms.

Had your death been dramatic? Cradled in the loving embrace of someone who begged you not to depart. Or had you been alone? Gasping for breath but finding no relief, wishing for the pain to stop and for Eywa to take you already.

The snap of a twig had your ears perking and your mind snapping out of its self-pitying spiral. You stepped away from the graves, tail straightening as you became painfully aware of your vulnerable situation. Booted footsteps echoed around the bowl of cliffs as a lone figure messily descended the concealed slope that led into the heart of the Well of Souls. You expected one of Pandora’s horrors or an RDA machine to explode across the open space.

Instead, a single Recom stepped out from behind a wall of cliff, moving methodically across the moss, his gun loaded and angled in front of him. Your gaze caught on the sunglasses firmly sat upon his nose, leaving you to stare dumbly at him as pure relief washed over his expression. Mansk’s face lit up, ears wiggling as he unleashed a hysterical laugh.

You jumped as the sound echoed around the Well of Souls.

“We thought we lost you!” He exclaimed, picking up his pace as he approached. You tried your best to return his enthusiasm, forcing your tail to stiffly begin wagging as the man approached.

“I got lost.” You chuckled dryly. “Ended up losing half my gear on the way.”

He grinned, wide and toothy. “We thought the na’vi got you.”

“Almost.” You joked, lifting your bound wrists for him to focus on.

Mansk shook his head fondly. “You always were a slippery one.” He mused, allowing his gun to swing back on his strap as he pulled a utility knife from his belt. His movements were confident as his large, five fingered hand gripped your forearm before he effortlessly cut the vines binding you.

You nodded gratefully, immediately moving to rub the sensation back into them. Mansk’s expression was unreadable when his hand fell to your shoulder, squeezing encouragingly. “Let's get you home. I’ll radio the chopper and we’ll get you back to Bridgehead in time for dinner.” Mansk promised as he pulled back, expression still bright. It made your stomach twist with unimaginable guilt. “You’re filthy. Bet you can’t wait for a warm shower.”

You forced a laugh as your stomach twisted with indescribably guilt.

Your disloyalty towards the RDA had never been because of your colleagues, and strongly towards the company itself. Which only served to cover your tongue in something sour at Mansk’s easy acceptance of your presence. Unknowingly, he was attempting to lead a hornet straight back into the beehive, and you were half tempted to let him.

Anger was reigniting low in your belly. Similar to the rage you’d felt when HomeTree fell. The kind of fury that made you want to watch the world burn. To lead the facility to ruin from the inside before letting yourself join it in its destruction.

In truth, you didn’t want to return to Bridgehead with its low ceilings and loud equipment. But what choice did you have?

Na’vi lived in clans to survive. You were a marine, but you doubted you’d last long out here on your own, whereas the other forest clans would no doubt shoot you on sight for your attire.

Mansk unexpectedly went rigid in front of you, hand frozen on his ear piece. Your gaze snapped up to him, reading the tension in his face, the widening of his eyes behind his glasses.

“Na’vi.” He whispered.

“Mansk?”

“Na’vi!” He blurted, abruptly sweeping you aside with one enormous arch of his arm, effectively shoving you behind him before he dropped his utility knife and scrambled for his gun.

Instinctively, you snatched up his fallen knife, but fell short of plunging it into his turned back, by the sight of Lo’ak standing threateningly by the sloped entrance to the Well of Souls. The kid was tense, eyes snapping from Mansk to you, whilst he held his knife by his side, concealing it with his body.

“At ease.” You soothed, hoping to discourage the marine from firing on sight, but Mansk was already shaking his head.

“Fuck no. These things travel in packs, if there’s one, there’s bound to be a whole squad nearby.”

From the undergrowth, you heard Neteyam yell, <”LO’AK GET BACK HERE!”>

Mansk lurched at the order but did not fire. His hands shook but he tried to school his face into something more neutral as he stared down Lo’ak.

Lo’ak who easily said, <”no,”> to his older brother and took another, slow menacing step towards the armed recom. God, all you could see was Jake’s childish defiance in his every movement. The naivety of a child believing they were invincible. “The hell is it saying?” Mansk demanded, his hands shaking on his weapon.

Lo’ak tipped his head up defiantly at his words, before saying in broken English, “you should not be here.”

Mansk jumped at his accented words, body tensing further as he instinctively pressed down on the trigger. Lo’ak barely managed to duck back behind the wall of rock as bullets tore up the moss he’d previously been standing on.

Heart pounding in your chest, you instinctively swung your knife hand up, slamming the hilt hard into Mansk’s temple. He cried out, losing his balance from the strike and falling heavily to his knees and elbows. His gun remained close to his body by the strap over his shoulder.

“Are you out of your mind?” Mansk shrieked, voice kicking up several octaves. “They’re na’vi!” He yelled, as if that was supposed to make you falter. “They killed us.”

“You should not instigate violence here!” You snapped, bending at the waist with all your teeth bared. “This place is sacred.” Mansk opened and closed his mouth several times. His shades had slipped down his nose, revealing large, accusatory eyes. They flickered from your wild expression to the Tree of Souls looming over your shoulder.

“You can’t be serious.” He scoffed. “We thought you’d left all this treehugger crap behind.” “You assumed wrong.” You corrected him, “now put the gun down. Pandora will not take kindly to more ruin of its sacred sites.”

Mansk spluttered at that. “Are you even hearing yourself right now?” He demanded, “they’ve killed hundreds of us. Good soldiers. Good people. I’ve lost so many friends to these fuckers.” “And the na’vi have lost families, homes, territory. The humans aren’t the victims here!”

“Why do you say it like that?” “Like what?” “Like you’re something else.” Mansk blurted, “we’re still human Private.” He argued, tone bordering on hysterical. “Turning blue didn’t change that.” It was your turn to scoff. “Stop being delusional. We signed our humanity away the moment we touched pens to that blasted contract.”

Something seemed to click for him. “You’re one of them.” It didn’t sound like an accusation.

You straightened, knife still clutched tightly in your dominant hand. No words sprang to mind to protect yourself as you glared down at the marine sprawled in the moss at your bare feet. Even decked out in full military attire, he looked more na’vi than human. And you looked even more like one of the People, but not enough. Not enough to blend in with them. To be accepted.

“I am not.” You told him truthfully. “Well you’re sure as hell not one of us.”

“Is that so?” “You’re a traitor.” “Perhaps.”

He barked a short laugh. High pitched and hysterical. He was already shaking his head as he scrambled backwards, putting distance between you, as if your feeble knife would do anything against the monster of a gun currently nestled in his lap.

“How long?” He demanded. You tilted her head in confusion and he sucked in a desperate breath. “How long have you been working for them?” Against your better judgement, the corner of your mouth kicked up. “It was nothing personal.” “How long!” He cut in, still backing away, still trembling. “Have you been lying to me? To our entire squad? To the people who have laid down their lives to watch your back.” You breathed out a long breath. “Don’t think I can count back that far.” You admitted, watching the hope drain out of him at the admission. “I mean.” Another stolen moment to do the maths. “Since before Jake even set foot on Pandora.”

Mansk’s expression shuttered as his fear abruptly melted away. You were familiar with the sight of a neutral mask shutting off his emotions. You knew your own expression mirrored the marine in the dirt.

“Did you get that Colonel?” He asked the air.

You immediately tensed, expecting a bullet between the eyes or for Lo’ak to cry out in pain from where he was still cowering behind the rocks. But instead, Mansk waited in silence, the buzz of a voice over the comms. Jake’s kid was no doubt long gone by now, his curiosity sated by the danger of the situation.

Your gaze snapped to the ear piece still blinking a steady red. Still recording. The marine nodded, expression solemn. Then he reached up and turned the earpiece off.

Movement flickered by the entrance to the Well, but you dared not glance away from the dangerously calm marine. Your slick grip clutched tightly at the hilt of your stolen utility knife as the man adjusted his grip on his weapon.

“Well done on getting this far. You had us fooled” He praised you, voice tight. “I’m sorry.” He said, and you knew he meant it.

“Nothing personal.” You repeated. “I just found something much better beyond the compound.” “I understand.” Mansk promised as he swung the gun up so the mouth glared at your unprotected torso. “But I’m still pissed at you.”

And then he opened fire.

Pain ripped through your right side. Long fingers of liquid fire dragged their nails across your torso, tearing up your dirty tank top, splitting skin. Expression twisted in pain, you gasped as more bullets whizzed passed. You staggered in place, knife dropping uselessly from your hand as Mansk emptied a cartridge of bullets into your abdomen.

Every sound of pain that punched past your lips could not convey the fire that laced your side. It stole the breath from your lungs, causing you to crumble to your knees even as the marine paused to reload.

You hit the dirt hard, knees buckling and slamming down into the moss.

Distantly, you realised that this would be your finally resting place for both your human and recom bodies. Although you doubted anyone would bother to bury this one, you were internally grateful that someone had cared enough to carve your name into the stone of Pandora. A tiny fragment of yourself would remain.

The gun went off again. Firing one, two more bullets before the sound spluttered and died. There was a curse in English. Closely followed by a gurgling sound, as if someone was choking on blood. Then a second twang of a bowstring and the wet thud of an arrow landing.

>_<

Sunlight slid off of your face as you lay on your back, arms limp at your sides and your head lolled back. You could feel vines wrapped under your armpits, securing you to whatever you were leaning against whilst your shoeless feet dragged against damp moss.

<”Eywa, they’re fucking heavy.”> Lo’ak complained.

<”We wouldn’t have to be dragging them if Neteyam had let me kill the bastard earlier!”> Spider snipped harshly, to which Neteyam quickly reprimanded him.

<”We had to make sure they weren’t going to hand over High Camp’s location.”> Spider muttered wordlessly under his breath, whilst Kiri jumped in. <”Stop whining Lo’ak and pull.”> <”I am pulling!”>

Neteyam spoke up, <”Spider is clearly pulling more than you are.”>

<”He is not!”> Lo’ak insisted, and whatever was dragging you along the forest floor abruptly jumped, sending your body into a world of pain.

You groaned. Low and guttural. Everything below your arms screaming in pain.

<”Shit.”> Lo’ak cursed, swiftly followed by the sound of a smack.

<”Idiot.”> Kiri spat, earning herself a half-hearted growl. <”I cannot effectively treat wounds that you continue to reopen.”>

<”It wasn’t on purpose.”>

“God, you kids are bloody loud.” You grumbled, vision swimming as you tried to rouse yourself further.

The sliding motion abruptly stopped as your words crawled their way out of your mouth. Gently, you were laid flat against the forest floor, and a shadow fell over your eyelids.

”You’re okay Zaza.” Spider soothed softly, and small hands pressed down on your forehead. <”They’re burning up.”> The boy reported, anxiety curdling his earlier reassurance.

<”They’ll never make it to the village like this.”> Neteyam whispered, to which Kiri jumped in.

<”We’ll get them stabilised using the Tree of Souls and I’ll clot those wounds.”> <”Can’t you call Dad? He’ll want to know if they’re dying.”> Spider asked.

<”Or help them pass faster.”> Lo’ak muttered, earning himself another smack.

Their bickering allowed you to drift for a while. Mind fluctuating between hearing the sound of your surroundings, to feeling like you had been submerged in a river. Time continued on as it had a tendency to do, even if you were not awake to appreciate it.

<”I’ve let Dad know we’re safe now.”> Neteyam said some time later, bringing you up from the tranquil bubble in which you had been floating. Distantly, you could feel little hands pushing your hair away from your sweaty forehead as pressure upset the wounds in your torso. <”But I think we should give Tsu’tey more time.”> Spider groaned. <”If he takes any longer-”> You drifted off again at Spider’s annoyed tone. The pain yanking you down beneath a sea of endless throbbing. Vaguely, you felt delicate hands fumbling with your kuru. The sensation was odd, ticklish almost as the braid was carefully attached to something that felt alive but not. You felt the tendrils wrap around something warm and pulsing as if it were your fingers knotting into a fist.

Then there was a bright tunnel of pulsing purple light behind your eyes, and you slipped away from Pandora, sinking into a comforting presence. It felt almost motherly, the way your sub conscience held you.

>_<

Slowly, a scene faded into view. In the back of your mind, you recognised it as the compound tucked in the Hallelujah Mountains. The one you’d spent three months sharing with Trudy whilst the three avatar drivers frollicked around the forest.

The compound was the same, but different somehow. The light pouring into the room was dappled instead of blinding like it was at that time of day perched upon the mountain. Grace’s belongings were missing, alongside Jake’s wheelchair and Trudy’s bunk was stripped, her jacket carefully folded and dusty at the foot of the elevated bed.

The scientific equipment had been rolled out to make room for kids toys and a cot. The link units had been ripped out, and in their place, a hammock as long as the room had been set up.

Curiously, you slid a hand along the material, stomach clenching at the sight of large, blue hands instead of the small, human ones you’d been expecting.

Behind you, there was a soft noise.

You turned, only for your stomach to drop at the sight of Tsu’tey sitting cross-legged against the far wall, a respirator hanging around his neck. He looked relaxed, almost content as he leaned against the wall, looking much too big for the small space and the streak of white paint running from his forehead to his chin. The hunter did not notice you watching him.

Smiling softly, he instead watched someone at his side.

You followed his gaze to a child happily messing around with the hunter’s tail. You recognised the kid immediately as Spider from his big eyes and shock of curly blond hair. He couldn’t have been any older than two, sitting beside Tsu’tey without an ounce of fear as he raked stubby little fingers through the hair adorning the tip of the tail.

Neither spoke as they sat in companionable silence. Tsu’tey watched the boy with a bittersweet expression of pure adoration, whilst Spider tested how far the tail could curl and stretch.

You took half a step closer and the scene evaporated.

>_<

This time, human you sat before you with their back to you. You were still in the compound, but it was decorated how you remembered, with the link beds all set out and your military jacket hung on the back of your door. Jake’s wheelchair was still missing, but some of Grace’s decorations still lingered. You could almost smell that ridiculously strong cherry blossom perfume she used to cake herself in, because she forgot to shower between driving her avatar and noting down her observations.

Human you was sat at their desk, pouring over a notebook in which they scribbled furiously. Curious, you inched closer. It was odd how you had to stoop in the familiar space to keep from hitting your head, but you pushed the thought away as you peered closer.

‘I see you.’

The page said. And written next to the English was Na’vi in bold italics.

‘Oel ngati kameie.’

Tsu’tey ducked into the room without warning, startling human you who immediately yanked another notebook over the page they were just writing on.

The hunter chuckled softly at their hurried motions, as he took his time approaching.

You stepped aside as he got closer, eyes catching on the lack of white painted down his face. How the bullet scars adoring his chest appeared more raw; newer. Which inevitably led your eyes to the baby shawl slung across his chest and a wiggling Spider cuddled up to his chest.

<”Your son is being difficult.”> Tsu’tey complained as he lowered himself to his knees beside human you’s chair. What little breath you had was abruptly punched from you, whilst human you simply turned in their seat to smile up at him. Tsu’tey was very clearly pouting, ears lowered playfully.

<”Defeated by a baby.”> Human you joked, leaning in to cup his cheek. <”I never thought I’d see the day.”> Tsu’tey tsked softly, large hands falling to their thighs and holding gently. <”You’re warmer than me.”> He said simply. <”And he sleeps better with you.”>

And that seemed to be that, because Tsu’tey withdrew his hands to carefully pull Spider from the baby shawl. The infant did not go easily. Clinging to everything within reach, from the shawl to Tsu’tey’s braids, which only served to make human you laugh at the pair, as Tsu’tey pouted whilst carefully untangling Spider’s little fists from him. But before long, they had Spider cradled in their arms, his little eyes drooping comically.

<”Lets go to bed.”> Tsu’tey suggested. Human you made to complain, but the hunter was already pulling them from the chair and against his chest.

>_<

The scene shifted to a na’vi village you had never visited before. Instinctively, you knew it was the new clan home, based on the familiar faces milling around. Hidden amongst the trees, you made out various tree houses nestled in the branches, with children swinging from home to home, whilst adults carried out their daily tasks.

Your attention was drawn by a hush that fell over the clan, and several heads turned towards the shadow of the trees at the far end of the clearing. As tall as you were in your recom body, you still had to strain to see na’vi you did not recognise emerging from the undergrowth.

Judging by their attire and spears instead of bows, you recognised them as a clan from a neighbouring territory. The small entourage was led by an older na’vi male adorned in vines of fiery red and gold. Clearly the Olo’eyktan, the man walked through the Omaticaya clan who parted easily for him. He nodded to any who met his gaze, speaking soft greetings.

Tsu’tey and Mo’at stepped forward to greet him, both decked out in their ceremonial attire. They touched their hands to their foreheads in greeting as the visiting Olo’eyktan mirrored the gesture. You noted the lack of white painted down Tsu’tey’s forehead as he greeted the man with an award winning smile. He stepped forward, Mo’at at his elbow as the visiting Olo’eyktan introduced himself.

The man tripped over his tongue as he caught sight of Spider wrapped securely in a shawl across Tsu’tey’s chest. Your eyes bugged at the sight of how small the child was in the open world of Pandora. How his exo-mask looked comically big over his little face, as he absently played with Tsu’tey’s kuru, which the man had pulled over his shoulder for the toddler to entertain himself with.

The visiting Olo’eyktan’s expression was pinched as he found his voice. <”You did not send word that you had adopted.”>

Tsu’tey took the poorly concealed accusation in his stride. <”I apologise, with rebuilding, many things have escaped my notice.”> The visiting Olo’eyktan nodded his head good naturedly, a sliver of his tension easing at Tsu’tey’s explanation. <”This is my son, Spider.”> He proudly explained, grinning when Spider glanced up at the mention of his name.

<”He is one of them.”> The visiting Olo’eyktan commented.

<”He is mine.”> Tsu’tey corrected simply, before stepping back and motioning to a fire that had been set up for the meeting. <”Come, you must be tired.”> The visiting Olo’eyktan nodded his head gratefully. <”It has been a long trip.”>

It was then that Spider began to fuss. Angrily, the toddler pushed away the kuru and began demanding to be held with grabby hands. His fussing picked up as Tsu’tey tried to keep a pleasant conversation going, whilst soothing the child with a hand rubbing up and down his back.

Spider was not amused.

Mo’at, seeing Tsu’tey struggle, decided to chip in with asking the visiting Olo’eyktan about his Tsahik. The man easily followed her change of conversation, explaining how his mate had fallen ill and wouldn’t have comfortably completed the journey in his current state.

Whilst the pair walked ahead to the fire and the clan and visitors disbursed to continue with their duties, your attention remained on Tsu’tey who was struggling to get Spider to settle. His tail thrashed in unease, hands checking the exo-mask to ensure it wasn’t rubbing.

His ears pricked cutely at the approach of someone half his size. Human you was dressed in a simple shirt and camo shorts to combat the heat, they wore a beaded choker at their neck. They padded barefoot across the clearing, an amused smirk tugging at the corner of their lips as they approached Tsu’tey, who was quick to drop to his knee and twist so that Spider could clearly see his other parent.

The effect was immediate as the toddler threw himself away from Tsu’tey, arms outstretched towards you. He only stopped fussing when human you lifted him out of the shawl and into their arms.

Tsu’tey remained on his knee for several more moments, softly watching his mate and child with a look that could melt even the hardest of hearts. Human you noticed him looking and were quick to press a kiss to his cheek and urge him back to his feet.

Dazed, Tsu’tey went willingly, but not before offering adorable words of endearment as a final parting gift.

>_<

The scene that followed was blurry as if someone had wiped grease across a camera lens.

This time, you were not experiencing the event from an out of body perspective, but instead, you appeared to be back in your human form. Every movement the body made was not your own. They were sluggish as if you were drunk or disconnected from your motions.

Beyond the warmth of a tea clutched between your hands, you could not figure out where your human body was. Whether you were in the compound, or within the new village. There was someone with you. A na’vi.

Their voice was smooth as honey, laced with the undertone of something malicious.

Every muscle in your body screamed danger as a large, four fingered hand took the tea from your grasp and helped you to your feet.

<”Why don’t we go on a walk?”> The voice suggested, to which the body you were in nodded jerkily. There was an amused huff, another hand on your shoulder; steering you.

You wanted to wiggle free. Every instinct you possessed screamed that this person meant you harm.

<”Very good.”> The voice cooed, <”Eywa, this will be easy.”>

>_<

The scene shifted. The world was still murky, but this time, your chest hurt. There was someone stood over you. That same honeyed tone. The glint of a blade.

Somehow, you knew you had been stabbed.

<”Now my brother can finally be free.”> Your murderer muttered.

Even as the world darkened before your eyes, your consciousness stalled. A name floated to the forefront of your mind. Knowledge that had seemed irrelevant at the time offered you a face to put to the statement.

>_<

For this memory, you were once again outside of a body. You stood back at your recom height, watching Tsu’tey stumble across your bloodied human form.

He wore no white paint, and was adorned in the ceremonial attire he’d welcomed the visiting Olo’eyktan in. Thankfully, Spider was nowhere in sight.

The hunter unleashed a gut wrenchingly, wounded sound as he collapsed to his knees before your dying form. His hands shook as he bundled them up in his arms, cradling them close. His hair braided with the red beads you remembered from before the war, and his Olo’eyktan necklace curled around his throat. You watched as he cradled the tiny form close to his chest, whispering in na’vi. His voice too low to hear.

Distracted, he unsteadily rose to his feet before taking off in the direction of the clan. Your phantom form easily kept pace, watching him weave through the trees. His head snapping down to human you every few paces.

<”We’re almost there Yawne.”> He promised, clutching them impossibly tighter.

They bled from a wound to their ribs. Not a bullet wound, but a long, deadly slice, deep and angry as it wept. Not the clean kill.

<”Did you kill him?”> They asked weakly.

Tsu’tey frowned, <”who Yawne?”>

Their brow furrowed at the question, but you could see the clarity slipping from their half lidded eyes. They were practically limp in his desperate grasp.

<”Slippery bastard.”> They said bitterly. <”Make sure you take good care of Spider. Gonna miss him.”>

Tsu’tey looked at them tightly. <”He will be back at the compound. You will see him shortly.”> <”Do not let him see me like this.”> They whispered. <”I don’t want him to remember me like this.”> By this, they meant bloody. Broken. A weak voice and a severe lack of strength in their arms. Tsu’tey seemed to understand.

<”Fine. I will wait until I have washed you of the blood.”>

<”Tsu’tey.”> They reprimanded weakly and the man bristled.

<”I am not going to lose you!”> He abruptly declared with the wrath of an Olo’eyktan fueling his words. <”I am going to take you home and you will be healed. And Spider and I will cuddle you until you are well again.”> <”That sounds nice.”> They whispered, voice somehow fainter. <”Can you keep holding me? Please?”> <”I am.”> Tsu’tey insisted, <”I’m holding you, Yawne. I’ve got you.”>

<”Can’t feel you.”> They told him, and Tsu’tey face twisted into something painful. <”Hurts.”> <“I know. I know.”> A sharp hiss through their teeth as a particularly unexpected jerk. <”Hurts!”> <”I know. I know. I know.”> Tsu’tey chanted, working himself up again to the point where panic laced his voice and brought tears to his eyes. He was still running, still returning to the clan with his dying mate in his arms. And even so, he called to Eywa for help. For some miracle. <”Please Great Mother, HELP ME!”>

No response.

Human you had gone deathly pale in his arms. Their fingers shaking as they tried to grab onto his arm guard to bring his attention back to them. Their voice was small when they next spoke. <”Thank you. For everything.”> <”Stop talking like this. You’re going to be fine. Mo’at will patch you up, and you will be running around giving me headaches like usual.”> They hummed and fell still.

Tsu’tey grew distraught before your eyes. Lower lip quivering as he shook them, ears falling flat when they didn’t hiss in pain. His hands shook as he crushed them to him, tail smacking against the nearby trees and he fell painfully to his knees.

The sound he let out shook the heavens. The grief that tore its way up his throat, bursting out of him as he clutched the corpse incredibly closer. Rocking them. Praying to Eywa. Begging her to give them back.

Before you could stop yourself, you moved towards him. He either didn’t notice your presence or didn’t care as the grief consumed him. It tore at your insides to watch him break. To listen to him bargain with a force beyond your understanding.

All you wanted was for the crying to stop. Your hand found his head, fingers slipping through immaculately kept braids. He fell still. Teary eyes slid up your form, catching on your face the most.

“Yawne?” He whispered, sounding distraught and broken.

“You’re okay.” You promise, and his face crumbled. Your human form has disappeared from his hands but the blood remained. And those bloodstained hands reached for you now, twisting into your torn shirt, clawing at you. He looked at you like you were a miracle. Like you were something precious. A stark contrast to the hatred and rage from before. He wound his arms around your thighs now, holding impossibly tight as he buried his tear stained face into your stomach.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered brokenly, hands clutching tighter. As if you’d disappear if he loosened his grip for even a heartbeat. Your hands remained in his braids, soothingly petting through them as he repeated it over and over again.

“Wasn’t your fault.” You assured him. He shook his head, pushing his nose hard into your stomach. Denying your forgiveness.

You urged him out of his hiding spot. Hands falling to cup his cheeks and rub away the tears that spilled down them. You stilled at the white paint that had suddenly appeared down his nose. It was a simple stroke, stretching from brow to chin.

“What does this mean?” You asked.

“It is how I show my grief.” He explained. “How I honour your spirit.”

“I thought the mourning period lasted for a season.” You wondered aloud, recalling the Tsu’tey of the current time, who wore his white line proudly.

“It does.” He confirmed, vulnerable and raw. It made you pull him into you again. Up off of his knees so he towered over you. His eyes were still shining, blood still all over him, but you didn’t care as you pulled him down so his face could tuck itself into the slope of your neck. He went willingly, pulling you to him, holding on tightly.

“I’m sorry.” “You do not need to be sorry.” “Couldn’t protect you.” “You did everything you could have.”

“Spider will be stuck with me. I cannot make him stop crying like you do.” The quiet admission has you pulling back in an instant. “That boy loves you with every fibre of his being. He looks up to and cherishes everything you do for him. He does not blame you for what happened to me. And nor do I.”

“But-” “Stop punishing yourself, Love.” You told him, “please. You can’t keep living like this.”

He stared at you. Blankly. Before suddenly coming back to life. His white paint was chipping before your eyes, flaking away to reveal shining little dots along his brow that trailed down the slope of his nose.

“I will find you.” He promised. And you believed that it wasn’t a threat, but a vow.

Last Chapter <- Part 2 -> Next Chapter

#Recom Reader #tsu'tey x reader #dad!tsu'tey #spider socorro #Son!Spider #when you accidentally find your own grave #betrayal #spiritual trees #grief #acceptance #minor injuries #rip mansk #today i sacrifice mansk to eywa #love you my boy but you further the plot #part 2 of 4

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nurse-buckley · 7 months

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Whumptober Day 6

Title:

Prompt: Written for anon "Eddie x reader. Reader is also with the 118. Eddie is training her on something so they trade places and then she gets injured, maybe hit by falling debris or something. And then while they’re at the hospital waiting to hear how she is he feels guilty because she was standing where he should have been."

Word Count: 1,489

Characters: Evan Buckley, Eddie Diaz, Bobby Nash, Hen Wilson and Chimney Han

Pairing: Eddie Diaz x Reader (platonic)

Warnings: mentions of injury (minor)

Summary: You and the team are called to an accident at a construction site when disaster strikes. Written for day six of @whumptober for the prompt "it should have been me."

Tags: @firemedicdiaz @winterreader-nowwriter @iamasimpingh0e @dayrin085 @hauntedmilkshakeghost @floralbuckleys @alexxavicry @cm1031sr

Authors notes: unbeta'd but I've got a migraine and wanted to post it before midnight. All mistakes are my own - hoping to reupload a polished version soon.

You were sitting with Eddie and buck, chatting over your coffee when the call bell sounded, altering you to another rescue. You followed quickly behind your team as you grabbed your turnouts and piled onto the fire engine. The sirens blared as you raced down the streets of LA and Bobby relayed the information he was receiving from dispatch. There were reports of a disaster at a construction site with multiple victims involved. You looked out the window as you mentally prepared yourself for what you were about to encounter when you arrived on scene.

When you finally arrived, chaos greeted you as you took in the full extent of the accident. There was debris scattered everywhere as well as workers with various injuries, some were walking wounded and others were on the floor, surrounded by their colleagues who were attempting to help them.

Bobby gave you your assignments, putting you and Eddie on medical with Hen and Chim due to the amount of casualties involved. You and Eddie partnered up together and grabbed your equipment before assessing the scene to identify who needed your help most.

Amidst the chaos, your eyes landed on a man with a severe leg injury, his colleagues were frantically attempting to stem the bleeding as he deteriorated.

You took over from one of the men, holding pressure on the wound as Eddie began his assessment and secured the man’s c-spine. Eddie could see the extent of the injury and turned to you, his voice filled with urgency, “swap with me. I’ll take over.”

Nodding, you easily swapped positions and took over the patient's airway while Eddie took charge of managing the patient’s leg wound, knowing he had more experience with these sorts of injuries.

As you began to work, a loud crash echoed from above as a piece of debris fell from a higher level right where Eddie had been moments before. Time seemed to move in slow motion as Eddie could do nothing but watch in horror, his heart in his throat as the ceiling fell around you. The last thing you remember before your world faded to black was a large piece of debris coming down on top of you and knocking you unconscious.

Eddie felt as if his heart had stopped as he watched your body slump to the ground motionless. Panic surged through Eddie as he helplessly watched from his position and desperately screamed for back up. He was surrounded by extra hands moments later, including those of his team. Hen and Chimney rushed to your side, Buck and Bobby joining only moments later. Medics took over looking after the patients allowing him to rush forward to your side. He frantically pressed his fingers into your neck and let out a choked sob as he felt the weak pulse beneath his touch. It was a tense and agonizing few minutes but eventually they were able to pull you free.

Eddie climbed in the ambulance behind you, his face etched with worry for you and the guilt he couldn’t help feeling that it should have been him on that stretcher. The team loaded you onto the waiting ambulance and rushed towards the hospital.

As the ambulance arrived at the hospital, the doctors and nurses practically tore the gurney away from your teammates, promising that they would do their best for you. Eddie just hoped their best would be enough.

Chim stepped behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder, “y/n’s strong. We got them here in time. They’re going to pull through.”

Eddie nodded, still not quite believing his friend as he sat in the uncomfortable and all too familiar chairs of the hospital waiting room and waited for news of your condition.

A few hours later, with no updates on your condition, Eddie’s worry began to grow. Before he could think on it any longer, the surgeon who’d been working on you appeared followed by a nurse. He looked exhausted, but wore a hopeful expression as he approached the group. “Y/N’s made it through surgery. They’re in critical condition, but stable. The next few hours and days are critical but we’re hopeful.”

“Once they’re out of recovery you can visit,” the nurse added.

Eddie couldn’t help the overwhelming flood of relief that washed over him at the news.

When the nurse came by again with another update and that you’d been moved out of recovery and into the ICU, Eddie was the first to rise. He promised himself that he’d watch out for you and be by your side until you woke up.

Two days later, you still remained unconscious in the ICU while your body healed from the accident. The 118 had taken turns paying you visits, coming and going, but one person had remained by your side the entire time. Buck entered the room, coffee cup in hand, not expecting to see Eddie still there. His eyes were heavy with exhaustion, the dark circles under his eyes showing he hadn’t gotten much rest. The room was eerily silent, the only sound the beeping of the heart monitor and soft buzz of medical equipment as he took the empty seat next to Eddie. Buck studied Eddie’s face and how his eyes never left you.

“It should have been me,” Eddie muttered, so quietly Buck would have missed it if he weren’t sitting next to him.

Buck’s brow furrowed in confusion, “Eddie, what?”

“It should have been me who got hurt, not y/n. It should be me in that hospital bed.” He looked at Buck who was still just as confused.

“Eddie, you know this isn’t your fault, right? Accidents happen and you couldn’t have stopped it.”

“I put them here,” he choked out with tears in his eyes before continuing, “I asked them to swap places with me. If we hadn’t switched, we wouldn’t be in this situation.”

Buck’s expression softened, “Eds, we’d still be in this situation if you hadn’t switched, only it would be you in that bed. You made a split second decision based on skill and what you thought was best for the patient. Accidents happen all the time in our line of work. This isn’t your fault and Y/N is strong, they pulled through surgery and they’re going to be okay, alright?”

“I would have preferred it had been me.”

Buck sighed, he knew Eddie was tired and it wasn’t helping the situation. “We can’t change what happened, but what we can do is be here for y/n. They love you and they wouldn’t want you blaming yourself. When was the last time you got some rest or ate or drank anything?”

“I’m fine.”

“Eds, you need rest or you will end up in the hospital bed next to them. Come on, I’ll call Bobby and he can sit with them. You’re going to go home and I’m going to get you some food, water and you’re going to rest.”

“But…” he tried but Buck was having none of it.

“I’m not arguing Eds.”

Eddie’s gaze returned to you, his eyes still filled with guilt and regret. “I just want y/n to wake up.”

“They will, but we can’t do anything but wait right now and I know they’d want you to be looking after yourself too.”

Reluctantly Eddie got up from his seat and gave your hand a gentle squeeze before he followed Buck out of the room. They passed Bobby in the hallway who’d come at Buck’s request so you wouldn’t be left alone and headed back to Eddie’s to get him a shower, food and some rest.

A few hours later Buck got a call from the hospital. He sat down on the table and gave Eddie a gentle shake to wake him, his phone still clutched in his hand. Eddie’s heart was in his throat as he thought the worst before Buck told him the words he’d been hoping to hear since the accident. You were awake.

The pair rushed into your room, seeing you awake and talking to Bobby. A small smile crossed your lips as you saw Eddie waiting at the door. Buck and Bobby exchanged a knowing glance as they quietly left the room to give the two of you some privacy.

You held out your hand for him as he walked into the room and he took the seat by your side. He gave your hand a gentle squeeze in return, his eyes filling with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he began.

“Eddie,” you interrupted, “I don’t blame you. You didn’t do anything wrong, accidents happen and I’m glad it wasn’t you.”

“You heard?”

“I know you blame yourself and think it should have been you, but I’m glad it wasn’t.”

A tear rolled down his cheek as he leaned in close and placed a gentle kiss on your forehead, relieved to finally know that you were going to be okay.

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wangxianficrecs · 6 months

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Snapping The Banjo by Anonymous

Snapping The Banjo

by Anonymous

M, 8k, Wangxian & Xuanli

Summary: “A-Jie…” Jiang Cheng pushes. “I broke my husband’s penis during sex.” One quick in-out breath as Yanli raises her chin high, pivots sharply on her heel and marches back off towards the building. Wei Ying opens his mouth. Jiang Cheng slowly raises a hand to silence him, expression on his face as if he had been slapped with a wet fish. Wei Ying and Lan Zhan's date night has gone wrong. Then, Jiang Yanli calls to ask her brothers for a ride to the hospital. Jiang Yanli's date night has gone very wrong. Kay's comments: RIP Jin Zixuan's dick, I guess Jin Ling won't be getting a sibling (jk, jk, his dick is probably fine). This story is was so much fun, full of shenanigans! The fact that broken dicked Jin Zixuan also had to deal with drunk Lan Wangji wanting to study his broken dick like an insect made me cackle.

pov wei wuxian, modern setting, modern no powers, crack treated seriously, jiang yanli/jin zixuan, yunmeng siblings feels, good sibling wei wuxian, good sibling jiang cheng, humor, minor injuries, hospitals, blood, schadenfreude, established relationship, drunk lan wangji

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

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kodieshmodie · 1 month

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POV: you’re caught in a cave-in but some blonde guy promises to get you out in one piece.

I did the Evil Artstyle challenge on Twitter (asked my followers what my art style traits are and tried to draw without them), and this is my attempt! No hair shines or blush, and I had to use thicker more textured lines. Definitely not the best attempt, but it was still very fun to try! 🤩💖

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grosslyoversimplifiedpolitics · 5 months

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[ID: Screenshot of an Ao3 tag that reads, "Minor Injuries, except for one, Major Character Injury" /End ID]

#Minor Injuries #except for one #Major Character Injury #ao3 #ao3 tags #injury mention

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odd-critter · 10 months

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hello lgbtq community /j

#carmen sandiego #mime bomb #tigeress #bright colors #eyestrain #minor injuries #like abit of blood #mime bomb scares me so much you have no idea

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bloody-bee-tea · 3 months

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Be gentle with me

Suguru watches the training field with narrowed eyes. Nobara and Megumi are up against Itadori, their goal this time to touch him but, he’s expertly avoiding them. He really is fast, Suguru muses, mentally noting down tips he can tell them all later, once they are done.

His concentration is broken when Suguru skips into view, hands in his pockets and a grin plastered on his face.

Exhausted then, Suguru thinks after just one glance and easily allows Satoru to drape himself over his side as he sits down.

“I didn’t know you’re back yet,” Suguru muses, moving a little bit to give Satoru more space to lean more comfortably against him.

“I just returned,” Satoru gives back and Suguru refuses to address the warmth that rises in him.

Satoru should be reporting to Yaga and the Elders then, but instead he came here, first.

“You should shower, give your report. That way you can sleep sooner,” Suguru advises him and chuckles when Satoru slings his arms around his middle, clinging to him.

That’s more like the Satoru he knows and the worry slides off him.

“But Suguru, I wanted to see you first,” Satoru whines out, hiding his face in Suguru’s shoulder and Suguru idly pats his head.

“And you did that now. Go take a nap, Satoru, you’re wiped.”

“I’m not,” Satoru argues back, stubborn and mulish like a child and Suguru sighs fondly.

Satoru might be able to convince everyone else that he’s invincible, that he doesn’t get scared or tired or worn out, but that doesn’t work with Suguru. Suguru knows him better than that and he’s honestly a little offended that Satoru thinks he can fool him, too.

“Yes, you are, Satoru, no need to pretend, not with me. I know you’re exhausted. I won’t tell anyone, though, if you go to sleep right after handing your report in.”

“How the hell do you always know,” Satoru breathes out, leaning more heavily against Suguru, finally dropping the pretence.

“It’s in your smile,” Suguru absentmindedly says, his eyes fixed on their students again. “It’s not quite the same when you’re exhausted. The corners of your mouth—it’s just not the same,” Suguru tries to explain but he doesn’t actually have words for it. He’s not even sure there is a physical sign of Satoru’s exhaustion, it’s just—he knows.

He always knows.

Suguru only brings his attention back to Satoru when he feels him go stiff against him but when he turns searching eyes to him, Satoru relaxes again.

“I see,” is all Satoru says to that, rubbing his head against Suguru’s shoulder like an overgrown affectionate cat and Suguru is just leaning into it when a yelp reaches them.

It’s more startled than actually pained, but Suguru’s head flies around nonetheless and he’s caught off guard when he sees blood spill down Itadori’s hand.

“What happened?” he calls out, carefully getting up so he doesn’t jostle Satoru too badly, but then he makes his way across the training field quickly.

“I’m so sorry,” Nobara says in response, not actually explaining anything and for all that she’s usually so tough, she’s really pale right now.

Suguru guesses that happens when you hurt one of your friends and so he gives her a reassuring smile.

“I messed up,” Itadori says, scratching the back of his head with his uninjured hand, watching how his blood is still dripping to the ground. “I wasn’t fast enough. My bad.”

“Your bad,” Nobara hisses out, the worry clearly getting to her, the grip on her hammer tight and Suguru eases it out of her grasp carefully.

“Anyone else hurt?” he wants to know and both Nobara and Megumi shake their head.

“Can I go now? It’s not as if that’s going to do anything to this blockhead anyway,” Megumi says, apparently disinterested in the entire thing but when a flash of hurt crosses Itadori’s face, he sighs out and stays right where he is.

Itadori grins brightly at him.

“Let me see,” Suguru says, reaching out to inspect Itadori’s hand, and he’s distantly aware that Satoru has joined them on the field.

It’s a testament to his exhaustion that he doesn’t immediately bicker with the students and Suguru vows to drag him to bed himself, if he isn’t gone by the time Itadori’s injury is dealt with.

“It’s not bad, not bad at all, certainly not bad enough to see an actual doctor, right? Right?” Itadori babbles out and the fact that he’s so damn scared of Shoko but has usually no qualms about mouthing off to Satoru makes Suguru chuckle.

“It doesn’t look too bad at all,” he decides and tugs on Itadori’s arm to get him to the side-lines. “I have a small first aid kit right over there, we can fix you back up, no problem.”

And it’s true. It’s a cut, sure, but it’s not as deep as the blood dripping down would suggest and Suguru doesn’t feel bad about not sending him to Shoko with this. It’s hardly worth her attention.

“You two are free to go, if you want,” Suguru tells Nobara and Megumi, who both stay right where they are and so Suguru drags his eyes over to Satoru.

“And you should go. Report and then do what I told you,” he says, more sternly and it makes Nobara snicker.

Satoru doesn’t even rise to that, though, and Suguru wonders if he fell asleep standing up. It wouldn’t be the first time, though of course Satoru likes to pretend things like that never happen.

“Itadori, sit, and give me that hand,” Suguru instructs when Satoru doesn’t answer him and Itadori at least does what he’s told.

He might just be Suguru’s favourite at the moment.

Suguru carefully cleans the wound of the blood that already spilled out and then carefully applies a bandage to it. It’s not even big enough to warrant it, a band-aid would probably have done the trick as well, but he can feel all eyes on him and so he might just be going a little bit overboard.

“There, all done,” he says after a few moments and Itadori grins at him.

“Thanks, Geto-senpai.” He turns towards Nobara and Megumi. “You wanna go again?” he then asks, because of course he does and he barely even flinches when Megumi flicks his head.

“We’re going for lunch,” he decides instead and Itadori is never one to turn down food, so he follows readily along with his friends.

It’s cute to see Nobara and Megumi worry that much over such a small injury, Suguru thinks, and then he remembers that Satoru is still right there.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, because maybe this is more than exhaustion, and he frowns when Satoru flinches, his eyes, which were fixed on Suguru’s hands snapping back to his face.

“Fine,” he says and then marches off without another word.

Suguru hopes it’s to report the mission and then sleeping off the exhaustion he can see clinging to his shoulders, but he knows Satoru better than that.

He’ll just have to make sure to check on him in an hour or so and then—if necessary—drag him to bed himself.

~*~*~

Suguru throws Satoru over his shoulder almost gleefully, very satisfied to hear the breath leave him in a rush when he connects with the ground and when he’s straightening up, he grins down at Satoru.

He told him a million times to work on his footwork but Satoru never does and so Suguru gets to lay him out flat every time.

Since Satoru refuses to learn, this does bring Suguru a great deal of satisfaction, but the grin slides right off his face when he spots red on Satoru’s cheek.

“Satoru, you’re hurt!” he rushes out, bending down to inspect the shallow cut high on Satoru’s cheek. “What happened?”

“You happened,” Satoru grumbles, though he does allow Suguru to turn his face so he can see it better.

“What about your Infinity?” Suguru asks, because in his mind Satoru is invincible, untouchable for anything that could bring him harm.

“I turn that off when we spar, you know that,” Satoru grumbles out and Suguru frowns.

He hadn’t known that. Suguru always assumed that Satoru keeps it on, because Suguru is an exception to the technique anyway, but clearly he was wrong about that.

“Come here, let me clean it,” Suguru urges him, dragging him off the ground and leading him to the side. “Sit, Satoru, let me get the first aid kit.”

“So it’s not bad enough to trouble Shoko?” Satoru asks and pokes at his cheek, right until Suguru catches his hand in his and drags it away. “Will it scar? Will I be ugly now?” Satoru goes on, batting his eyes at Suguru who snorts out a laugh.

“You’re ugly anyway,” he gives back and flicks Satoru’s forehead. “Personality matters, you know,” he goes on, his voice coloured with amusement, but Satoru falls silent.

“Mh,” is all he says to that and Suguru is surprised to find him evading his eyes when he looks back at him.

“Satoru,” he starts, as he sits down next to him and he sighs when Satoru stubbornly refuses to look at him. “You know you’re too beautiful for your own good,” Suguru finally admits and wills his cheeks to stay the colour they are.

He really doesn’t need to be blushing right now.

“And this will not scar, it’s way too shallow for that, so don’t worry.”

Satoru doesn’t answer him, but Suguru is momentarily stunned when he sees a blush creep up on Satoru’s cheeks, even as he turns his gaze back to him.

“Better,” he decides and then turns his head so that Suguru can clean the cut.

“You want a grown-up band-aid or one for the kids?” Suguru asks once he’s done with that, though he damn well knows the answer.

He thought the Digimon band-aids he bought a while back on a whim would go to waste what with Satoru’s Infinity, but he guesses they are going to finally see some use.

“Kids, please,” Satoru decides, just like Suguru knew he would and he’s quick to put it over the wound.

“There you go,” Suguru softly says and fights the urge to press a kiss to his cheek as well, for better healing.

Satoru surely wouldn’t appreciate it.

“Thank you,” Satoru gleefully says and then grins at Suguru. “So, another round, then?”

“So I can lay you on your back again? I don’t think so. Besides, I’m hungry. How about we go out for a change? The kids are all gone anyway.”

His suggestion makes Satoru’s eyes sparkle and soon enough he’s dragging Suguru off campus as if it was his idea in the first place.

And Suguru is more than willing to indulge him, Digimon band-aid and all.

~*~*~

They just returned from a mission, exhausted and kind of grimy and Suguru is looking forward to a shower more than anything at the moment.

Except that Satoru doesn’t seem to think the same, because instead of going to his own room, he follows Suguru to his.

“Everything okay?” Suguru asks with a frown, because even for Satoru that’s unusual behaviour but Satoru only hums in response, which makes this entire thing even stranger.

Suguru decides to wait until they are in his room to press some more, because for all that Satoru is loud and outgoing, he is an insanely private person and chances are better once Suguru has him behind closed doors.

And he doesn’t even have to prod and press because once he slides the door shut behind him, Satoru turns towards him, holding his arms out.

Suguru’s stomach drops out when he sees that one of his sleeves is wet with blood.

“I’m hurt,” Satoru easily says, as if it doesn’t mean anything, as if he isn’t dripping blood all over Suguru’s floor and Suguru’s eyes fly back to his face.

“Yeah, no shit,” he hisses, worry making him more snappish than he normally would be. “What happened? Gods, Satoru, sit down, do we need Shoko? How bad is it, let me see.”

He’s rambling, he knows that, but Satoru is hurt, Satoru is bleeding and ever since that thing with Toji happened, Suguru can barely stand to see that.

The image of finding Satoru in a pool of his own blood, carved up almost all the way, still haunts his nights, sometimes.

“It’s not that bad,” Satoru says, his voice wobbling a bit in uncertainty and Suguru drops to a knee in front of him.

“Let me see that,” he demands, carefully peeling Satoru’s sleeve away from his skin.

The cut is deep, maybe deep enough even to need stitches and Suguru looks back at Satoru when a realisation hits him.

“You have reverse cursed technique. Why didn’t you heal it? Why did you get injured in the first place, what happened to your Infinity?”

Satoru’s eyes guiltily shift to the side and Suguru sits back on his haunches. He knows that look; it means that Satoru is up to something—has been up to something—and Suguru doesn’t like it, not one bit, because it means Satoru got hurt.

“Satoru.”

He doesn’t say anything else, because Satoru knows him just as well as Suguru knows him, and so Satoru knows that this tone of voice means that Suguru is no longer joking around.

“I’m sorry,” Satoru whispers out, dragging his sleeve back down and hiding the injury from sight.

He still doesn’t heal it.

“Are you hurt anywhere else? Is something interfering with your technique, with your energy?” Suguru asks, trying to keep calm, though it’s hard when Satoru’s sleeve is still wet with his blood.

“No.”

Suguru closes his eyes in relief. At least there’s that, he thinks.

“Then what is it. How did you get hurt?”

“I let it happen,” Satoru admits, still keeping his head turned away and Suguru reaches up to push the blindfold off his face.

“Look at me and tell me why,” he says, keeping the blindfold in his hands to keep them occupied.

A part of him marvels at the fact that Satoru allows him these things so easily, but he has to remember that he’s angry with him right now.

Worried out of his mind, more like, but Satoru only needs to know that he’s angry.

“I—it’s stupid,” Satoru finally says and Suguru snorts because if Satoru allowed himself to get hurt then that’s a given.

“You don’t say,” he gives back and softens when Satoru pouts at him. “Satoru, you’re bleeding all over my room. Please just tell me what’s going on.”

“How about I just go see Shoko and we forget all about this?” Satoru gives back but he doesn’t actually move because Suguru’s gaze pins him to the bed.

“How about you heal that cut up with your own technique and explain yourself to me?” he shoots back. His words come off harsh, his voice tinged by the worry he tries so hard to hide but when Satoru presses his lips together, Suguru reaches out for his hands.

“Please, Satoru. What’s going on?”

“You were so gentle with Yuji,” Satoru says and it’s so out of left field that Suguru blinks at him.

“Huh?”

“When Nobara cut him during training, you were so gentle when you patched him up.”

“Okay,” Suguru slowly says, making it sound more like a question than a statement and Satoru lets out a harsh breath.

“I wanted that, too,” he admits and his voice is barely audible in the room. “I was always untouchable and the one time someone did manage to get to me, he forced me to learn how to heal myself. No one ever—” Satoru cuts himself off there but Suguru can guess where this is going.

No one ever took care of Satoru like that.

“Okay,” Suguru softly says, squeezing Satoru’s hands. “This requires stitches though, which I am not equipped to give you. Can you heal it up enough that a bandage will do?”

He knows that he shouldn’t go along with this, probably, but it’s Satoru. And for once in his life he’s asking to be taken care of, and who is Suguru to deny him that.

Satoru stares at him, clearly surprised that Suguru isn’t yelling at him, but that will probably come later. For now, Suguru is going to bandage him up and treat him just as gently as he deserves.

“Satoru?”

“Yeah, sure,” Satoru blurts out and Suguru gives him a small smile.

“Stay here, I’ll get the kit from the bathroom and then we’ll take care of it.”

He gives Satoru’s hands one last squeeze before he gets up and rushes to get the first-aid kit. Satoru has manged to wrangle himself out of his jacket in the meantime, so when Suguru gets back he can get to work immediately.

Satoru healed the cut up well, but not so well that they can leave it like that and Suguru is gentle as he cleans it out, wiping the blood away, before inspecting it again.

“It looks clean. I’m going to wrap it now, alright?”

“Sure,” Satoru says, his voice coming out strangled and Suguru tries to hide his smile.

He gets a bandage out and wraps it around Satoru’s arm evenly, making sure it’s just tight enough to stay on for however long Satoru wants it to stay and when he’s done he makes a split second decision.

Satoru sucks in a surprised breath when Suguru leans forward to press a kiss to the bandage as well.

“Don’t do this again,” he then whispers as he pulls back and immediately, Satoru’s expression stutters shut into one of the many masks Satoru carries around with him for other people.

“Of course,” he says, his voice only trembling the slightest bit and Suguru sighs.

“Satoru, I’m asking that of you because I hate seeing you hurt,” he admits as he reaches out to tangle his fingers together with Satoru. “I’m going to be as gentle and caring and soft with you as you want, but please do not ever get hurt like that again.”

“You—what?” Satoru gets out, his face bright red and now Suguru wonders if that cut on his cheek a few weeks back was part of this as well.

Probably, knowing Satoru.

“Satoru, I—don’t you know I’m going to give you everything you want? You just have to ask for it,” Suguru whispers out, because really, this is the crux of the matter.

Suguru is always afraid of going too far, pushing too much, giving everything of himself when it’s not wanted but if Satoru were to ask for it—

“Please,” Satoru breathes out and Suguru has half a mind to tease him, to drag this out more, to make him use his words, but they have both danced around this thing for too long now.

So he leans up, smiling slightly when Satoru meets him halfway and then he doesn’t think for a while because kissing Satoru apparently wipes every thought from his head.

“No more injuries,” Suguru whispers when they finally part and he was prepared for Satoru to slide off the bed and spill into his lap, so he sits back and simply hugs him close.

“No more injuries as long as you take gentle care of me,” Satoru gives back and Suguru laughs fondly at him, burying his face in Satoru’s hair.

“Don’t I always take good care of you?” he wants to know, because really, Satoru should have seen that much sooner, but it doesn’t really matter now, he guesses as he scratches at Satoru’s scalp when he nods.

He’ll still take extra good care of Satoru now, be more gentle with him if that’s even possible, and love him harder than he did all these years so far.

That, at least, will be very easy for Suguru,.

#bt writes #jjk #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #canon divergence #teacher geto suguru #fluff #hurt/comfort #getting together #minor injuries

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promptsforyourwhumpfic · 11 months

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Whump Prompt #1141

What about minor injuries that are too small to be classed as minor injuries? Just the little things that add to your whumpees discomfort and brings out some aspects of their characters. For example:

Blisters from new/too tight shoes/spending too much time on their feet.

Split cuticles/nails bitten too short/picked at skin around their nails

Negligible cuts on their hands that they only notice when they get soap/alcohol etc in them.

Spots that haven't yet reached the surface of the skin, but are tender to the touch.

Sore shoulders/back/limbs from sleeping in the wrong position.

Chapped/sore lips from the cold.

Bruises from bumping into things on accident.

#whump #writing #prompts #minor injuries #bruises #cuts #ideas

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i-eat-worlds · 16 days

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Wow Birthday Whump Day 7: Bloodied knuckles / Wounded / "Is that blood?!"

featuring made up words!

Content: minor injuries, blood, medic caretaker

Half past midnight, Turquoise Team finally returned to their locker room. All of them were covered in all the standard post-mission sweat, dirt, and grime, and they all smelled absolutely awful. All and all, the mission had gone well. Lives had been saved, and the team's spirit was high.

“Can someone unzip me?” Teri called across the room, turning around. While INSUPA uniforms had many benefits: custom fit, stab proof fabric, lots of pockets, ease of doing was not one of them. She’d been able to get her outer, armored shell off, but the jump suit provided its own challenges.

“I can.” Joseph offered. He crossed the room in several quick strides, his suit top already gone and replaced by a red tee. Maybe she should consider the two piece option next time they reordered. He swept her hair out of the way, then reached for the zipper.

Halfway down, just below her shoulder blades, he stopped. “Is that blood on your undershirt?” His voice was filled with concern. “Teri, did you get hit?”

All of the team’s eyes snapped over to her, looking at the dark, rusty stain on the white y-back she wore as an underlayer. Eric was already bringing Joseph’s medical bag over.

“Not that I can remember…” She craned her neck around to look, inching in pain as she tugged at the wound. “Could you take a look at it?”

“Of course.” He’d been pulling on the spare pair gloves he kept in his right pocket before she’d even asked. “How about you sit on the bench?”

She listened, sitting down on the wooden bench and then pulling the sleeves of her suit down to expose the area a little better. As Joseph cut away the back of her undershirt, she parsed through her memories of the mission trying to figure out if there was a time when she could’ve been hurt. They hadn’t fought anybody, not directly. Her armor wasn’t even dinged.

Joseph’s fingers brushed against her skin as he inspected the injury. “It’s a lot of small, pretty supercial cuts.” His voice was still uneasy.

“There's petechiae, these were definitely caused by carnokenesis.” A esh manipulator, that explained it. “Weak one by the looks of it, but everyone needs to check themselves over.”

They team started to pat themselves down, making sure that they weren’t also wounded, and checking for spots of blood and the small, purplish dots that carnokenesis always left behind.

Teri stayed still, letting Joseph tend to the wound on her back. His hands were gentle as he worked, covering each little cut with a quick swipe of antibiotic ointment and then pressing a bandage over them.

“You’re good.” He pulled his hands away from her back. “Keep the dressings dry, I can help you change them in the morning.”

“Thanks,” she said, trying to carefully remove her arms from the sleeves without aggravating the injury.

He pulled his gloves off, tossing them into the trash can. “It’s not a problem.”

Taglist: @pigeonwhumps@rainydaywhump@painful-pooch@rainbowsandwhumperflies@snaillamp @whumperofworlds

#worlds babbles #whump #wow birthday whump #wow birthday whump day 7 #wounded #“is that blood?”#minor injuries #medical whump #medic caretaker #caretaking

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confusedfoam · 1 year

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dndads pcs reactions to basically boo-boo level injury

Darryl: slap a bandaid on it after brushing off visible dirt

Henry: iodine when you get it, then nature will heal you :)

Glenn: what do you think scabs are for, take some duct tape if it really wont stop

Ron: prolonged blank staring

Jodie: actual first aide approved treatment

Link: too woozy about blood sorry

Normal: run it under water, and add an obscure brand of all natural organic bandaid. wants to get teeny bandaids printed but has been denied funding

Taylor: weird survivalist improve first aide + anime character bandaides

Scary: that's metal and also a you problem

or the other important scale:

will kiss it better

Henry, Jodie, Link once it's covered, Normal

won't kiss it better

Glenn, Ron, Scary

will conditionally kiss it better

Taylor (will deliver a heroic kiss on a dying companion after a 27 minute anime monologue)

Jodie (only for his kid)

Darryl (definitely for grant or paeden but grants really embarrassed, is reevaluating his stance on it for other people

#technically as an assistant coach darryl is also probably legally mandated to know actual first aide but whatever #dndaddies #silly headcanons #minor injuries #dndads #dungeons and daddies

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owlwithatypewriter · 11 months

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Flower Bud 🌻

AO3 Link

Warnings: Minor injuries, fae-adoption (aka kidnapping), possessive Wilbur Soot

"You look like a wrong'un."

It probably wasn't the best thing to say, considering the look that was returned, but Tommy didn't care - he didn't have the time or patience for manners, not in the middle of the forest, not when he was reeling with a concussion and cradling his broken fingers to his chest. He glared right back at the brunette beanpole, widening his stance so the soft spring breeze wouldn't topple him.

"Pardon," the beanpole said, chocolate-gold eyes wide in surprise, "I'm a what?"

"A wroh-ung-un," Tommy emphasized the word, giving it an additional syllable to make his point. He really was - looking the man up and down, he could see that his clothes, though appearing to be common (a trench coat in summer, really?) were made of high-quality silks and leathers, and his oddly-large ears hung with silver and gold chains that dangled priceless gems. Something stirred in the back of his mind, something about jewels and unknown people in the forest, but it was quickly squashed by the ache in his skull.

The man tilted his head to the side, earrings jingling like wind chimes as he looked Tommy up and down. His mouth quirked, as though he found the boy's rumpled appearance amusing, and his shoulders relaxed. Folding his arms behind his back, he asked, "And what must one do to be a 'wrong one'?" The phrase fell oddly from his lips, as though he was tasting it as he spoke.

Something - probably self-preservation, or basic street smarts - told Tommy not to answer, to turn around and walk away, but he'd never been one for thinking twice in a situation. "Y'know," he said, waving his unbroken hand about, "like, wrong stuff. Luring kids with candy. Vandalizing public parks. Kidnapping innocent children. Being a - a wrong'un ."

The man - Beanpole, Tommy decided, since despite his posh mannerism he had yet to introduce himself - Beanpole blinked, and there was something amused in his gaze now. "Well, I can assure you, I haven't been luring any children about with candy, or vandalizing any public parks. I don't believe I am one of those 'wrong-ones' you are looking for."

Tommy snorted. "You don't look for wrong'uns, they just find you." He huffed.

"Hmm." Beanpole tapped his chin, looking Tommy up and down as he considered his words of wisdom. "Well, I am not a wrong'un," he stumbled a bit at smooshing the words together the way Tommy had, "and you don't seem to be one either-"

"O'course I ain't!"

"-so, may I have your name?"

A voice screamed in Tommy's head, telling him no-no-no-no-no, blasting past the building migraine. He wavered a bit on his feet, and Beanpole tilted his head but didn't move to touch him. More thoughts crowded his mind, trying to push past the ache, screaming about the significance of pointed ears and mushrooms in fields, but he battered them back.

"Nah." He said, shaking his head (and immediately regretting it). "I don't give my name to randos in the woods." A quick glance around showed they were standing in a clearing, a small babbling brook nearby, and a hawthorn tree twisting behind Beanpole. It was a nice spot - he couldn't remember ever having been here before, despite years exploring the forest while dodging his chores. Beanpole opened his mouth to say something, but was cut off. "What're you doing here anyway? Kind of a weird place for a noble to hang out, innit?"

"A noble?" Beanpole shoved his hands in his coat pocket, rocking back on his heels a bit. Tommy risked a glance down and took note of the fancy and oddly-clean leather boots he was wearing. "What makes you say that?"

The teen snorted. "Nobody dresses like that," he gestured to all of Beanpole with his unbroken hand, "in the woods unless they have money to burn." He took another look around, trying to spot a horse grazing in the surrounding trees, but there was nothing more than a curious squirrel rummaging through the flowers curling around the base of the hawthorn.

There were a lot of flowers, actually, of all kinds, in all colors - some that Tommy had never seen before. They overtook the tall grass, heavy heads bobbing in the gentle breeze. Alliums, tulips, wild roses, lavender, asters, Queen Anne's lace, oxeyes - even some water lilies bobbing near the edge of the brook, and a cluster of sunflowers taller than either of them near a break in the trees, large disc florets reaching towards the sun as it lingered overhead.

"Wait, is this…?" Tommy glanced at his feet and saw a few clutches of mushrooms hiding beneath the grass, sparkling oddly in the sun. His head snapped up and he stared at Beanpole, who looked smug. "Holy shit, are you a fairy trapper?"

Smug was exchanged for shock. "A what?" Beanpole sputtered, eyes wide in disbelief.

"A fairy trapper - y'know, those stupid bastards who go around planting flowers in forests and trying to trick fairies out of their name!" Tommy snorted, kicking at a daisy sprouting by his feet. "Damn, you must have wasted a ton of Magi-grow to get these so big. Fuckin' rich folk…"

Beanpole still looked slightly baffled, but he brought his wits back enough to ask, "Why would anybody think they could trap a fae with flowers?"

"It's what the fuckers like, innit?" Tommy shuffled back a step, nearly knocking over a large toadstool. "They live in 'em and shit."

"Live in - how would a fae fit inside a flower?" Beanpole sounded torn between amusement and exasperation.

"They're tiny, ain't they?" Tommy held up his hand and stretched his thumb and pointer finger apart, showing off a length of about six inches.

"Faeries are, but fae aren't, and a trapper would never find a faerie in the overhill." Beanpole was staring at him as though he had said something incredibly stupid.

"They're the same thing, aren't they? Faeries and fae?" That little niggling in the back of his mind was getting louder, whispering frantically about the mushrooms in the field and how they were planted.

"No, not at all." Beanpole sighed and leaned back against the hawthorn tree, running a hand through his dark curls. He looked oddly exasperated at being questioned on this knowledge. "Faeries are, basically, baby fae. When a faerie reaches maturity, they are considered a true fae."

"Maturity?" Tommy quoted, ignoring the mushrooms at his feet.

Beanpole crossed his arms over his chest as he rolled an answer around in his mind, finger of his left hand tapping against the elbow of his right. "Yes. I believe it would be around…a hundred and eighty years to a mortal, give or take a decade or two."

"Holy shit."

The man snorted as Tommy gaped at him. "Yes, that must seem like a long time to you," he hummed in thought. "How old are you anyway? You don't look to be more than a child."

"Oie, dickhead! I'll have you know I'm a man!"

Beanpole doesn't look convinced. "How old?"

Tommy puffed out his chest as best he could. "I'm fifteen, practically an adult already!"

"Aw!" Beanpole pushed off the tree and beamed at Tommy, taking a step closer and stooping a bit so they were at eye-level. "You're just a kid! A little child. An itty-bitty baby man!" He jeered, bright amusement in his odd eyes.

If his hands were in tip-top condition (and his head wasn't swimming like a fish caught in a whirlpool), Tommy would have lashed out, maybe land a not-quite-serious punch on the man's shoulder in rebuke of his words. Instead, he just took another step back, lips pulled back in a snarl, the familiar rebuke on his tongue. "I'm not a fuckin' child!" He sniffed, tilting his chin up haughtily. "Besides, you're wrong. Baby faeries are called changelings."

Beanpole snorted. "No, they're not." He corrected, though there was amusement coloring his tone. "Changelings are an entirely different thing. The Aos Sí in the northern isles are the only ones near here who use them."

Tommy tilted his head in confusion. "The Is-She?" He copied. "Is she what?" He took a large step forward, past the mushroom clusters, shoving a finger in his face. "You better not be disrespecting women! I'll have you know my many, many wives-"

Beanpole didn't let him finish - he grabbed Tommy's wrist, long, thin fingers wrapping tightly around bruised skin, and tugged him closer. Unsteady on his feet, the boy pitched forward, stumbling against the taller man's chest. He yelped, pain shooting through his broken hand as it was squished between them. Beanpole didn't let up his grip at the sound of pain - instead he wrapped an arm around Tommy's back, forcing him to stand flush with the older man.

"You're not nearly as smart as you make yourself seem, hmm?" The man's voice was taunting, something sharp in it that unsettled Tommy's mind, shaking loose those squashed thoughts from earlier. Mushrooms…pointed ears…unknown forest clearings… "Such a big voice for such a little boy - you're no more than a babe, really." A hand carded through his golden curls, pausing at the crusted blood from where the guard had landed a hit with the butt of her axe. Tommy pressed back against Beanpole's arm, tilting his head back so he could see his face.

The man was looking down at him, but that wasn't right - he wasn't a man. His ears were long and pointed at the tips, dripping with gems and jewels that sparkled with something beyond sunlight. His eyes were a swirling miasma of brown and gold, flecks of otherworldly knowledge embedded deep in the iris. He was smiling widely - too widely, and his teeth were just on the other side of sharp to be human. And there was something in his gaze - something wanting. Something needing. Something dangerous and at the same time soft, sharp but compassionate.

Fairies are territorial, he could hear his teacher reminding them as they sat on wooden benches in the small one-room schoolhouse, you must never allow yourself to get near one. If you happen upon one in the woods, be polite and leave as soon as possible. Never insult a fae. Never question them. They are easily offended and will whisk you away to be their slaves for eternity, if given the chance.

"I-" Tommy croaked, and the fae tilted his head, watching intently as Tommy tried to speak. "I don't know how to clean." He blurted out.

The fae blinked, smile dropping a bit. "What?"

"I'm shit at dusting and - and stuff. Cooking. Burned a salad once." He had - it'd been hilarious in hindsight, but the matron hadn't been pleased. "I'd make a shit slave."

"A slave?" The fae had lost his suave, darkly-mysterious aire and was now staring at Tommy as though he was talking nonsense. "What in the world are you on about?"

"That's what you folk do, innit?" Tommy pressed back against the arm again, but the fae didn't give, keeping him hugged close to his chest. "Y'know, steal humans to be slaves?"

The fae shook his head, expression softening. "Oh - oh no, we don't do that! Not anymore at least," he tacked on in a mutter, then cleared his throat. "Any humans that come to the courts are more like…indentured servants."

"En-den-tur-ed? You take their teeth?!" Tommy didn't know if that was better or worse than just being a slave.

"No!" Beanpole wrinkled his nose at the idea. "No, they work as servants for the court until the magic has embraced them, then they're welcomed into the court as proper fae." He shook his head, pulling Tommy a little closer in a hug. "Honestly, what are they teaching you humans these days?"

Tommy wasn't comforted by the explanation. "So you're gonna indenture me?" He asked cautiously. His teacher had once told them that in order for a fairy - or fae, as Beanpole insisted - to get power over a human, a few different things had to happen. They either needed to know the human's true name, the human had to step into the fairy ring the fae appeared in, or the human had to insult the fae badly enough that the laws of magic required recompense. Tommy knew he hadn't given the fae his name, but he certainly hadn't been holding his tongue while they spoke, and the mushrooms his mushy mind had taken note of earlier had been in a near-circular pattern. He was fairly certain he'd stepped on a few while arguing with the fae.

Beanpole hummed, his hand going back to running through Tommy's curls. "No," he said after a moment, "I don't believe so."

An uncertain hope grew in Tommy's chest. "You're gonna let me go?"

"Oh no," the fae chuckled, and that dark, sharp edge was back. "You're much too precious. I think you would make a perfect faerie."

The hope was snuffed out, replaced with confusion. "You - you said faeries were baby fae," he said. "Hate to tell you king, but I've already grown up."

"That may make the change take longer," the fae sighed, "but I'll be with you every step of the way."

"The change?" Tommy pushed against Beanpole's chest with his good hand and tried to shuffle back, but something was wrapped around his feet. He couldn't look down to see what it was, but when he moved, it tightened.

"Yes." Beanpole finally released him, taking a step back so he could rest his hands on Tommy's shoulders, giving them a comforting squeeze. "Fae aren't born, sunshine. They're made."

Whatever was holding his legs in place had begun to snake up his legs to his back. Tommy glanced down and felt his heart stop at the sight of thick, green vines winding themselves around him, holding him fast. "W-wait, no," he snapped his gaze back to Beanpole, "I don't want this!"

The fae's expression grew soft, and he reached up to cup Tommy's cheeks, paying no attention to the vines snaking their way up his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and chest. "I know it's scary," his voice had grown quiet and it wrapped around Tommy like a blanket of silk. "You'll be alright, I promise. You'll grow up in the Meadow, cherished and treasured as you should be, with all the other little faeries."

In his memory, Tommy would blame his concussion (he did have one, Wilbur would confirm decades later) for the way he leaned forward into Beanpole's palms, for the soft warmth that squeezed his heart at the thought of being cherished , of being wanted . He would blame it for the moment of calm, for the way the gentle magic Beanpole imbued in his voice overtook him, slowing his heart.

The vines curled around his neck, and now there were leaves, sprouting from the greenery, wrapping him up like a cocoon. Beanpole slowly pulled his hands back, grinning when Tommy leaned forward after them. "And then when you're all grown, you'll join me in the court as a prince, with our father and brother."

The panic returned as the fae and his magic stepped back, but before Tommy could open his mouth and insist this was wrong, yell again that he didn't want this, leaves snapped shut over his head, plunging him in darkness. A sweet scent filled the space - he yanked his head back, trying to catch a breath of fresh air, but his head was swimming more than ever. The scent grew stronger, choking him, and then there was nothing but darkness and quiet.

🌻🌻🌻🌻🌻

The changing didn't take as long as Wilbur expected, considering the child's feisty attitude. It always took longer when the human was more resistant to the idea. He hummed to himself as the cocoon solidified, slowly turning gold as it drank his magic and began the change. In only a few minutes it began to tremble, before twirling like a tornado and pulling in on itself, shrinking down to a small seed. The fae prince scooped it up and examined it closely, before turning and stepping through the trunk of the Hawthorne. The fairy tree rippled as it carried him through the barrier between Realms, allowing him to step out on the edge of the Meadow.

It was early morning in the Forest, and the young faeries were already flitting about, chasing each other about the blooming flowers or bothering the caretakers for breakfast. He spotted Puffy and Foolish on the other side of the field, chatting quietly as they set down platters of fresh fruits and decanters of nectar for the babies to eat. The latter spotted him and gave a wave, and Wilbur gave a short wave back before wading into the knee-high field and searching for a spot of clear ground.

After a moment of search he spied a spot between a pink tulip and a deep violet allium. Kneeling in the dirt, he carefully dug a small hole and dropped in the seed before carefully covering it with the displaced dirt. A careful drop of his magic soaked the mound, and after only a moment a curl of green appeared. It quickly grew, a long stem shooting up to nearly Wilbur's height, a large bud rapidly grew along the top. The fae jumped to his feet eagerly, watching as the green cover peeled back to reveal bright yellow petals. Wilbur watched expectantly as they fell open, revealing a large sunflower, a small shape curled up on the seeded center. With gentle movements, Wilbur scooped the faerie into his hands.

The boy was still a mess of lanky limbs and blonde curls, but his wounds had been healed, and his clothes were now clean (though his shoes were gone - for some reason, they never survived the change). There was a lump of thinly-furred skin against his back, still wet with fresh magic from the cocoon. Gently, Wilbur stretched out one of the wings, taking in the white crescent-moon shapes and the red highlights among the gray fuzz. A moth, then - Techno could probably tell him exactly what kind, but for now Wilbur was satisfied just seeing his new brother's wings grown and intact. Out of curiosity, he shifted the child to rest in the palm of one hand, and with his other stretched out his thumb and pointer finger.

He'd been right - faeries were no larger than the space between.

Grinning, Wilbur pressed the child to his chest and moved to the edge of the meadow, avoiding Puffy's knowing grin. He settled beneath a tree, leaning against the bark, and hummed to the sleeping boy. It would take a few hours for him to wake, and more for his wings to properly dry. Then he'd be ready to learn how to fly, how to use his magic, how to grow and laugh and enjoy life as all children should. He'd know nothing but love now, and would never stumble about in the woods bleeding and stinking of fear again. He'd be cherished, not only by Wilbur and the caretakers, but by all the fae.

Wilbur had found himself a little bit of sunshine, and he was never letting it go.

Wilbur Soot you are a nightmare to write when I'm tired.

I hope you enjoyed! Had this idea for a while, thought it would make a good little one-shot. I do have a few more ideas for this AU, so if you'd be interested in seeing more, please let me know in a comment!

#dreamsmp #dream smp #mcyt #mcyt g/t #wilbur soot #tommyinnit #dark #kidnapping #minor injuries #fae AU #fantasy AU #one-shot #giant/tiny #g/t #g/t writing

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pattysfics · 1 year

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New Fic!

Summary:

“Same page,” she asks as they ease closer and closer to the clearing. “What—what do you mean?”

“You know,” Tim says, a sudden nervous edge to his voice. Lucy continues to look up at him confused. “We. Us, the future. You know. Marriage,” Tim finally spells it out.

A smile breaks across Lucy’s face as he rambles. Her mind flashes to the night in her apartment before they went undercover and his nervousness about their practice kiss for their covers. She knows that Tim is the one that she wants to spend the rest of her life with. Until she no longer walks this earth, she wants to be by Tim Bradford’s side. She wants it all with him, all of it. One day she wants to have a family with him, a baby or two or three. She wants all of it with him.

#the rookie #chenford #chenford fic #the rookie fic #tim bradford/lucy chen #Tim Bradford #Lucy Chen #marriage proposal #minor injuries #absolute banger #as promised

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kodieshmodie · 9 months

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A while back I just really wanted to

1. Try a different lineart brush

2. Draw rain

3. Draw Ignis

so I did a quick-ish thing of Ignis a bit beat up in Altissia.

Because why not! (Sorry Ignis)

#my art #final fantasy 15 #final fantasy fanart #ignis scientia #ignis #procreate #digital fanart #digital art #Altissia #ffxv ignis #ffxv spoilers #there are a few things in this I don’t like #but there are too many that I DO like y’know?#minor injuries #minor injury

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thetarttfuldickhead · 4 months

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A Jamie-centric pre-OT3 Christmas story told in 25 short chapters.

Masterpost / AO3

18.

The door swung open to reveal a knocked over side table, a smashed lamp on the floor, and Jamie Tartt sprawled next to it, bleeding from one hand. Over him stood a man Roy didn’t recognise. He was short, with unkempt grey curls and a wild beard.

He was also drunk, Roy noted, as the man turned toward him. Steady enough on his feet, but his gaze was slightly unfocused, and the smell of stale beer unmistakable.

“You expecting visitors— “ the man began to drawl, but then his eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, Roy Kent, is it, didn’t expect to see you making house calls to old teammates, but I guess you have a lot of free time on your hands now, eh?” He looked down on Jamie, adding, “Get up, Jamie, no need to lay around like a little bitch just ‘cause you took a tumble, I taught you better than that.“ He turned back to Roy, shaking his head in mock-commiseration. “Footballer, and can’t even stay on his feet. Might be why you lost so badly today, eh, son? Your balance’s gone to shit now that you’re faffing around with a bunch of amateurs instead of a real team.”

Roy stared at the man with mounting disbelief and disgust, then turned his gaze on Jamie, who was unsteadily climbing to his feet. The look on his face shocked Roy far more than the signs of a scuffle had; he’d never imagined that Jamie could look so fucking small; curled in on himself, pale, and with downcast eyes, like a child awaiting punishment.

Like a child. Son.

Roy jerked his head toward the drunk. “This your father?” he asked, surprised at how level he sounded.

Jamie’s eyes flitted to the man, then quickly down again. He gave a small nod.

“Uh-huh. You want him here?”

“Hey now, Kent, you’ve no business— “

“Not talking to you.” Roy cut him off with a curt gesture, eyes still trained on Jamie. “Tartt, do you want him here?”

Jamie didn’t say anything; didn’t nod his head yes or shake it no. But he looked up at Roy and in his face there was such resigned hopelessness that it hit Roy like a punch to the gut.

Roy nodded once. “Right.” And before Jamie’s father had time to react, he grabbed hold of him and dragged him towards the door, ignoring the flailing arms and the kicks and the yelling, and tossing him down the step with enough force that the man fell flat on the gravel, hopefully cutting his ugly mug on the pebbles as he went. Roy shut and locked door on his cursing and threats, and turned back to Jamie, who hadn’t moved.

“The fuck happened here?” Roy asked. “You all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, good, yeah,” Jamie said, sounding slightly dazed as he cradled his injured hand with his good one. “Fell. Knocked the table over, cut my hand on the lamp, but I’m good. Yeah.”

Like hell you are, Roy thought, and might have said if they weren’t interrupted by a loud banging on the door. “Jamie, you open this fucking door, you hear me! Kent, I don’t care who you think you are, you posh southern twat, I’ll still—“

Roy stopped listening. “He got a key?” he asked Jamie, who had started violently at the sound of his father’s assault on the door.

“No.”

“Good. Let him tire himself out, then. Or you want me want to call the police?”

Jamie’s eyes widened at that. “No! No, just… don’t do that. Don’t call the police.”

“All right.” He’d have offered to knock the bastard out, but an unconscious man on the porch might cause all sorts of annoying questions; Roy knew that from personal experience. Besides, he had more pressing matters to attend to. “Come on then, let’s have a look at that,” he said, gesturing toward Jamie’s hand. “This the kitchen through here?”

Had anyone told Roy that there’d come a day when he’d find Jamie Tartt not talking back concerning, he’d have laughed them right in their idiot face, but as Jamie silently followed him into what indeed turned out to be a kitchen and obediently took out a first aid kit and then sat down when Roy asked him to, he was just that: concerned, and not a little thrown off-kilter by the turn his impromptu visit had taken.

There were two cuts on Jamie’s hand, neither of them deep, and Jamie didn’t protest when Roy quickly cleaned them out and put plasters on them. Just sat there, hand held out, letting Roy do whatever he wanted.

Fucking disconcerting didn’t even begin to describe it.

“There,” Roy said when he was satisfied with his efforts. “He got you anywhere else?”

Jamie stirred at that, shifting uncomfortably. “He didn’t— He just shoved me, like. Hit the wall, tripped on me feet and knocked over the table. Fucking clumsy,” he added, more to himself than to anyone else.

“Oi,” Roy said sharply, then pressed his lips together tightly when Jamie flinched. “Fuck. Sorry. You’re a lot of things, Jamie, but you’re not clumsy. This wasn’t your fucking fault.”

Which might have been a hasty conclusion, perhaps, given Jamie’s general propensity for starting fights and the number of time Roy himself would have been more than happy to shove – and do more than shove – Jamie, but given what he’d seen of Jamie’s father, and given what he saw of Jamie now, Roy did not doubt for a second that he had this right. Whatever had gone down, it hadn’t been on Jamie. And hadn’t been the first time either.

“Yeah,” Jamie said, softly. Too softly to sound convinced.

In the quiet that followed, Roy noted that the banging on the door had stopped. Which was a fucking relief, of course, but it also made the silence between them a tangible, thorny thing, stretching out painfully and awkwardly as Roy wondered what the hell to do now. He could clean out wounds and put plasters on them, sure, and he was fucking brilliant at getting rid of deadbeat fathers, but as for what came after… He wasn’t great with words at the best of times, wasn’t any good at offering comfort – and it wasn’t like him and Jamie were friends. Up until yesterday, and if Roy had been a dramatic arsehole, he would have gone so far as to call them enemies. Yet here he was, in Jamie Tartt’s kitchen, trying to think of one single useful thing to say or do; anything that might draw the loud, obnoxious, swaggering Jamie he knew (and loathed) out of this slumped, muted version of the man.

”He show up here a lot?” he asked eventually, mostly for something to say.

“No.” Jamie’s voice was still much too quiet, but at least he was responding. “He lives up in Manchester.”

Roy remembered a confession made around a sacrificial fire. Bragging about me scoring goals. Calling me soft if I don’t dominate.

“He pissed about the missed goal?” he hazarded. He hadn’t watched the game, but heard enough about it from Keeley to know it hadn’t been Richmond’s, or Jamie’s, finest hour.

But Jamie shook his head. He was fiddling with the plasters on his hand, eyes averted. “Not really. Doesn’t give a shit if I’m not playing for City, does he. Was in town for their game against Palace, decided to drop by.” A small, unhappy shrug, and quick, almost furtive look in Roy’s direction. “Wanted to know what I was getting him for Christmas. Since I’m rich and all.”

“Broken bones and a fucking restraining order if he shows his fucking face here again,” Roy said grimly. When Jamie didn’t react other than to hunch his shoulders, Roy’s eyes narrowed in realisation. “He’s coming back, isn’t he? Bring some mates, wait ‘til I’m gone?” Yeah, Roy knew the fucking type.

A shrug from Jamie, one that said yes.

Roy made a disgusted noise – but at least this meant that there was something he could actually do.

“All right,” he said, straightening from the counter he’d been leaning on. “Let’s go, then.”

Jamie didn’t stir from his chair, just looked up at Roy with a mix of confusion and suspicion. “Why? Where are we going?”

“My place. You’re coming with me.”

“Why?” Sharper this time. More like the normal Jamie.

Roy raised an eyebrow. “Because if your arsehole father is planning a grand return, you not being here when that happens sounds like great fucking idea to me.”

Colour rose in Jamie’s cheeks. “None of your business, though, is it,” he snapped. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter, Roy. I don’t need anything from you.”

He definitively sounded a lot more like himself, to the point where Roy had to actively fight the urge to snap back. It was far easier than it once would have been though; easier to forgive the rudeness when the shame it was meant to hide was still plain on Jamie’s face.

“You think Keeley’d let me hear the end of it if I left you here alone, knowing that that piece of shit might be coming back?” Roy asked, carefully making sure he kept his voice light and dry. Then he sighed, holding a hand up in surrender. “Listen, I’m not going to make you stay with me if you don’t want to, but you’re not staying here either. I can drop you off at Ted’s or… or fucking Isaac’s, if you’d rather. Take you to Keeley’s and bugger off myself, even. Just… fucking come with me, Jamie. Please.”

In the back of his mind, some small part of Roy was wondering how the fuck he, in the span of 24 short hours, had gone from genuinely wanting to smash Jamie’s teeth in to feeling really fucking desperate that the other should accept his help.

He’d need to think on that, probably. Later.

Jamie mumbled something. Roy frowned. “What?”

“I said, your place is fine.” He glanced up at Roy, and tried for a weak, wobbly smirk. “Hear the porch looks dead good.”

Roy barked a short, surprised snort of a laugh. “Was done up by a fucking lunatic, but yeah, I guess it isn’t half-bad.” He jerked his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

This time, when Jamie went without further protests, it felt like a victory.

---

The drive back to Chelsea was slow, and quiet. When they stopped for a red light, Roy glanced over at Jamie, who hadn’t said a word since he got in the car, and bit back a low, startled curse.

Jamie was crying soundlessly, silent tears running down his cheeks while he stared straight ahead into nothing.

Roy felt a rush of panic course through him. What the fuck was he supposed to do? His first instinct, which was to offer a gruff get yourself together, Tartt would not – of that he was very sure – serve. But what else was there?

Keeley would know what to do. She was great at this emotional shit. Wasn’t scared of a few tears.

Keeley wasn’t here.

It has to be me. It can’t be anyone else.

Keeping his eyes on the road and one hand on the steering wheel, Roy reached out – slowly, carefully – to put his other hand on Jamie’s neck. Jamie was tense under his palm, but didn’t shy away from the touch.

Roy squeezed, once, briefly. “You’ll be all right,” he murmured.

#james tartt sr #is his own content warning #minor violence #minor injuries #hurt/comfort #roy & jamie #jamie's christmas carol #fic #my stuff

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