#sadly Ive only ever found a couple of fics like that and they usually all have Dick as a Talon which anyone whose followed me

[stayarmytinyzenmoa-l]

Covalence [Ch. 4]

University AU

TW/CW: Language, Mentions of a Previous Toxic Relationship (Lack of Trust), Huge Timeskip (Is this a CW?)

Pairing: Qian Kun x Reader

Genre: Fluff, Angst

(Y/N) Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 4.0K

(Part 4/4) [First] | [Previous]

[NCT Masterlist] | [Covalence Masterlist] | [Full Fic Version]

Notes: This fic has been here for a while but I've decided to break this up into chapters since I had a couple of people say they prefer it as opposed to a full fic for pacing reasons, but just for y'all I'll include the link to the full fic! I hope you all enjoy! That and I also want to get some traction on the blog again hehe

Disclaimer: Please remember that this is an AU and a work of fiction, obviously the idols mentioned/written about in this story would never partake in or condone these actions. I would never wish any of these actions to occur to the Idol(s) mentioned in the writings of these stories, nor do I wish any harm on them.

IV. Strangers 

Love was a flittering thing. It’s funny how the concept championed loyalty but could be gone in the blink of an eye at the slightest rupture of belief if the people holding it were not careful. Most people don’t know what they had until they lost it, which was a concept that can be applied with many things, but it constantly found itself in the presence of affection. Some people found love ridiculous, and in some aspects it was, and though their opinion is one to be respected, many people cast it aside and willingly, blindly, walk into it. Some people can’t live without it, and others get by perfectly fine. Many will come to find that love is such a controlling thing, subconsciously playing into one’s everyday life and decisions without even actively thinking about it. To put it simply, it makes you do thinks you’d never actually do, and sometimes it makes you do things you come to regret.

Kun found that out the hard way.

“I’m off then,” he signed the timetable and waved at his boss.

“Get home safely, Kun, it’s dangerous at night,” the old shopkeeper bid his employee goodbye before he closed the shop.

Kun rubbed his hands together fighting off the cold winter night. The streets weren’t busy around this time, a car would pass here and there, but other than that there were no disturbances, aside from the tracks he was leaving behind him, that is. He pulled his phone out as soon as he heard the ringtone.

“Mom, hey, yeah. I just got off shift and I’m on my way home now,” Kun stands by the bus stop. “How’s dad?” Kun listened carefully to his mother’s words.

He had been in China for eight years now. It almost felt like he never left sometimes. He didn’t remember much of when he was abroad, actually. He graduated despite their circumstances but was still unable to land a steady job and, as a result, he’s been picking up as many odd jobs as he could. Sadly, his father only got more sick as the years continued, and the bills kept piling higher than Kun could have ever imagined. At this point, Kun had resigned himself to eternal servitude, as dramatic as that sounds, he couldn’t put it any other way. He had stopped talking to a lot of friends he had, both abroad and at home, he just couldn’t find the time to relax anymore.

“You getting on?” The bus driver spoke up, effectively silencing the man’s busy thoughts.

“Yeah, sorry,” Kun stepped on quickly, taking a seat by the window as usual and feeling the bus jerk forward. He pulled his backpack onto his lap, his eye catching the small pin on the side. A small sigh left his lips when he stared at it, he hadn’t kept it in good condition, and he was surprised that he even kept it for this long, but his sentimental personality prevented him from ever properly disposing it. It was chipped at the sides and the shine it once had was worn through, but the stories it held within it were left untouched. He pulled his headphones on and shuffled his playlist, falling into the memories of a time long passed.

That morning, eight years ago now, Kun woke up first. He was still in his clothes from the night before, and he was in a rather awkward position on his bed. He sat up and went through his brain, trying to remember the events of that dumb party Ten insisted on having, but he drew a blank. He stretched his arms over his head and noticed the Advil on the table and took it without a second thought, it did well for the hangover. He yawned while he walked into the main room, but did a quick double take when he noticed you, that person he fell in love with so long ago, asleep on the couch and in his clothes.

Then he really tried to remember what happened the night before.

He remembered his thoughts exactly in that moment: ‘He didn’t do anything to you, did he? He didn’t do anything that he might regret later? How much did he drink last night?’

He recalled looking over to you again, you weren’t in his bed, so that was a good sign— Wait, no, no it’s not. He had a guest over and he made her sleep on the couch? And what was it about you that he found so endearing right then? What made him realize that he was so helplessly in love with you at that moment? Was it the way his shirt was too big for you? Was it the way you were asleep so comfortably? He didn’t have a clue, and still didn’t for that matter.

It was just… something.

He ended up making breakfast for you instead, whatever it was that happened he figured that a good deed would be a sufficient way to make up for it.

He was glad that nothing happened, don’t get him wrong, but maybe a bit disappointed that no life changing event happened that would’ve been the link to bring you both closer. Maybe he should’ve said something before you left, but there he was, walking you to the door. He had even opened it for you and let you out himself. He was about to close it when he figured that now was the perfect chance, and maybe the only one.

“Do you want me to drive you home? I think you mentioned something about your apartment being on the other side of campus.”

Well he fucked that up.

He meant to say that he wanted to do it again, he meant to say that he wanted to make you breakfast again, he meant to say that he wanted to see you like that every morning, he meant to say that he wanted to be apart of your life.

He wondered if you felt the same, if you had that same thought in your head and that same want for something more. He wondered if, hypothetically, he confessed to you right then, would you have said yes? Would you have responded with the same amount of enthusiasm or more than when he finally mustered up the courage in the cafe? If he told you what he was really thinking of, would you both have had more time together?

But nope.

He offered you a ride instead.

He cleared his throat silently, so as not to disturb the other riders on the bus. He couldn’t deny the slight ache in his chest whenever he thought about you. For a year and longer, and even so now, whenever he thought back to that final night, he wondered if there was anything he could’ve done differently. Sometimes he wondered what everything would’ve been like now if he stayed, if you both never broke up.

Kun was always a romantic. Where most of the boys he knew were thinking about their newest toys or their next sports game, Kun was planning out his dream wedding. He could see it perfectly, how he wanted to meet the special someone, how he’d ask that person out, how he’d show his never-ending bouts of love and affection, how he’d finally propose, how he’d plan the wedding, he had it all planned to the very detail. He even took it a step further, he dreamt about his future house, his future family, and everything in between. His head was always stuck in the clouds, and he remembered that when he’d tell his parents about them, they’d just laugh softly and tell him that, although it was a perfect dream, that’s not how it was like in reality.

He thought they were ridiculous, he was a child at the time so such was the explanation. He lived his whole life with everything planned and structured, he always knew the outcome of things, or at the very least was confident in how things would result. And, with all this thought of perfect dreams, Kun’s train of thought ended with you. You threw his life off the rails, and he didn’t mean that in a bad way, it was unexpected and at the very least exciting. All of that dreaming and all of that planning he had done for years was suddenly irrelevant when he met you. You were just different, and although it was a stark difference to what Kun had originally wanted, he can’t say that he didn’t want it again.

But now, at this moment, all you are to him is a distant memory. One that he didn’t want to forget, but one that he felt was slipping away like a paper airplane in a hurricane. There were days when he never thought about you entirely, and there were days he’d remember that final night word from word. What a hypocrite he is, he always preached living life without regrets, but look at him now, thinking about what could’ve been…

Or, more accurately, what should’ve been.

He can never take back what happened that night, but part of him wished that you both worked through it instead of going your separate ways. He never did forget the blank look on your face when you left his apartment, leaving all of your things behind with a simple ‘Just sell them.’ He did with a few of them, actually, but there were some things he couldn’t part with and they’re sitting in the attic right now in a box titles ‘School Work’ to keep his parents from going through it, and there was the one he was playing with between his fingers right now.

It wasn’t until recently, maybe a year ago, when he realized that it was him who was primarily wrong. He knew that he shouldn’t have betrayed your privacy like that, or doubted you like that at all. In fact, it was mostly on him for not listening to you properly that first time you told him about it. And after he finally got his parents’ side of the story it was nothing but regret he felt, and yes that’s another bout of hypocrisy. He didn’t know what exactly it was that kept him from reaching out to you again. Was it his own pride? Was it fear? Or was it the huge gap in time that separated the two events? Did he want to know?

Looking down at his phone, he stared at your contact. He never deleted it, and he never got rid of the messages either. He stared at the last message you had ever sent him, and one that he didn’t even bother to reply to: ‘Have a safe flight, make sure you eat well before hand, and take care, Kun.’

There were no bad intentions behind it, all it felt like was a melancholy goodbye. A final word in this relationship that started out as a romantic pop song and ended as a ballad.

He looked around himself, every person on the bus was either fast asleep or tuned into their phones, then he looked at the time, it would be morning where you were right now, wouldn’t it?

Holding the phone to his ear, he listened to the dial tone.

“Hello?” A voice he didn’t recognize.

“Oh, sorry, I got the wrong number,” Kun speaks hurriedly, about to hang up.

“Look, if you’re calling about (Y/N) we don’t know where she is either,” to this Kun’s breath caught in his throat. “You a friend of hers?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m her cousin who just happens to be the poor person who phone number redirects to. It’s been four years, we really don’t care anymore. If she doesn’t want to be found, then she doesn’t. She’s alive, at least, always sending us postcards, or whatever, all I know is that she wanted to finish her schooling abroad, or some shit like that. Anyway, I’m going to hang up now.” The line went dead and Kun pulled the phone away, staring at the recently called contacts screen.

You had been missing? Just dropped off the face of the Earth with no signs? That wasn’t like you at all, or at least, the (Y/N) he knew would’ve never done that. He remembered you being a very structured person, always planning ahead and telling everyone what you were up to. But it seemed to be your choice, considering you’d send some sign of life every now and then.

At the sudden ring of his phone once again, Kun rushed to silence and answer it.

“Mom,” he addressed quietly. “You want me to drop by the hospital really quick?” Kun dug through his backpack and pulled out his father’s empty prescription bottle, not recalling that he ever put it in there in the first place.

“Yeah, I can refill it,” Kun answers his worried mother, and once she hangs up he sighs. She could have just told him earlier instead of cornering him like this, he would’ve said yes and refilled it before going to work. With tired eyes he watches his original stop disappear behind him, having three more to go to reach the hospital. With the extra time, Kun’s mind returned to you again, the sudden worry welling up inside of him, something that hadn’t happened in years.

Maybe he was overthinking it now, maybe it was his tired reminiscent mind romanticizing that first day he met you more than it really was. But he never really forgot that morning, when he rushed over to who he thought was just another student struggling to get by and paying for a simple latte for them. That’s how it started for him, at least, just another face that he just happened to have decided to do a good deed for.

Then came the surprise of when you asked to sit with him at Coffee Bean. He recognized you immediately, but he could tell from your expression that you didn’t at all, he was a bit hurt by it, but he couldn’t blame you. At that point, your relationship was nothing more than strangers. But, he figured, why not? Where’s the harm? And he obliged. Never did he expect for any kind of relationship to be born out of that, a simple exchange of notes between two students struggling to understand something as simple as atomic theory.

A small smile was on Kun’s face, he didn’t think of you as often, but when he did it was always good things. As he walked off of the bus, he scrolled through some old drafts of his and hovered his thumb over that one assignment that he never really finished. It was titled rather bluntly ‘Untitled 4’ but he knew exactly what it was. As soon as he stepped through the automatic doors of the hospital he pressed it, hearing the soft piano ballad. He had removed every other instrument, just leaving the piano melody and a toned down harmony, really just out of pure frustration of not being able to get the tone right, then he ended up abandoning the project altogether. But now that he was listening to it, he couldn’t help but think it was perfect now.

Lost love. That was the assignment, the one assignment that he failed on. How could he compose a piece about something he had never experienced? He never turned it in, the syllabus specified that the professor would drop the lowest grade, and thus Kun took this rather safe risk and kept the demo to himself. But, as said earlier, now that he was listening to it, it was perfect. It captured the feeling and the subject perfectly despite him never have changing anything aside from removing the strings. He wondered what was really different about it. Maybe it was only because he now knew what it felt like. To have something so sweet, so lovely, then to lose it.

He was in line at the pharmacy already, and Kun decided that he had enough of the sad and unfinished track, shutting it off entirely and sliding his headphones off as he neared the front.

But the melody didn’t stop.

Kun looked at his phone, the recording app closed and not playing, and the device still connected to his headphones.

So, where was it coming from?

He stepped out of line, the sudden curiosity forming in his thoughts while he followed the melody. It’s impossible for anyone to have known this melody, he never turned in the track and he never even showed anyone the demo. Well, except for one person.

“Hey! Let me go!” The sudden shout of a small child caused Kun to turn around to it, seeing a little girl trying to pull her hand away from a nurse. She yanked her arm away and ran over to Kun, the confusion must have been clear on his face, because the nurse sighed and tried to reach out for the girl.

“Your mother is looking for you, I’m just going to take her to you!”

“No! You’re going the wrong way and I don’t recognize you,” the little girl ran behind Kun.

Now, Kun knew better than to assume, and maybe he shouldn’t have done this, but he was already here so why not?

“Is everything alright?” Kun asked the little girl, and the nurse straightened herself.

“Yes, carry on,” the nurse smiled and nodded, trying to pull the child away. “These damn foreign kids… where do they get this energy from?” The nurse mumbled under her breath.

“No! I don’t know this person, and they’re trying to take me away from my mom! And I know who all of my mom’s coworkers look like…” The child cried. She couldn’t have been older than seven, he thought, and already she had a sharp tongue, almost too smart for her own good.

“Do you even know this man?!” The nurse grimaces.

“Yes! He’s my mom’s neighbor and he knows what she looks like!” The little girl lies. Maybe not that smart, actually, if she’s trusting a stranger more than a worker, but she looked scared of this nurse, and Kun was smart enough to put two and two together.

“Right, yeah. Don’t worry, I’ll take it from here,” he clears his throat. “Come along now,” Kun gestures for the young child to follow him away from the nurse.

“You heard him! Bye now!” The little girl waves at the nurse and walks ahead of Kun. “Thank you, mister! You can go now… my mom said that whenever a nurse I don’t recognize comes up to me and tells me that she told them to get me I should run, but she wouldn’t leave me alone so I went to you instead,” the little girl nods and runs off.

Towards the melody that Kun had initially been following.

He stopped by the piano in the lobby, seeing someone sitting at the grandiose instrument. Normally, whenever he would be there, it would be some old musician the hospital hired to fill in the dead air of the already depressing atmosphere with equally depressing music. Instead, now, in place of those graying pianists, was a rather young woman. Her lab coat was draped across the seat next to her while she played the simple melody, and the little girl was standing next to her, watching in complete awe.

“There you are, I was wondering where you had run off to,” the woman rubbed the little girl’s head affectionately. “You didn’t give the nurses trouble, did you?” He knew that voice, and he found himself moving towards the two before he could even think about it.

“Only one, this lady in a pink uniform who said that you sent her to get you.”

“Ah! She’s new to my unit, I’m sorry, I should’ve told you, but don’t worry she’s trustworthy,” the woman sighs.

“Oh, okay! I like that song!” The little girl gushed.

“I know you do, that’s why I played it so you’d show up, you silly girl. Let’s go home now.”

“Wait!” Kun was acting before thinking, something he usually never did, but he had to know.

You turned around, holding onto your daughter’s hand tightly.

“Can I help you?” Your voice was tired from the 24 hour shift you had just finished. But your groggy eyes focused on the person in front of you, and you felt your heart skip a beat. And here you thought you’d never see him again. Instinctively, you pushed your daughter behind you. Surely, he didn’t remember you. And if he did, you doubted that he was any different than when you last saw each other. Kun’s eyes moved from you to the little girl behind you.

“I see you’ve been well, (Y/N),” Kun says quietly.

“Oh! This mister helped me escape from the nurse,” the little girl tugged at your shirt. “You know my mom? Mom you know him?”

“I do, it’s been a while since we last talked though… But he really helped you?” You turned to him briefly before exhaling quietly. “Well, we’d have to thank him properly then, right?”

“Yes,” the little girl’s eyes shone.

“Oh, no, that’s not necessary,” Kun waved his hand politely. He was just glad enough to know that you’ve been doing well.

“Nonsense, you helped out my energetic little girl here, let me repay the favor,” you insisted.

“I know a really good candy shop you’d like,” the little girl adds in quietly.

“How could I say ‘no’ to that?” Kun chuckles softly.

“How’s Wednesday for you?” You asked. Kun scrolled through his calendar quickly, seeing the shift he had picked up that day.

“Sure, just send me a time and place,” he smiles. He catches himself quickly, he just made the assumption that you kept his number, but after that night, he wouldn’t be surprised if you deleted it, but when his phone pinged with that familiar ring tone he had assigned for you, his suspicions were debunked.

“Don’t be late, or else you’re getting the same coffee order you liked eight years ago,” you said with a slight teasing edge to your voice. “Time to go,” you gently tugged your daughter along.

“Bye, Mister!” Your daughter waves exaggeratedly. “Wait! What’s your name?” Your daughter called out to him while you were walking away.

“Oh, it’s Kun!” He answers.

“Kun? As in my da—” your eyes grew wide and you swept her up in your arms, effectively silencing her with the fit of giggles she burst out in as soon as you spun her around.

“I’ll have to tell the nurses not to give you anymore sugar past ten, I’ll see you on Wednesday!” You said quickly, waving goodbye to him while you sped out of the hospital.

Kun stood for a few moments more, staring at the now closed automatic doors. He had so many questions for you, but they would just have to wait for five more days. That was enough time to sort through his thoughts, maybe. He pushed his hands in his pockets, feeling the empty prescription bottle in them.

‘Right, that’s why I was here in the first place,’ Kun thought to himself. He rotated it in his hand and walked back to the pharmacy. He glanced out the window, seeing your daughter run up to it and jump up and down, seemingly trying to get his attention, and you ran up behind her in a small panic, looking around you before carrying her in your arms. Again, the small smile appeared on Kun’s face while he held his hand up as a small gesture of goodbye. With a wide smile, your daughter points towards the parking structure, and with a silent laugh you obliged, and soon you were completely out of sight. Kun opened your text, a location attached to it with a simple ‘thank you.’

V. Covalence

Covalence: (n) Relating to or denoting a relationship formed between the mutual sharing and understanding of both people’s negatives in order to balance the positives and together form a stable bond.

General Tag List: @stopeatread @bat-shark-repellant @raeincitizen @umbralhelwolf @yangsrose @kazooms

NCT Tag List: @cherrylovr @minjiville @resonantcherry 

If you want to be added to either tag list or removed just send me a reply to this post, and ask, or a DM and I’ll add you as soon as possible!

#nct #nct x reader #nct x you #nct x yn #nct u #nct u x reader #nct u x you #nct u x yn #wayv #wayv x reader #wayv x you #wayv x yn #kun x reader #kun x you #kun x yn #my writings #covalence

[bigskydreaming]

The truly annoying thing about the Night of the Owls movie is how damn EASY it would be to rewrite it as being about Dick instead......just change the timeline to having it set when Dick first comes to live with Bruce and early on into him becoming Robin, and bam, have Cobb (instead of Lincoln March) and the Court make their move then and try to appeal to Dick as belonging with them instead of Bruce.

#also I have a soft spot for AUs in which the Court goes after Dick way back when he was Robin #and he and Bruce never really tell the others about it when they come along later #largely because they think the Court is gone and its really personal and Dick doesnt like talking about it and Bruce respects that #so that when the Court DOES reappear years later #its like Secret Family History that the others are all like WAIT WHAT about #but without it being this huge betrayal like so many family secrets in this damn family after all #because nobody was trying to keep it FROM anyone it was just really traumatic for Dick and not something there #was ever really a casual way to drop into convo y'know? #sadly Ive only ever found a couple of fics like that and they usually all have Dick as a Talon which anyone whose followed me #long knows thats unfortunately not to my taste #as I may be the only person in fandom who likes the Court of Owls but doesnt like Dick-as-a-Talon #fhalfhalkfhalkfhkal Im so fucking picky #oh well i gotta be me #who the fuck else would I be

[poeedamerons]

me, I will fall in love with you every single day

Day : Future Fic - Read it at AO3 

When Michael wakes up, he is alone in a bright room. He blinks his eyes several times, trying to adjust to the light, hearing beeping and whirring sounds echo around him. His body feels heavy and sore in ways he never experienced before. His ribs and chest ache.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the lights, he realizes he is in a sterile hospital room and the beeping is coming from the heart monitor beside his bed. There's an IV drip connected to the back of his hand, pumping some kind of transparent liquid into him. The room smells like antiseptic, his mouth tastes bitter and his head is throbbing with a headache (the kind that usually followed in the morning after a heavy night before). The fabric of the nightshirt is soft against his skin. He has no idea how he got here in first place. He tries to get up, but his body doesn't budge. Black dots blur his eyesight and he regret his action instantly.

Getting up proves to be a bigger hardship than he imagined, so he settles for craning his neck to the side, searching for where the IV’d arm rests. He tries to wiggle his fingers, and after, his feet. Everything seems to work just fine, and he is glad for that. Feeling a little bit more adventurous - as if he has anything else to do - he slowly raises his arm, careful of the IV lines, and checks out the printed letters on the bracelet.

Michael Guerin.

So that’s his name, he thinks. Michael. It feels strange to have to read his own name from a wrist band, but worse yet is the realization that he doesn’t quite remember a single thing before waking up. But his train of thought is interrupted by a tall man entering the room with a white foam cup in his hands.

The man is attractive, with soft-looking brown eyes, tanned skin and the most beautiful smile that Michael has ever seen. His heart flutters a little at the sight. And what a sight, his mind adds as he notice the uniform the man is wearing.

“You’re finally awake,” his voice is smooth, exuding comfort, but there is a tired edge to it. He doesn't know that voice, but he wants to. The man’s eyes are bright with happiness as he makes his way towards the bed. “How are you feeling?”

Michael's head is pounding, but it seems irrelevant because he's utterly awe-struck by the man in front of him: he's completely transfixed. He thinks he has never seen someone so beautiful in his whole life and Michael has no idea what he is doing in his room.

“I think I know you,” the words fly out of his mouth before he can think about it and a crease forms in the other man’s face, his eyes aren’t so soft anymore. He wants to take them back immediately, that man should only ever smile.

He - Michael decides he's going to call tall, dark and gorgeous 'Handsome' until he somehow manages to get a proper name - bites his lower lip and Michael's overcome with the urge to reach out and ease it free, kiss the sting of teeth better.

“Michael,” the way his name rolls off Handsome's tongue is sinful, even if Michael can hear the worry and tenderness in his tone.He wants to hear his name from this man for the rest of his life. “Do you remember why you’re here?” Handsome asks calmly, walking the final paces to stand beside the bed.

He is even more good looking up close. Michael can see the glow of his sun kissed skin and the deep pink tint of the man’s lips. He is an Adonis come to life, and Michael wonders if he still dreaming.

“No,” the answer slips his lips quickly, too perplexed to form longer sentences. The man looks at him patiently waiting if more words will come out. A few moments pass, and when Michael doesn't say anything else the man laughs, amused at something Michael isn’t aware of.

“You’re still the same though,” mirth clear in his eyes. Good, Michael thinks. “I’ll call for someone.”

“Why?” Michael’ knits his eyebrows, he doesn’t want anyone. He is just fine with tall, dark and handsome. The man’s hands reach for his, squeezing them lightly. His hands are warm and soft.

“Cause it looks like you're experiencing some kind of amnesia”. While that explains why he can’t remember anything, the anxiety in Handsome’s voice is unmistakable.

Handsome reaches for the red button above Michael’s bed, a beeping noise sounds down the corridor. He takes a seat on the chair beside Michael’s bed and that’s when Michael notices the blanket thrown over it.

“Did you sleep here?” He screws up his face trying to remember, but everything is still fuzzy. Hurt. Confusion. Pain. It's briefly blinding, the sudden stabbing through his head as he tries to think past it, trying to remember what happened and it steals Michael's breath, catching inwards on a whimper. The movement feels like an ice-pick through his skull and for a moment he can't breathe. The noise has Handsome quickly reaching up to him. His unoccupied hand massages Michael’s temple soothingly. Michael moans softly as the pain begins to dissipate, slowly, under the gentle, surprisingly knowing touch from Handsome, who snorts at him.

“Oh, I'm gonna enjoy hanging this over your head for the rest of your life,” his lips curl into a smirk before his sips the cup in his hands. “And yes, to answer your question, I did sleep here.”

“Why?” Michael asks. The man puts the cup on the small table beside him, the one with a book and two cellphones on it. He wipes at Michael’s cheek with his thumb, Michael instinctively leans into the touch, eyes closing to enjoy the feeling. Michael swallows thickly, a lump forming in his throat. He has to remember this man, the one that looks so warmly at him and is so gentle. The man whose touch makes him feel safe.

The opening door interrupts their moment and a man in white jacket walks inside. “So Sleeping Beauty finally decided to wake up?” He says nonchalantly, not really expecting an answer. “How you feeling, Guerin?” The doctor asks him, and Michael's guess is that they know each other. Somehow.

Handsome sighs.

“It’s like you expected, he doesn't remember anything.”

“Ah...well,” The doctor’s confident tone deflated a little. “It's like I said, it'll probably wear off in a few hours. A couple of days at most. Don't worry” His gaze turns back to Michael. “You’re here because you were found on the floor of your…. Er…. lab,” His eyes dart to Handsome for split second. “Far as we can tell, some kind of energy blasted you against the wall. You broke a few ribs and suffered a head contusion. That’s why you can’t remember anything; your brain is still healing from the impact.” Michael decides that he likes this guy; he's straight to the point. “You got here in time, so no permanent damage.”

“I found you before the worst happened.” Handsome adds.

“You found me?” Michael asks, dumbfounded, and the man nods. “Can I at least get the name of my saviour? I can't keep callin' you tall, dark and handsome like I am right now. In my mind.” The man flushes and the doctor grins like it might split his face in half.

“Oh, this is going to be amazing. I’m Kyle,” the man in white jacket introduces himself. “Fanboy of all that is going to happen here.” he motions between the two of them.

“Go away, Valenti.” Handsome pushes him away slightly, but it's gentle, affectionate and he's smiling again.

“I will, not because you are telling me to, but because I have rounds to make.” Kyle process to check on his IV. “This is for the pain, we are not letting it run fast because it’s a strong medication. No need to keep you stoned.” He winks. “See you nerds later.”

Kyle struts to the door and steps outside, "Oh," his head pops back in the room and he's grinning, "Update me on everything later, please."

“Go away, Valenti.” Handsome closes his eyes in annoyance.

“Rude.” Kyle sing songs as he closes the door.

“Just so you know,” Handsome stats, “you hate him.” Michael laughs at that, feeling like there's a story behind it.

“Do I?” Handsome nods. “I want to ask why, but I don't know if I'd get an answer seeing as you still haven't told me your name.”

“My name is Alex. Alex Manes.” Michael likes the sound of that. It fits him. Handsome - Alex - looks at him, almost hopeful. "Anything?"

“Sadly no,” he answers gruffly, because he really wants to remember this man.

“As for your other question..” Alex’s eyes fill with fondness and grabs Michael’s foot through the hospital blanket, giving it a light squeeze and holding on. “I slept here because we made vows to each other and I'm pretty sure there was an 'in sickness' clause thrown in there somewhere.”

Michael's eyes widen in shock and a grin blossoms on his face. “You’re-,” His laugh is joyful. “You,” Michael rises from his position in bed, motioning to Alex with an unnecessarily grand gesture but he can't help himself. “are married to me?”

Alex chuckles. “Yes, is that a bad thing?” His brown eyes fill with something so intense that Michael’s heart melts a little.

Michael almost drowns in his husband’s beauty. “A bad thing?” He gasps melodramatically. “Jeez, no, I'm just shocked that I'm married to the most God-like person I've ever seen. Did I bribe you?” Alex snorts, still holding his foot, but his cheeks are tinged with red. His other hand places a wild lock of Michael’s hair behind his ear.

“No bribery needed.” He adds softly. Michael chose a good one.

“So, you’re mine?” He feels as if he is sounding like a broken record here, but he has to be sure. He's way too enchanted by Alex to risk this being a dream, or some cruel joke. Or... that they're only married by some fluke.

“Yes. And you are mine.” Alex looks delighted in saying that, like being able to say the words is the single most important accomplishment of his life. Like Michael means the world to him.

Alex reaches out and cups Michael’s face in both his hands. They are still warm and now, Michael notices, they're a little calloused. Alex's thumbs sweep under his eyes, along the line of his cheekbones and Michael feels, deep in his soul, that this contact is important to them. He's enamoured with that idea, of having something that's special. That's theirs. Alex leans in, his whole face softening in a way that almost sends Michael into a cardiac arrest. The monitor beside the bed beeps loudly and whatever moment they might have been having is lost immediately.

“Whoa there, cowboy,” Alex whispers, so close that Michael can feel Alex's breath on his face. “No need to call all the floor nurses back into the room.” Michael smiles at his husband's playful words, but his heart is still beating at full force. Alex closes in and nudges Michael's nose with his in a small Eskimo kiss. A swarm of butterflies starts fluttering in Michael's stomach. He settles his own hands on Alex’s arms and let his eyes close. They are quiet for a while, just listening to the soft sound of each other's breathing.

Alex’s unshaven cheek brushes against his own, and it feels soft, intimate. Domestic. Michael exhales and breathes the scent of Alex’s hair, taking a moment to admire how their bodies fit together. Michael’s mind is reeling.

Michael thinks, dragging himself away from how wonderfully Alex fits against him, that this has to be hard on Alex, too. He wonders how hard it's been finding his husband unconscious and then sitting for hours in a hospital chair, watching and waiting for Michael to wake up. Hoping he would. It's with a surge of guilt that he wonders how he ever managed to forget about someone as amazing as Alex? How much of a bitch Fate had to be to put him in this position of forgetting them. He doesn't think it should be possible, since Alex has really only given him an Eskimo kiss and Michael's absolute putty in his hands.

Too soon, Alex pulls away and Michael misses the warmth of his breath. He's a little annoyed at himself for failing to steal a kiss; Alex is his husband, after all, and Michael is in hospital. He definitely deserves some kisses for that.

Alex's hand reaches for his foot once more, thumb digging into the arch in a way Michael didn't know would feel so good and it makes his toes curl. Michael sighs, realising now that they'll have to go back to playing twenty questions and that any chance of kissing is, temporarily, off the table. That’s cool, Michael thinks, he can wait the for the perfect moment to reach for his husband’s luscious pink lips. He wonders what they taste like.

“Now, tell me," he rests back on the bed, crossing his arms cheekly, "why don't I like doctor smarty pants? He seemed okay to me.” He shrugs.

Alex grins. "This is gonna be good. I'll remind you that you said that next time you're complaining that he's over for dinner." He lets go of Michael’s foot.

"Nooo." Michael whines. "That was good."

"Yeah,” Alex chuckles, “I know you like it when I do that," his voice is fond and, not for the first time, Michael wants to be able to remember everything about them. Their first kiss, the first time they made love, who proposed… their wedding. He wants to remember all the times Alex probably did this in bed.

Alex’s hand goes back to his foot and Michael sighs contentedly. "You still have to answer me. What's up with the doc?"

"I used to date him in high school." Alex replies, calmly, and Michael feels his eyes widen in surprise.

"You’re right, I hate him." His mouth curls into a pout. He knows that whatever race he might have been in with the doctor he has clearly won, but he still doesn’t like the thought of his husband ever belonging to anyone else but him. “I think I feel better and we should leave.” He knows he is being childish but he doesn’t care.

Alex snorts. "Same possessive fool," Alex leans in again, probably out of a well-honed instinct, to kiss the pout off Michael's lips but this time Michael's ready. He leans up and catches Alex's lower lip between his teeth, biting gently and stealing a proper kiss when Alex gasps in surprise.

His happiness at (finally) getting a kiss is fleeting, though, because Alex pulls back, grumbling his name in warning. “Michael…”

"What? Can't a dying man kiss his husband?" He doesn't regret what he just did, not in the slightest, Alex tastes like sweet lemonade with a tinge of the coffee he was drinking earlier. His only regret is that he didn't get more.

"You’re meant to be getting... excited." Alex's emphasis on the last word makes Michael wiggle his eyebrows.

"Excited, huh?"

"God, you are such a man-child" Affection is written all over Alex’s face.

"And you love me for it."

"Yeah," Alex murmurs, gazing into Michael's eyes. Michael feels like he might get lost in them. "I do".

Alex blinks, breaking the intense stare and looking almost embarrassed at having let himself get carried away. "Still can't remember anything?" Michael shakes his head no. "Is the pain better?"

Oh yeah, Michael thinks, he'd had a splitting headache before. It strikes him that after Alex told him they were married the pain sort of disappeared. He supposes that pain's irrelevant after the world-changing bombshell's been dropped that the most beautiful person he's ever seen married him willingly and loves him.

Michael is high on feelings.

A buzzing sound on the bedside table draws Alex’s attention. He reaches for the phone and swipes his thumb over the screen. Michael watches his expression shift into something indecipherable.

“What’s wrong?” He asks Alex, a little worried.

“There’s nothing wrong, per se…” His voice draggs on a little. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you with loads of information,” He's carefully choosing his words and Michael doesn't like it. “But in a few seconds, this room's going to be invaded by a sticky-fingered, pink tutu-clad hurricane.”

He lost Michael there. What is that supposed to mean?

“What?” He asks confused.

Alex takes a deep breath, sitting on the edge of the bed. His hand searches for Michael’s and he can see the wedding band on Alex’s finger. “We have a daughter,” Michael stares at Alex, feeling like something in his brain just blacked out, speechless with yet another mind-blowing snippet of a life he's forgotten. “She's four and she's... she's going through a very intense ballerina phase.” Alex smiles softly. “Her favorite everything is pink, and she calls you papa.”

Michael realises he's forgotten to blink, the slight burning in his eyes reminding him to and he does. Once. Twice. The mental gymnastics involved to try and process the way he's feeling are monumental; his heart's trying to bust out of his chest. He hasn't been expecting to be hit with more information, let alone a child, but he's not horrified by the prospect. He realises that Alex has given him everything and he's just starting to understand fully how frightening this experience must have been for Alex. How lucky he is to have Alex in his life.

He still has no idea what landed him in this hospital, but he swears to himself that he will never give Alex another reason to worry like this.

He raises their joined hands to his lips and presses a soft gentle kiss there, looking up at Alex, eyes shining with devotion. “I’m dying to meet her.”

Alex smiles brightly at that. He looks at the ground before raising his gaze again to Michael and that is the most endearing thing he has ever seen in his life. He is a goner.

“Her name’s Malia. I explained to her that you had an accident and told her you might have a hard time remembering things once you get home,” He shakes his head. “But considering she is almost here, Auntie Is couldn’t control her need to see you.” Michael wonders who Auntie Is s, does one of them has siblings?

“Is she really that eager to see me?” He asks in wonderment that, just outside, there's a tiny human kicking up a fuss to see him.

“Yeah, she adores you, Michael.” He tells him, and Michael suddenly feels reassured.

If she's anything like Alex, Michael's pretty positive she's already got him wrapped around her sticky little fingers.

The door bursts open and, just as Alex predicted, a flash of pink tulle crashes through the room, screeching papa on the top of her lungs. The shrillness of the shriek, though not unwelcome, makes Michael's ears sting a little.

“Malia!” Alex chastises her. “What did we tell you? This is a hospital where poorly people are resting. You need to be quiet.” He catches her  hands before she can climb her way up the bed.

She turns to look at Alex. “Sorry, daddy.” Her little voice is apologetic, making grabby hands at him. Alex sighs and hoists her up on his arms.

“Where is your aunt?” He asks her and Michael can see the tip of her lips turning into a grin.

“In the parking lot.” Michael laughs at her answer, catching the little girl’s attention again and she beams at him.

“Don’t encourage her, Michael. She's only like this 'cause you're her partner in crime.” Alex attempts to send Michael a stern look, but he can feel the affectionate and amused undertone.  

“Papa and I are partners in crime!” She repeats gleefully. Michael's having another one of those moments where his brain's refusing to cooperate with him, overwhelmed by what's happening in front of him. She's his daughter. His and Alex's daughter.

She looks exactly like Alex, with the exception of her wild, curly hair and green and golden eyes. She probably got them from their surrogate - he assumes that's what they did. He already knows he's a sucker for her cherubic face and huge, expressive eyes.

“Papa,” She leans her body dangerously away from Alex’s, but he has a firm grip on her. He gets the feeling she's more than a handful, and very unlike Alex personality wise. That makes him grin even more. “I missed you.”

He looks at her and he knows he loves her, he can feel it from that same place deep inside himself that told him he knew Alex. “I missed you too, Princess.”

Alex's eyes snap from Malia to Michael, and he watches his husband look shocked, dumbfounded and then very, very relieved. Malia wiggles impatiently, leaning towards Michael still, and Michael realises that he probably uses that nickname for her all the time. He chooses to take that as a good sign, that his memory's already coming back, faster than anticipated. Hah, he thinks, take that, Kyle.

"Okay, Malia, I'm gonna put you on the bed with Papa, but you have to be really careful, okay?" Alex has Malia's attention again, she's looking at him with huge eyes and nodding her mouth pressed together in concentration. Michael thinks it's adorable. "Papa's got some tubes in to help him get better and they're easy to break. So you gotta be a good girl and sit nicely, okay?"

Malia nods enthusiastically, and Michael wonders if she's even capable of sitting still. He watches Alex say 'good' and glance back at him before Michael's scooting over a little, creating some space for Alex to place her down beside him. It's all so domestic that Michael, once again, is utterly lost for words.

“Papa,” Malia started slowly, plucking at the edge of his hospital gown, “Daddy said you forgot some things,” Her bright eyes are fully focused on him. “But you didn’t forgot me, did you?”

“Of course not,” Michael tells her, not hesitating for a second. He carefully combs her unruly curls with his fingers. “I could never forget you, Princess.”

She smiles appeased her that papa did not forget her and curls herself over him, her tiny head on chest, with a dramatically content sigh Michael's sure she picked up from somewhere else. He looks up and meets Alex's gaze and can see his own fondness reflected on Alex's face.

“I texted Is to tell her Malia's here with us, so she can stop worrying," Alex says with a smile, "she'll be by in a bit to pick her up."

Michael huffs, amused. “She's a handful, huh.” Michael can feel her breathing slowing and evening out, and when he glances down, her blinks are getting heavier.

“She's obviously been using the stubbornness she got from you," Alex murmurs, tone teasing as he brushes his fingers through her hair, "to stay awake to see you. It's way past her bedtime. I'm surprised Is didn't end up carrying her in."

Michael has to ask. “And, uh, who's Is?”

“Shi- Damn, I forgot." Alex makes his way around to the other side of the bed. "Isobel's your sister."

“I  have a sister?”

“And a brother, Max.” Alex breathes out slowly. “I’ve got brothers too but I'm not close with mine. Not like you are with Max and Isobel.” He gives Michael a look. “We can talk about them later, when little ears aren’t around.”

“Okay.” Michael understands.

“Is was our surrogate, that’s why Malia's hair and eyes are like yours.” Alex speaks again after a silence fell between them, and Michael feels surprised all over again.

“I don't even know what I look like,”  His laugh is a little broken. “I didn’t even make the connection.”

“Hey,” Alex says, sharp to get Michael's attention. It works. “Don’t beat yourself up. You're gonna remember everything in time, Michael. Kyle wouldn’t have lied to us. He’s kind of an expert on matters concerning our family.”

Michael can feel his expression shifting into something quizzical, and he knows Alex can see the what does that mean? on his face because Alex is shaking his head and speaking before Michael can.

“Later,” Alex tells him, gentle and firm, "you need to get some rest. You've had a lot of information thrown at you already."

“Only if you lay here with us.”

Alex glances around the room and Michael can tell he's trying to work out if this is a good idea or a terrible one.

“Please,” Michael begs. “It would be nice to to have you both here to help me remember.” He knows he's playing the pity card, but honestly, nothing sounds better to Michael right now than being curled up in a little hospital bed, surrounded by the two people he knows are the centre of his world.

“Fine.” Alex smiles and carefully lays down the bed as Michael shifts onto his side to better share the space, Malia still in his arms. Michael feels Alex's arm slip around his waist, cuddling them both.

“Alex?” Michael asks quietly.

“Mn?” Alex sounds sleepy like Malia and Michael feels a rush of fondness which makes him smile.

“Thank you. For everything,” his voice is trembling slightly, and he takes a breath to control himself. He isn't sure it works. “For loving me and giving me a family.”

Alex buries his face against Michael’s back smiling. “You’re welcome, Guerin” Michael feels the warm press of a kiss against the back of his neck. “Now, go back to sleep.”

Michael closes his eyes and, before sleep can take him, he prays to whomever might be listening: please let me remember everything when I wake up. Please let this be real.

#alex manes #michael guerin #alexmanesweek2019 #malex #roswell new mexico #my writing

[m-rphy]

We can text if you can’t talk

Summary:            When Matteo sees David dance with and kiss Leonie at Sara's party, his world begins to crumble, and it's like he's plunged into darkness. This is the aftermath. TW: This fic deals with slight themes of transphobia and self-harm/depression.

Notes:    I apologize in advance if I handled any trans issues in an insensitive matter in this fic. Please let me know if that's the case and I'd be happy to change those parts.

Matteo had stopped caring about which day it was. He woke up when it was already light out and went back to sleep long after the sun had set. His curtains were drawn closed pretty much 24/7 anyway, so it wasn't like it mattered if it was day or night.

First, he had been able to excuse his behavior to Hans and Linn and his boys with just wanting to relax a few days after his first couple of exams. Then he had lied that he got sick and needed to rest. But at this point, he had run out of excuses. He basically only left his bed to take a piss or get something to eat (which all tasted the same anyway so it was frozen pizza after frozen pizza) and he knew he worried Hans and Jonas especially, but he couldn't help it. It just... got overwhelming. Matteo wished nothing more than to be able to... take out his brain and replace it with a new, normally-functioning one, or to just disappear, or to never being born at all.

He had put on some comedy on Netflix in hopes of it cheering him up, but he couldn't even begin to concentrate on the movie so instead, he was playing games on his phone at the same time. Just as the leading lady in the movie fell into a pool, his phone buzzed with a message.

Jonas, 20:17 Hey bro what are you doing?

Matteo inhaled deeply. He had been ignoring Jonas for two days already and he knew it was unfair but the thought alone of trying to string together words for an answer drained what little energy he had left. He plopped his head down on his arm again, dropping his phone back onto his mattress.

Man, this movie was shit.

Matteo blinked awake. Deep pink light fell through his windows, half-swallowed and muted by his curtains, but still tinting his room a warm hue. His laptop still stood on the edge of his bed, the led light that indicated it was in standby mode blinking. Matteo closed it and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

His mind wandered to all the times this has happened before. Most days, it was just an underlying feeling of sadness mixed with apathy, something people around him tended to call a “laid-back” or “I don't give a fuck” attitude. But some days and weeks, it got bad. Like, bad bad. Sleeping-for-15-hours bad. Not-showering-in-four-days bad. Banging-his-head-against-a-wall-to-numb-the-inside-pain-with-outside-pain bad.

His phone buzzed again, but he didn't even bother to look at it. His stomach rumbled. Matteo inhaled deeply, debating how much longer he could put off making some food since he had been hungry already before his nap. His stomach grumbled again, contracting painfully.

Matteo sighed and rolled over to get up, not bothering to change the sweater he had been living in for the past three days, or to put on proper pants. The WG had seen him in his boxers plenty of times already so whatever.

He padded over into the kitchen, painfully aware of the disheveled state of his hair and how easy it would be for any of the others to tell something wasn't alright. He didn't care. He simply took a pizza from the freezer, put it on the oven rack without backing parchment and closed the oven door, setting the temperature to 200°C.

“Hey my little butterfly,” Hans greeted him as he entered to kitchen and went over to the fridge.

“He,” Matteo replied, and God, now he even failed at forming full words? And sure enough, Hans turned around to look at him, the fridge door hanging open behind him. Matteo avoided his eyes and looked down at his feet.

“Pizza again?” Hans asked, obviously trying to make conversation, but Matteo didn't see the point in replying. Obviously pizza again. He just did a half-shrug-head-shake instead. Hans didn't say anything else for a few seconds, and then, “How about we cook something together tomorrow evening? A nice potato gratin with loads of cheese. Hm? What about that?”

Matteo looked up at Hans for a moment and said “Whatever” with another shrug before he looked at his feet again. Hans made a small noise of discontent.

“You need a pick-me-up,” he concluded before he shut the fridge and left the kitchen again, leaving Matteo to stare at the spot where he just stood.

*

A soft knock on his door caused Matteo to look up.

“Matteo,” an even softer voice came muffled through the door and Matteo's heart skipped a beat. He felt paralyzed. “Can I come in?”

Matteo just stared at the door, a thousand emotions swelling up inside him and constricting his throat, making it impossible to reply anything. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't even sure if he wanted him to come in or not.

A soft thud against the door made Matteo think that he leaned against it on the other side and some of the tension left Matteo's body, only to come back tenfold when his phone buzzed with a message from him.

David, 21:09  Can I please come inside?

Matteo blinked and felt a tear fall from his eyes. Fuck. Why were emotions a thing? He stared at the message through the tears blurring his vision and his fingers hovered over the screen.

Matteo, 21:10  Ok

There was some rustling on the other side of the door and after a moment of silence, the door creaked open. Matteo held his breath.

David entered his room hesitantly, half-hiding behind the door, and looked over at Matteo who realized that David would totally be able to tell he had been crying, even from where he stood. Quickly, he wiped his cheeks dry with the sleeve of his sweater.

“Hi,” David said quietly, not moving, waiting, giving Matteo room. For some reason, this made everything worse.

“Hi,” Matteo finally replied and David took this as a sign that he could close the door. Afterwards, he came over to the bed, but stopped at the end of it, biting his lip. This close, Matteo – who couldn't help but study David's face – saw that he didn't seem to be doing so well either. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hair looked a lot messier than usual.

The silence filled the room when neither of them knew what to say next. Matteo was glad he didn't need to talk because the lump in his throat was still there and he was afraid that his voice would break if he had to say more than one word. As the silence went on he watched as David pulled his phone out of his pocket and started typing, before his own phone buzzed. David looked over at him expectantly. Matteo unlocked his phone.

David, 21:12  We can text if you can't talk

And, a second later...

David, 21:12  It's what I do when everything gets too much

Matteo stared at the messages as a feeling, so very different from everything he had experienced in the past days, started to spread through him. The closest he had ever come to feeling like this was when he spent time alone with Jonas, but it was different still. His phone buzzed again.

David, 21:13  I will just stay here a bit okay? And when you're ready you can tell me whats wrong

With this, he sat down at the end of the bed and took of his jacket, revealing a soft black hoodie, his headphones still looped around his neck, like always. Matteo knew David was looking over at him, but he just continued to stare at his phone, at the message David had just sent.

The clattering of pots and pans carried over from the kitchen, and somehow it felt like an invasion of privacy, even though Matteo was perfectly aware that all of his flat mates were decent enough not to listen in on others' conversations. Well, except maybe Hans.

Matteo tried to breathe through the lump in his throat as he started typing a reply to David. He didn't know where to start, a thousand thoughts flooding his brain. After a moment of hesitation, he started with the one he was surest about.

Matteo, 21:15  I like you. I cant explain it but i do and i think ive never felt the same for anyone else and its terrifying. Because life is horrible and shit like at saras party happens and it rips ur fucking heart out nd theres nothing u can do abut it

The tears were back and he hated hated hated it. He hated himself so much in moments like this. Matteo screwed his eyes shut and dropped his head against the wall he was leaning on with a bit more force than he had planned and suddenly he found himself in David's arms who pulled him away from the wall and held him tight.

“Stop,” he whispered in Matteo's ear, no heat behind it, so very different to how his Dad had reacted when Matteo had first shown signs of self-destructive behavior as a child. And when David's fingers brushed gingerly across the back of his head to soothe the pain, instead of grabbing his wrists in an iron grip like his Dad telling him to snap out of it, Matteo realized was true concern looked like. Since his Dad had left, he had begun to realize that his father's actions had always come from a place of annoyance, but it hadn't been until just now that he knew what difference a reaction could make.

And with this realization, Matteo slumped against David and hugged him back, held him so close that he thought he'd crush him, but David just let it happen. And like this they sat until the clatter and chatter from the kitchen fell silent, the others back in their rooms, and his room dark save for the lamp on his bedside table. The tears had stopped, though his nose was still runny, and finally he felt ready to pull back.

He met David's eyes, the other boy's eyebrows knitted together sadly.

“I'm sorry,” he murmured, dropping his gaze for a moment. “About Sara's party. I don't know what came over me. It's just...” He inhaled deeply. “You remember that joke you made about Hans's friend, the trans girl from that one party who you said “Still totally looks like a dude”?”

Matteo blinked at him in confusion before he nodded.

“Well, it's just that...” David hesitated again, taking another shaky breath. “I'm trans, Matteo.”

Matteo felt his face fall. Fuck.

“David, I –” he started but David cut him off.

“My parents decided to move since I was bullied at my last school because of it, so I never told anyone here because I didn't wanna go through the same stuff again. And then you came along and I fell head over heels and then... well... then you said that.” He looked down at his lap where he picked on his thumb's cuticle with his fingernail. “And it made me doubt everything that happened between us. And then Leonie was at the party, and I know she has a crush on me, so I just said to myself, why the fuck not? I just wanted to feel good for one night.”

Matteo stared at him, his thoughts a mess.

“David, I'm sorry,” he finally said, because what he had just heard put everything else into perspective. “I never meant to hurt you, I'm sorry.”

“Well, shit happens,” David said with a sad chuckle and looked at Matteo again. “After you said that, my thoughts just spiraled and I... well... I ended up convincing myself that you'd never want to be together with me because I'm trans.”

“No!” The word broke out of Matteo with such force that he was a bit surprised himself. “It's... well I'd be lying if I said it's not a bit weird right now, but... it doesn't change anything for me, David. I like you because you're you. Because you get me.” And when he saw the look on David's face, he added, “I meant it's weird because I'm a stupid bastard and I don't know shit, and I don't want to hurt you ever again with something I say.”

“Don't call yourself that,” David said in a small voice.

“It's true though. I hurt you, so that makes me a bastard.”

“You were just joking around,” David tried to trivialize it. “You didn't know any better.”

But Matteo was having none of it. “That's not an excuse. It was still shitty.”

He thought David would continue to protest, but he said something else instead. “Do you know why I'm here?” Matteo shook his head no. “Because Sara texted me. Apparently she had the suspicion you're gay and have a crush on me after you dumped her, and then Hanna texted her earlier about how you've been down the whole holidays and she remembered what happened at the party and put two and two together.”

Matteo couldn't help but be amazed. He knew he had hurt her deeply, but that she still found it in her heart to care about him like that... he hadn't expected it. At the mention of the party, Matteo couldn't keep himself any longer from asking a question that had been on his mind since David had arrived.

“So you're not interested in Leonie?”

The question hung in the air for a moment before David laughed, and Matteo's heart tugged warmly at the sight of it.

“Matteo. I'm gay. I'm in love with you.”

Whoop, there it was. David's mouth fell open when he noticed what he had said and Matteo was aware that he looked just as thunderstruck.

“You what?” he asked, not able to stop the smile from spreading across his face. It took David a second longer before a similar smile lifted the corners of his mouth as well.

“I'm in love with you.”

“God, stop being cheesy!” Matteo laughed and shoved David so that he almost fell backwards. For a moment, they jostled around until both of them needed to catch their breath and Matteo noticed that their fingers were entwined. Suddenly, the air in his room felt heavier again.

“So, you still like me?” David asked, the uncertainty still audible in his voice.

“Yes,” Matteo answered without missing a beat. “I still like you, dumbass.”

And God, the smile that lit up David's face just then, it could've blinded the whole world.

#druck #matteo x david #my art

[pebblysand]

On Children.

Last night, when I posted this - the last 15,000 of a 103,087 words journey - I promised myself I’d talk about it - write about it - later. After I’d slept, after I’d been to work, after I’d processed the thoughts in my head.

I barely slept. Shut the lights out at midnight, woke up at two, then at five and stayed awake after that. I’m usually a heavy sleeper. I think it was the adrenaline.

Today, I spent more time on tumblr and my personal email, anxiously refreshing pages for reviews and comments, than on actual work. I’ll admit it’s insecure and weak on my part, but I guess I am of a generation that is in constant need of validation.

I haven’t felt this happy and excited in a long time but let’s be real, I still haven’t processed shit. Who was I kidding? Maybe, it will help to write this out. I guess I am a writer, after all.

I write that (I’m a writer), and think that’s a weird word, all things considered. It refers to a profession but I’m not a professional, and it is still what I do - like to do - with the spare time that I have. You see, sometimes, I have ideas about things that could happen to people who aren’t real and when that happens, I type them out on a laptop and share them with strangers on the internet. It’s a bit of weird hobby, admittedly, but I like it. I’m okay at it. Sometimes, the thought even crosses my mind that I might be good. It mostly happens when I write things like this:

When she thinks about him, she thinks about them and all she sees is children. A boy and a girl and her pale skin against his cheek, pulling at each other’s hair, laughing, loud, like Nick and Niamh on court benches, school benches, and the autumn leaves scattered around their feet.

Or this:

It’s not homesickness, she thinks, it’s just moving on.

I look at those three sentences and I think (because yeah, let’s dive in, shall we? that’s enough of an introduction) that ultimately, this is what all this was about. Those 103,087 words. This fanfiction, as it is refered to, is called Children not because Martha gets pregnant at the end, but because it’s a coming of age story. A coming of age story that involves a couple of forty-somethings who have spent so much time over the last fifteen years working and helping other people grow that they’ve forgot to do it themselves. This fic is as much about the concept of home and career choices and Sean, than it is about Martha and Clive. And sure, it’s about me, too. Because let’s be real, maybe I was going through a bit of a similar thing, at the time I started writing this, and maybe I did Mary-Sue the heck out of it. Who knows?

What I do know, though, is that I love this story. So much. It feels important, and cool, and smart, and funny and the kind of tale that I like to tell. I also know that although I won’t bore you with the details, I wasn’t in great place, this time last year, when I started writing it. Thankfully, I am in a much, much better place now. I frankly thank Peter Moffat, Silk, and Martha and Clive for that. I think this story gave me room to grow, and focus, and believe in myself more than I ever had before. When I started writing it, it was a 10,000 words one-shot that involved Clive breaking into Martha’s flat through the window and a very early version of that last scene in chapter vii. It was cool, too, but not the story I needed to tell.

Then, chapter i came. Chapter i is crap, I know that. I made it a bit less crap by editing it sometime after I posted chapter ii but really, not by much. In its defense, it was written at a time when a) I hadn’t written a word in three years and b) I had no idea what this would all become. I think that when I first published it, I still thought the fic was going to be fifteen to twenty thousand words, two or three chapters at most.

For a very long time, I was terrified of not finishing this fic, actually. I had a lot of comments about that - understandable considering the sad amount of abandoned works on the Silk fandom - and it just made me more anxious very time. That fear did start to go away over time, but surprisingly late, probably around when I was writing chapter ix. Still, I think I still had remnants of that panic up until I actually wrote the words the end at 3 a.m. last Friday. It felt almost surprising that I had, indeed, finished. All the long projects that I’d started before, I’d abandoned, or gotten tired of. At the time, I held it against myself, but coming back to my earlier point, I’ve now realised that they just weren’t my story to tell.

Then, chapter ii came. I like chapter ii. It’s not perfect and would need to be worked on in a future edit, but I like its plot. I like what it says about the show, about Martha as a character and how she breaks down, how we all do, sometimes. It also says something about what often happens to women, sadly, when they do. 

I think this show is important and matters because to me, it talks about something that happens all the time in the legal world and that no show ever touches on. We show the courtrooms and the decorums and the ships, but not happens behind the scenes. Not what I’ve seen. The truth is that when you spend all your waking hours fighting other people’s fights, sometimes, you lose yourself. You breakdown. You burn-out. It’s sort of a premonition but Clive warns Martha about it in the first series, jokingly, sure, but he turns out to be right. That’s what I see in the last episode of series three. As much as I hated the whole courtroom and Micky Joy debacle there, I loved that storyline. I love that she just fucks off. That my ultimate head canon is that she moves to a beach somewhere and opens a café on the coast, pours expressos and chats up tourists all day. Maybe, there, she meets someone. Maybe, she even has a family. But in my head, Children is and always will be a very long AU.

In that AU, of course, she has to stay. And that’s what chapter ii is about, ultimately, about staying when you don’t want to, breaking down and dealing with the consequences. When you’re a woman and you fuck up a bit, the price to pay is sometimes, sadly, very high. So, I tried to show that to the best of my ability. I hope I did a decent job of it. Frankly, I’m not quite sure about how I dealt with the aftermath. I think if I went back and edited, I would probably allow the assault to be more of a recurrent theme in the following chapters. I sometimes wonder if I didn’t deal with it a bit too quickly. But then again, I guess every survivor is different, and there was also a lot to talk about in those next chapters, with Billy and Clive, and Chambers, so I’ll cut myself some slack.

Chapter iii is to me the moment when this fic found its tone and its voice. When Martha and Clive found their voices in my head, too. It was a very difficult chapter to write, I remember, but I think that’s when the fic went from being an extended one-shot to a full blown story, with a plot and character development, and thousands of words, and eleven chapters. That scene at Billy’s grave is one of my favourites.

The one that follows, chapter iv, wrote itself. I barely touched it. I love chapter iv. It’s funny and quirky, and everything I loved about writing those characters I was lucky enough to be able to borrow. I was very insecure about the explicit sex scene in it, but then I felt like that scene was necessary. Again, I didn’t want the only sex in this to be non-consensual. Most often, sex is pleasurable and fun, thank God.

I think when I look back, chapter v is the most personal of them all. Chapter v is what I meant when I said that this fic was about me. Jokes aside, I remember being very nervous about it, wondering if I wasn’t turning a wonderful fic into a horrible, Mary-Sue-d attempt at a diary of my own problems. But then, well, it’s also fiction. My fiction. Because in chapter v, aside from Martha and Bethany’s very short stint, all of the characters are OCs. There’s Martha’s mum (Maureen), and Jo, and Evershed, and Roy. Boy, do I love Roy. Roy is the amalgamation of every man every sixty-something woman in my life has remarried to. He’s not a bad person, he’s just very, very out of tune with current times. Evershed, I don’t have many feelings about. Martha just needed a sounding board. Martha’s mum was probably the hardest to write. She loves her, I think, but I also think they’re very different people. I think they’re linked by what happened to her dad and that sometimes, that gets a bit heavy. And Jo. God, I love Jo. She makes me laugh and sometimes, I wish she was my friend, too.

Again, I was nervous about chapter v and my characters, wondering if people would like them, would like what they said about Martha, about the concept of home, until someone said: "It's like you're writing my life and all the feelings I've had about home and the bar and superimposed Martha Costello on top". I think that’s one of the best comments I’ve ever had on anything I’ve ever written. So, I’m not naming you, you know who you are, and thank you.

Chapter vi was originally very, very long and was then split into vi and vii for readability purposes (I will split xi too, one day, I promise). Yet, in my head, they will always be paired up. 

As I’ve mentioned before, the contents of chapter vii, and especially that last scene with Clive when they decide to “try again”, had been in my head ever since I’d started writing this fic. It was always where this story was going to go and when I published it, it felt good to finally release that, to have it out in the world that yeah, this was going to be that kind of fic, with an argumentative, blond, blue-eyed baby being born the end. Although these two are probably the most important chapters in this fic, I oddly don’t have much to say about them. I guess everything is pretty spelled out in there. Clive and Martha are in love. And they’re going to try for a baby. When I split both chapters, I took the opportunity to put back into chapter vii a bit that I’d taken out in the original editing phase. It’s a scene in which Clive and Martha talk about her father’s disease and she mentions that she took a test, once upon a time (i.e. when she got pregnant), to know if she had it, but never read the results. It’s a letter in her handbag that she doesn’t want to open, but that he wants to read. I think more than the topic itself, it shows how much they love each other, and yet how different they are. Martha got to know about Billy’s health when, in fairness, I don’t think she ever wanted to know. I think she’s the kind of person who only likes to know about things she can deal with or solve. If not, she wants to know late enough so that she won’t have to think about it too much. She’s the kind of person who wouldn’t want to know if she had cancer. Clive does, though. He would have liked to know about Billy; I think it hurt him not to. He would have liked to be prepared.

In my canon, Clive reads that letter and never tells her what was in it. He vouches to keep it to himself, and he does. He likes that he knows, respects her decision not to. He would tell her, if she asked, but she never does. As the writer of this story, I personally don’t know what was on that letter, either. I’ve gone back and forth on it a few times and I really don’t know if she has it. She definitely thinks she does. I think that’s kind of where the smoking comes from. I think she sort of hopes it will kill her before she forgets that it will.

I kind of wish I had found a way to use all of that in later chapters but somehow, after that one, it just didn’t fit within the plot. Maybe it will upon further edits. I don’t know.

Now, chapter viii is cute. Like iv. Still, I wanted it to be mostly about her career and going back to work, rather than about her getting pregnant. I hope that it was. Chapter viii is also where the character of Charlotte makes her entrance and I really like her, I like that she both fits in (through her education, her parents) and doesn’t (through how odd and quirky she is). I think if Martha were to ever go back to work after everything that happened, it would be for someone like that. I like that she’s not Billy, too.

And of course, then, Martha gets pregnant, when she leasts expects it. Because, she had to. As a side note, I love the scene where she "tells" Billy. It feels like a full circle to me.

Circles are not necessarily good, though, are they? ix, oh ix. That, also, unfortunately had to happen. I think Martha and Clive had been very nicely playing house for a while but it just couldn’t go on forever. Mostly, I had to deal with Sean, though. Because Sean, oh, Sean, do I love Sean. Again, this fic, frankly, is almost as much about him and about what he represents (young love, home) than it is about Clive and what he represents. When I wrote chapter iii, I thought I was done with him but then again, when I wrote chapter iii, I didn’t know there would be nine chapters, did I? So, Martha, she couldn’t let go, could she? She had to close that door in order to open another one.  

ix was so hard to write. Mostly because I’m terrible at writing arguments. I had turn it all around for it to make more sense but I feel that somehow, it more or less worked. I guess, you tell me, though.

(As a side note, I kind of like CW’s role in it. She’s not a friend, but she’s not a stranger either. I think that ultimately, she kind of cares about Martha, for some reason. And I love that conversation between Martha and her mum at the end, almost teared up when I wrote it. Again, part of moving on and growing up.)

And then, comes x. It’s a bit of a filler, I’ll admit. A 10,000 words filler. I couldn’t see Clive and her get back together that easily, so things needed to happen in between. I decided those things were court scenes. I was so nervous about those. I’ll be honest and say I have no fucking clue about the UK’s appeals process and probably got it all wrong. I guess that’s the difference between me back when I was still in law school and me now. At the time, I would have done the research. Now, I just don’t care, as long as the drama’s good. If you’re from the UK and thought it was all wrong, my most sincere apologies.

Finally. xi. As I said in my A/N yesterday, there was supposed to be a xii, until two evenings ago, when I realized that there wasn’t. In fairness, I think I’d suspected it for a while. In my head, I’d always thought of xii as some sort of epilogue, with a mix of cute pregnant-Martha scenes and a bunch of more serious ones (the baby’s name, Clive’s priorities shifting). Then, at 3 a.m. on Friday, I understood that a bunch of scenes stuck together do not necessarily make for a coherent chapter. And that I hate epilogues anyway. Finish your bloody story and stick with it, I say. So, the important stuff made it into xi (Clive’s priorities shifting, the baby’s name) and the rest just went to trash. I’m happy with that. In an earlier draft of an outline for xii, I also had a scene about CW prosecuting Brown Hair in an assault case on someone else, but that felt a bit cheap and would have kind of taken away the point I wanted to make with ii, the fact that most of the time, sadly, there is no resolution to these things. So, yeah, I’m happy I didn’t write that in.

I guess I don’t know what I thought would happen when I wrote the words the end after of all this. I think I thought fireworks would be in order, and champagne. Instead, I was alone in my flat on a Friday night, drinking beer and thinking holy shit. I didn’t cry - still haven’t - but I’m not sure all of this has really sunk in, yet, so.

So, what does this all mean? Well, it means that I’ve written a story and finished it. Not a novel, sure, but a story nonetheless, with some characters that were mine and some that I borrowed and it had a beginning, a middle and an end. That feels great. Amazing, in fact, like the top of the world. And yes, in a few years, months maybe, even, I’ll probably look back at this post and think I was full of shit and full of myself. Right now, though, it feels good. I’ve motherfucking done this, you know?

And I acknowledge the fact that there’s still a lot of work to do. Because everything I’ve mentioned I want to make better, want to rewrite (like chapter i, ugh), I’ll do. I’ll let the fic sit, for a while, but I’ve planned to go back to it in a few months (August or September, give or take) and edit. Because frankly, although I love this story to bits, I also know it has flaws. For better or for worse, I’m a perfectionist at heart, so I want to make it the best it can be. That being said, I am very proud of this, nonetheless.

So, yeah, if you’re interested, maybe click again and go back to reading Children this time next year, it’ll probably have changed a bit. If not, that’s alright, please, just don’t hold chapter i against me.

Lastly, again, I’d like to repeat my thanks. To @missmarthacostello for early-fic chats. To @asummerevening for later-fic chats. To everyone who’s read, commented and PM-ed me over the last months and to everyone who will hopefully read and comment and message me in the future. I owe you many. Again, if you have prompts, requests, feel free to PM me, I’m happy to try my best. And lastly, again, thanks to the wonderful @cursedandcharmed without whom, honestly, this would not have seen the light of day. As I said in my A/N, you listened to me rant for a year about something you were not reading and that took place within the universe of a show you were not watching. I can’t thank you enough for that.

So, there. I hope this was somewhat coherent. I honestly tried, to the best of my ability. This fic has taken up so many weekends and hours of my life these past few months that I am unsure as to what comes next, and what one does with so much time on their hands. Again, though, I’ll probably look back at this in a bit and think I was full of shit, so, there’s that.

Thanks again and whoever you are, if you’ve stuck around this long, you have all my love and admiration.

Best,

pebblysand.

#children #silk bbc #the major post #thanks for reading

[anghraine]

“threshold of a dream” - fic

Because I looked sadly at my dash, then looked at my wrist bandage, then went “hell with it.”

fandom: Star Wars

characters: Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, Davits Draven; Jyn/Cassian

length: 2.8k

stuff that happens: Jyn manages that narrow escape from Scarif that we were cruelly denied and finds herself alone in the galaxy once more. Sort of.

(aka Rebelcaptain Appreciation Week, Day 1: Family)

Could a droid be one with the Force? She hoped so, not just for Cassian. The Force united everyone, didn’t it? Kay had been nothing if not someone, and now he was gone, like Papa and Saw. Like Bodhi and Baze and Chirrut, almost as certainly. The soldiers she’d hardly known, but who had believed in her, or in Cassian’s belief.

Everything had ended as it began, back on the streets of Jedha. Crowds of strangers, and the two of them, alone together. Jyn and Cassian, Cassian and Jyn.

The first time she landed on the Rebel base, Jyn didn’t recognize any of the voices shouting orders, snapping questions, offering explanations. Soldiers, droids, senators—it made no difference. Just a different sort of crowd. As ever, she was alone among strangers, with no one to depend on but herself.

She didn’t trust them. But Jyn wasn’t stupidly paranoid; whatever the Alliance might be, or do, or plan, it had to be a good sight better than an Imperial prison. And she understood revolutionaries, even ones like these, more hopeful and rigid than anyone with Saw had ever been. She could never quite wrap her mind around the Imperial true believers, everywhere in the prisons.

It wasn’t anything like home, like the family ripped away by this stupid war twice over. But it was familiar. She could work with this. And get the hell out, forever.

A month later, Jyn returned to Yavin IV in an Imperial shuttle, and she’d never been happier to see a place in her life. She didn’t even know what she said as they landed, babbling at Cassian through the dull pain in her head and muscles, the sharper pain where she’d busted up her leg. Speech for its own sake wasn’t Jyn, not usually, but—well, the same went for most of what she’d done in the last thirty hours.

She couldn’t fly. Cassian could, though, and he’d grated out can you talk? as soon as they escaped into hyperspace.

Of course I can, Jyn said, puzzled even as she stood behind him, watching his hands shake on the controls, and praying once more. But when crushed vertebrae flashed onto the scanner she’d dredged out of a medical kit, she realized: it was a request, not an enquiry after her vocal cords.

If he wanted her to talk, she’d damn well talk. So she did.

“Nearly there,” she told him now, pitching her voice above his laboured breaths. He’d be fine once they got to the base. This wasn’t like the Partisans, who always lived on the edge of desperation, with nothing but what they could build and steal. The Rebellion had resources, ships and uniforms and bacta. He’d be fine. “See? Right there. Home.”

Cassian didn’t say anything, but he managed to land the shuttle through it all. Skill or the Force or the painkillers she’d stuck into his veins, Jyn didn’t know. It didn’t matter. They were here now—not really home, but at least safe, for now. Who cared how they’d done it?

Still, as the ramp lowered and Cassian exhaled, sweat smearing the dirt and blood on his face, Jyn fumbled for her mother’s crystal.

May the Force of others be with you.

“We’re here.”

Cassian leaned his head back, eyes closed, and she felt outright grateful for the harsh gasps that meant he was alive, however painfully so.

Strange steps clattered up the ramp. Strange voices shouted for help, doctors, names, arms and bodies jostling as they clustered around Cassian, one of their own. But he didn’t talk to them, either, and it was all captain-this and sir-that, hardly even an Andor. They didn’t know him, except as pips on a jacket somewhere. Hardly more than they knew her.

For herself, she shoved off any hands that touched her, though her knees buckled, and her bad leg burned. Her throat, too. The talking, or—

Jyn twisted around. Below them, other strangers pushed two stretchers towards the shuttle, though it was more like running. Two?

“Jyn,” Cassian muttered, and she instantly turned back to him. The strangers were urging something. He needed to get up, or let them move him. No, he couldn’t. He was too tired, couldn’t they see? And they couldn’t take him from her, not now. She almost tuned out the voices, but one broke through her haze.

—in bacta for sure—

Bacta. Yes, he needed bacta. Jyn reached for Cassian’s hand, a little tentative until his fingers closed tightly around hers.

“It’s the Rebellion,” she managed to say. “They’re here to help. Listen to them.”

She didn’t know if he paid any attention to them, but he did to her. He also collapsed within a few steps, which would have horrified her if her own head weren’t spinning. Jyn fumbled for purchase, her hand landing on a narrow shoulder. She squinted, trying to focus.

“Cassian?”

“We’ve got him,” said someone in grey. Lighter than Imperial grey, but she still scowled, suspicious. “C’mon, you’d better lie down, too.”

“Why?” Dimly, she recalled that she’d lost blood, too. Maybe more than she’d noticed.

“We’re here to help and you should listen,” the stranger told her. She wasn’t listening, not really, but she decided to follow the path Cassian had taken. Fortunately, they seemed to want her to go that way, too, and they let her slump onto the second stretcher. Baze and Chirrut would think it funny, wouldn’t they? Cassian fainting, Jyn something like compliant. But they were gone. Everyone, unless they’d found some way of escaping, too.

Little sister and the face of a friend tangled in her head.

She didn’t count on that. And Kay for sure hadn’t escaped. Could a droid be one with the Force? She hoped so, not just for Cassian. The Force united everyone, didn’t it? Kay had been nothing if not someone, and now he was gone, like Papa and Saw. Like Bodhi and Baze and Chirrut, almost as certainly. The soldiers she’d hardly known, but who had believed in her, or in Cassian’s belief. 

Everything had ended as it began, back on the streets of Jedha. Crowds of strangers, and the two of them, alone together. Jyn and Cassian, Cassian and Jyn.

“You need to lie down, miss,” a different stranger said.

She was so tired. Jyn clutched her necklace, and obeyed.

An hour in the Yavin infirmary later, Jyn felt herself again. But if exhaustion and blood loss had made her hazy, it hadn’t made her wrong. She returned to the Rebellion as she’d arrived: a woman adrift in the galaxy, without home or family, who knew none of the people speaking to and around her.

In a horrific way, it seemed almost appropriate. A circle, now complete. But it wasn’t complete, she reminded herself, not quite. Just fear and grief lying the way they always lied. She remained alone because Cassian was drugged into oblivion, not because she truly had no one left. His injuries would put him in maddening pain if he regained consciousness—she couldn’t begrudge him that.

Of course, Jyn didn’t know for sure what she would find when he woke up, what shape not alone would take. She knew, though, that he’d had her back in one hell after another, as far as he was physically capable of. Beyond it, really, in the end. 

Before that, as they gravitated together in the hangar here on Yavin, Cassian had promised her—something, more in the tilt of his body and exchanged smiles than in anything they said. He’d looked at Jyn with her own awkward delight on the shuttle, and stared at her like the entire revolution lived in her skin after she kissed him in the elevator.

If she didn’t know exactly what it all meant, what she wanted it to mean, she knew what it didn’t. Instead of following her instincts and slipping away, demanding her promised freedom or some reward or other, Jyn insisted on seeing Cassian, and then all but welded herself to his bedside, fielding questions from there.

She wouldn’t have regretted it in any case; Jyn rarely wasted time with regrets, least of all when only one real choice opened ahead of her. But in the event, the next few hours only affirmed her decision. 

Doctors and nurses passed in and out, wanting to know when and how Cassian had acquired each injury; Jyn answered with as much precision and detail as she could. A few soldiers paid respects, deferential and solemn. The Rebellion, it turned out, was stretched far too thin to insist on rigid divisions of work; in a crisis, an officer was an officer, and Cassian had been tossed into full-on military operations more than once. His men liked him, or rather, respected him enough to do the work of liking. They gave her the impression of a stern but quietly personable officer, one who could carry off complex objectives with a handful of troops and a bootlace, and in most cases bring both troops and bootlace back home again. Namely, the exact impression she already had.

A couple of senior officers came by, too. Jyn only recognized one, Cassian’s general—a giant, fair-haired man who always looked at her like something he’d like to crush underfoot. She entirely returned the feeling; General Draven had to be the one who’d ordered Galen’s death, and no doubt the other terrible things that had left Cassian and his team hunting for something to make it all worthwhile. And he definitely was the one who’d all but accused her of manufacturing her father’s message in that failed Council meeting.

However, he did seem concerned about Cassian in his own way: droid-like, she would have said, if that weren’t an insult to Kay. And Draven’s rank extracted information out of the doctors she hadn’t been able to get on her own (not considered at risk of death or full paralysis, we won’t know more until he wakes up). So she grumbled out answers to General Draven’s questions, exact even as she glowered.

“You said he fell in the archive. How?”

She’d already answered this one at least four times. Since punching his smug, suspicious face wouldn’t accomplish anything, Jyn determinedly looked at Cassian. Someone had washed and combed his hair, which horrified her in a way she couldn’t define. Under the intense white light of the infirmary, it shone in shades of deep brown rather than black, his skin ashen.

“I already told you, he was covering me,” she said. “I had the plans. Cassian …”

Draven always said Captain Andor, like the doctors, like the soldiers. Jyn hadn’t heard a single other person say Cassian’s name since Kay died. She clenched her jaw and turned to face the general again, unimpressed by his looming height and open distrust.

“Cassian told me to keep climbing. Then he drew their fire. He shot down a deathtrooper, and another managed to hit him. He lost his grip and fell.” She always jumped ahead at this point in her account. Her nightmares were already plentiful and varied enough without focusing on that particular horror. But now she couldn’t help but remember the sound of it. The familiar exchange of blasterfire, something she’d thought herself inured to long ago. Cassian’s body crashing down and down, his spine smashing against a beam and then his body sprawled at unnatural angles on the platform below.

“I thought about turning back for him,” Jyn found herself saying. She hadn’t said that the other times, hadn’t meant to, perhaps ever. In the archive, she’d forced herself to keep going, her own scream echoing in her ears—Cassian! Cassian!—punctuated by the crack of his bones. But it wasn’t her first impulse. She had to repress that, the longing to throw everything aside and clamber back down, if only for what few moments seemed likely to remain to him, if any at all. 

Instead, she climbed.

“Really?” said Draven skeptically.

She glared. “Yes. But I knew—I thought it was pointless. He looked dead, and I had to get to the tower.”

For her father, her team, for the trillions who could die if she faltered. Cassian, of all people, would understand that. Remembering how he’d looked when he shot Krennic, when he gazed at her in the elevator, Jyn amended the thought. He had understood that.

Well, it was Cassian. Even dead, he’d probably haunt Jyn into eternity if she risked the galaxy for him.

“Miss Erso,” Draven said, “you have insisted that these plans contain a secret to stop the genocide of planets, an act of sabotage that your own father—”

“—who you killed—”

Draven ignored this. “An act of sabotage that your own father dedicated the last decade and some of his life to. You supposedly believed in that supposed message so strongly that you led dozens of good men into a deathtrap, and then you considered risking that for a stranger? You expect me to believe this?”

“A stranger,” repeated Jyn. She almost laughed. “Cassian?”

He wasn’t the first to suggest it, of course. They all did, really: the droids who tried to get her to leave, the doctors who refused to tell her anything, the soldiers bewildered at the presence of an unknown woman at the captain’s side, even when she identified herself. Jyn knew those people believed that she hadn’t known Cassian long enough to know him at all. Certainly not long enough to have grieved anything but possibility—the idea of Cassian, not the man he was. To them, it must really seemed impossible that she’d even think of risking her father’s desperate gamble for moments with Cassian’s broken body.

Those people could go fuck themselves, Jyn thought. Draven in particular.

“Captain Andor is—”

A comlink around his neck buzzed.

“Draven here. Can this wait?”

Jyn supposed that was flattering, in its own way. But then his face, even more rigidly controlled than Cassian’s at first, went slack. His eyes widened, mouth dropping open.

“Leia? Now? Yes, yes.” He clicked off the com and favoured Jyn with his most ambivalent look yet. “We’ll finish this later.”

She shrugged.

An hour later, Cassian woke up. A droid had grumbled about tapering off the anaesthetics, so she half-expected it, but Jyn’s breath still strangled in her throat as he stirred. Draven and whatever enquiry might be forthcoming fled her mind. She didn’t say anything, didn’t move, just stared at him with hope thudding an anxious beat in her chest.

Cassian’s eyes flew open. “Jyn.”

She swallowed.

“Is she—Jyn—” He blinked around, licking his dry mouth as he tried to make sense of his surroundings.

He’d figure it out in another instant, but Jyn still rushed over, her mouth trembling and hands steady. Gracelessly, she reached for him.

“I’m right here, Cassian.”

He turned his head to see her, his unfocused gaze sharpening, familiar lines of strain creasing his skin. But a smile did, too, around both mouth and eyes.

“Jyn,” Cassian managed, fingers fumbling about hers. “You’re all right?”

Jyn did laugh now, for real. “I had a sprained ankle. You broke pieces of your spine. Yes, I’m fine.”

His grip relaxed, just a bit. But his dark eyes remained fixed on hers, almost unbearably intense. “You’re … you stayed.”

If the last few days had taught her anything, it was that Cassian had about as many people to call his own as she did. Superiors, subordinates, fellow Rebels, sure. But that was the revolution, the respect for a valuable agent or leader in the Rebellion, not—belonging. She’d discovered the difference between family and usefulness in a bunker six years ago.

“Of course I did,” she told him, every instinct screaming to back away. Jyn leaned closer, letting her own mouth curve. “Welcome home.”

Cassian’s smile deepened, pressing into his cheeks. Because of course he turned out to have dimples, at least when he looked at her like that.

“Oh, thank the Maker,” called a shrill, metallic voice from the doorway. “You’re awake, captain!”

They both turned to scowl at the medical droid wheeling towards them.

“The protocols, as I’m sure you know, require us to perform all treatment required for basic functioning, which have included—”

“Get to that later,” said Jyn. “What do you want?”

The flat blue face managed to regard her with profound disdain.

“The lesser procedures require permission from the patient or interested parties. Now we can move ahead properly.” Its voice went bright and high again.

“Right,” Cassian said. He braced himself and tried to sit up, ignoring the 2-1B’s sputtering. Jyn just moved to raise the back of the bed until he could lean back comfortably, and shot a triumphant glance at the droid.

“Interested parties have been here the whole time,” she said, sitting back down.

“Captain Andor has no listed family,” replied 2-1B.

Jyn snapped, “He has me.”

The man in question looked down at her hand, resting on the edge of his bed. Jyn, torn between defiance and embarrassment, was about to pull it back, but instead Cassian laced their fingers together again.

“Well, unless he wants you added to his personnel file—”

“I do,” he said instantly, then glanced over at her, wide-eyed. His entire expression went awkward and uncertain, even as their hands clung together.

Jyn, no less overwhelmed, felt at least some reassurance that she wasn’t alone in it. In one side or the other, or—anything. She managed an unsteady smile.

2-1B’s whirr emanated the long-suffering that only a droid could manage. “Very well. J-Y-N E-R-S-O, next of kin. Is that right?”

Nervous, relieved, exhilarated, she couldn’t quite look at Cassian. But she curled her fingers more tightly against his.

“Yes,” Jyn said. “That’s good.”

#rebelcaptainweek #jyn erso #cassian andor #otp: welcome home #anghraine's fic #star wars #i am like. ninety percent sure there will be more in this universe #anyway: me writing fluff! iiiiish #general draven #script au