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stubbychaos · 4 years

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A Guilty Conscience

Chapter 10 of Saviin’ika

Masterlist

Pairing: Paz Vizsla x Nurse!Reader

Summary: While you get used to your new role in the tribe, you make it your mission to meet the ones who are to be your family. While befriending some unlikely members of the tribe, Paz later surprises you with something that he thinks will make you happy, though it ends up having the opposite effect.

Rating: T

Word Count: 14,000 *Y’all idk how this happened, I’m so sorry lol*

Warnings: Some unresolved sexual tension, minor injuries and reader still dealing with a bunch of past trauma. Other than that, this chapter is pretty harmless!

Just a quick mention: Thank you as always to @datmando for inspiring me and giving me so many amazing ideas for this story!! You’ve helped me so much with this story and getting through writer’s block and I freaking love you <3 Thank you as well to @aerynwrites @hdlynnslibrary and @maybege for all being wonderful and I love you all for motivating me to write more Paz!!

Also thank you to @coredrive for the beautiful gifs you made!! If anyone wants quality gifs for their stories, masterlists, etc... please go to Kat because she was so freaking lovely and sweet!!

“Would you like one of my shirts, ner cyare?”

You turn around, coming face to face with an unarmored Paz who is sitting on the foot of the bed, his forearms lazily resting on top of his thighs as he observes the way you hopelessly shift the torn, silky fabric in your hands. You turn to face the culprit who is currently curled up in a white rocky ball close to the furnace in the main area of Paz’s private quarters, seeming completely unbothered and not regretful that she had used your only sleep attire as a chewing toy while you were in the shower and Paz was talking to the armorer.

“That would be nice, thank you,” You murmur softly, watching with a smile as he promptly stands and makes his way over to the dresser near his bed while you discard the torn, silky fabric.

Though a few days have passed since the fight without incident--much to your appreciation--you notice Paz acting differently around you and while it’s not in a bad way by any means, it still has your curiosity growing. You notice how he almost seems worried about letting you stray too far from him, though you’re certain it’s not because he’s concerned one of his own will hurt you again, but perhaps he has the same fears you hold in your very own heart. While you’ve only been with the tribe for three days, you find yourself getting less sleep with every passing day, afraid that when you wake up, you’ll be right back at the village infirmary with your estranged father.

Perhaps he’s anxious that if he lets you out of his sight, you’ll randomly decide to leave without a word or trace.

The thought amuses you and also fills your heart with grief, wondering how the Mandalorian could possibly conjure the thought of you even thinking about leaving the place that had quickly become your safe haven.

“I’m going to shower, if you want to change,” Paz gruffly voices as he approaches you with a thick, black garment and you perk up a little upon feeling how warm it is--how warm it will keep you.

Once the Mandalorian is in the refresher, you’re quick to strip your clothes, smiling softly as you neatly fold the emerald, long-sleeved dress that Ima had found for you in a designated stack of clothes that wasn’t being worn by anyone in the tribe. Once you are only in your shorts, you grab Paz’s black shirt that he must wear over all his padding and sheepishly tug it over your head, instantly relishing in how it smells just like him--all woodsy and spicy and just like the soap he uses. The material is incredibly thick, though it’s not stiff and doesn’t make it feel like you’re suffocating; it feels soft and comforting against your bare skin, engulfing you so warmly just like one of his embraces, though you still long for the intense pressure of his arms around you. The sleeves that usually come to an end just above his elbows now fall just a few inches above your wrists and the hem skims the middle of your thighs.

As you sit on the edge of the bed and get to work on tending to your braids and all the tangles from the hair you had chosen to leave down, you think of how surreal everything still feels and how all the horrors you had ever dreamed about running away from are currently above you in the village. You try your hardest not to think about it, and instead, your mind wanders to the tribe and its intimidating, rambunctious warriors that you’ve been interacting with in the covert for the past few days.

It’s been… an interesting experience, to say the least.

For people who you used to be terrified of until recently, you think it’s somewhat surprising as well as amusing that Paz had been correct when he mentioned them being quite mischievous when it came to you, though you’re certain most of it comes from you being an outsider and not understanding their language. It had already happened a couple times where you would be exploring the enclave, trying to memorize the tunnels and where different ones led, and you would run into a small group of Mandos speaking in their native tongue as you shyly approached them to introduce yourself.

Most of the time they would simply peer down at you while informing you that they already knew who you were--that they had seen you standing your ground against Paz, which apparently nobody in the tribe had ever really done before. It was quite interesting seeing everyone’s perspective towards their heavy-infantry warrior, how they knew him to be one of the strongest in the tribe and how they respected him for it. However, it was also slightly amusing that they seemed to have no problem making jokes at his expense--talking about how they were glad you were at the covert so he would stop being grouchy and angry all the time.

Ima, you found, was the exact same way, although she had no qualms about berating the man she called her uncle to his face.

Seeing the way the teenager and your blue warrior interacted with one another felt like some sort of special phenomenon that you had never really witnessed before--a relationship stronger than that between a sister and a brother, but not quite as profound as one between a daughter and father. You thought uncle and niece was a good way to describe it and though you’re curious as to why Ima doesn’t call anyone else in the tribe ‘brother’ or ‘sister’, you decide it’s better not to ask for the sake of accidentally bringing up a sad memory.

You’re too deep into your thoughts that you don’t notice a hulking figure emerge from the refresher minutes later, a few water droplets dripping down his shoulders and back as he mindlessly observes you combing through your hair with your fingers.

A small cough startles you and you turn your head to gaze at Paz, his helmet slightly tilted to the side as he stares at you through the guise of that unforgiving visor. Your fingers are still threaded in your damp hair, your bare legs dangling off the side of his bed with your sock-clad toes barely skimming the stone floor as you blink owlishly at him, still not used to seeing him expose so much of his skin.

He’s not saying anything and it has you slightly worried--have you done something wrong?

“Paz, are you okay?”

His bare, broad shoulders tense upwards when you shift on the bed, finally working through a stubborn tangle as you tilt your head at him; you find yourself doing that a lot more lately and you think being surrounded by so many Mandalorians has their little mannerisms rubbing off on you.

You move to get up when he doesn't say anything, now worried that you really have done something wrong, but Paz shakes his head and squashes your worries immediately.

"No--I mean, yes," He huffs and shakes his helmet a little harder when you stand up next to the bed to pull the thick fur away from the pillows it's tucked under while he moves to turn off the lights, "I'm fine, just a little tired, cyare."

You nod your understanding, feeling your own exhaustion creeping up on you, though today had been a relatively easy day in regards to treating scrapes and bruises. You’ve come to find that some of the younger, less trained Mandalorians aren’t exactly the most graceful on their feet, some tripping over their own capes while descending staircases, while others who are less skilled with blades or blasters manage to slip up and injure themselves. It’s definitely not the kind of injuries you’re used to tending--minor ones--but you find it much more pleasant and rewarding than your job in the village, especially when everyone here has treated you politely, for the most part.

You know that even while you had been accepted into the tribe, it doesn’t quite make you part of the family to some, especially to those who still felt as though you should swear the creed to be fully accepted. It was a big detail you had worried about quite a bit, whether or not you would have to swear the creed and wear a helmet just as the rest of them, but you think that perhaps it is a topic you should speak to the armorer about.

You slide underneath the heavy fur and exhale a content sigh, reminding yourself that such worries could wait until morning.

A yawn leaves you just as you hear the quiet hiss of Paz’s helmet being removed before he places it on his nightstand and a tired smile stretches your lips when you feel the mattress dip underneath the weight of the warrior’s body.

Before you can even turn to face him, his huge arm is wrapped around your waist and he’s carefully moving you closer to him; an intense warmth spreads throughout your cheeks when he holds you close, your back pressed firmly against his chest as he wastes no time in placing a kiss to the top of your damp hair. You can feel the heat from his bare chest already spreading throughout your entire body and you curl your legs back to press your feet against his bare ankles.

He lets out a small huff as he curls his fingers into the soft material of his shirt covering your abdomen and leans down to press a tender kiss to your cheek, “You are lucky I love you, or else I would not let you wear socks in our bed.”

The ‘our bed’ comment definitely doesn’t go over your head and you hold back a giggle when he sighs against your warm skin, his thumb stroking firm circles near your belly button, “I cannot help it that my feet are always cold.”

His chest rumbles with a soft laugh as he settles behind you, his hand moving a little lower to your hip, just underneath where your cauterized wound is still healing, and he gives you a gentle squeeze, “I told you that you’d do nothing to warm our bed up, mesh’la, I knew I was right. You’re always freezing.”

“If I recall correctly, you told me that you would not mind keeping me warm,” You remind him of what he had said the night he had told you his name, your cheeks growing hot when you feel his lips against the outer shell of your ear, “And you are doing no such thing, ori kebiin.”

“You are a funny woman,” Paz is still trying not to laugh as his hand comes up to cup your jaw, long fingers splayed widely against your burning cheeks, “You feel plenty warm to me, sweetheart.”

Realizing that there’s no way of beating the Mandalorian at his own game, you give up and simply shuffle your curled toes between his calves, making him grunt a little when he feels the blocks of ice that are your sock-clad feet through the material of his sleep pants. He cups your jaw and urges your head to the side a little, using his thumb that’s pressed to the corner of your lips to seek them out with his own.

This close intimacy is certainly another thing you’ve noticed since you forgave him after the fight--him wanting to kiss and touch you whenever it’s just the two of you. It’s definitely something you don’t mind, you realize as his tongue firmly swipes across your bottom lip, and you find yourself growing more comfortable and relaxed when it comes to accepting little touches from him. You can tell that it’s something he’s nervous about when you two are just laying in his bed, wide awake when sleep refuses to wrap itself around the two of you--that he’s worried something he does will set you off.

He always tries to keep his touches to your thighs and hips feather-light after politely asking if it’s okay for him to touch you there and a part of you wonders if he’s already concluded that you’re simply not used to people asking you for consent when it comes to certain things.

Even if it’s not the reason why, you’re still grateful he always asks and his consideration fills your heart with warmth whenever he seems so hellbent on making sure you’re comfortable when you two find yourself in these sort of intimate settings. It doesn’t necessarily feel like it’s him testing your boundaries, but more so him seeing what you like and what gets certain noises out of you, though you find your skin quite sensitive to every nip and lick he inflicts on you.

A part of you is grateful that he usually lies on his back when the two of you are holding one another, as the thought of being pinned underneath anyone again, even your blue warrior, lingers like a storm cloud in the back of your mind.

Currently, however, you focus on the way his fingers tentatively curl around your thigh, just below the hem of the shirt he had given you and your lashes flutter as he guides your head back a little so he has more access to your throat. He seems a little more eager tonight, you think, and as his fingers curl into the thick fabric at your thighs while he dutifully presses tender kisses to your sensitive skin, you start to slowly put the pieces together.

“Paz?” His name comes out in the form of a breathy whisper as he settles back to press a kiss into your damp hair.

He still seems slightly dazed as he brings his arm back to curl tightly around your waist, “Hm?”

“Earlier, when you were staring at me when you came out of the shower,” You grin a little when you feel the way his arms tense around your middle, “Was it… is it because I’m wearing your shirt?”

Paz huffs an amused noise and you’re certain you’ve left him flustered for once as he slowly shifts his body until he’s able to rest his chin against the slope of your neck, “I like the way you look in anything, cyare, but something about seeing you wearing my clothes--it does things to me. I can’t say that I am upset that your vulptex tore up your nightgown, not with how beautiful you look right now.”

“You can’t even see me right now, silly man.”

“I don’t need to,” He mumbles, his beard scratching your sensitive skin as he lazily tends to all the little marks he left behind with his lips and teeth the previous night, “I remember everything about you, ner cyare, like how your eyes always get big whenever you see me taking off my armor and my clothes. Perhaps my sweet little nurse isn’t as innocent as I thought.”

You nearly let out with a whimper when you feel his tongue on your skin, your cheeks burning furiously as his hand cautiously grazes up your thigh, “Is this okay?”

His tepid breath fanning along the column of your throat makes you shiver a little and your voice cracks a little when you speak, “Y-Yeah.”

“Yeah?” He repeats with a soft sigh, his hand moving past the little shorts you typically wear to bed and up to your bare hip, just underneath where your blaster wound is still tender, though not nearly causing you as much pain, “Stars, your skin is so damn soft and your hair smells good--just like those flowers you’re always wearing.”

You let your eyes close as he continues to explore your stomach with feather-like strokes, seeming content to simply warm you with his large hand and you feel your thighs clench together firmly when he rubs a sensitive spot just underneath your belly button. His hands are leaving a scorching blaze in their wake and you feel a deep shudder wrack your body upon feeling the wet, open-mouthed kisses he’s leaving just underneath your earlobe.

Despite the ache between your thighs, you jump when his fingertips barely graze just above the hem of your shorts and he immediately freezes upon feeling the tension in your body.

“I’m sorry,” Your ears grow hot with shame and you think he must be frustrated with you for not feeling ready to be intimate on this kind of level yet, “I just--”

“Hey, don’t you dare ever apologize for knowing when you’re not ready,” He whispers, moving his lips away from your jaw and removing his hand from underneath the shirt he let you borrow, “I shouldn’t have done that--I should have asked first.”

“It’s okay,” You weakly reassure him, smiling softly when he politely fixes your shirt, dragging the hem back down your thighs, “I... I want to be with you like that and I thought I was ready but I... I don’t know.”

“You do not owe me an explanation. I would never pressure you into doing anything you don’t want to do,” Paz promises in a rushed tone as he moves to unlatch his arm from around you, though you are quick to stop him, “I am sorry if I was too forward, cyare. I want you to only ever feel comfortable around me and if I ever do or say anything that you don’t like, please tell me, okay? I’ll never be mad at you.”

“I love you, Paz.”

He relaxes against you and presses another tender kiss into the hair above the tip of your ear, “Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum, ner cyare.”

You smile into the darkness at the warmth his words bring you, though you can’t help but to feel doubt towards yourself and you turn your head a little over your shoulder until his warm breath fans across the plane of your cheek. Even though you can’t see him in the slightest, you like to imagine his eyes scanning your face thoughtfully--curiously--and you hear him let out an inquisitive hum when you murmur his name.

“I haven’t been able to sleep the last couple of days,” You admit softly, placing your hand on top of the much larger one that’s resting just under your sternum, “I’m scared that every night here is going to be my last one--that someone isn’t going to want me here because I haven’t sworn to the creed and that I don’t wear a helmet or armor.”

Paz exhales softly and you close your eyes when his minty breath tickles your nostrils, “Our alor already knows that you were to be brought to the tribe to be our nurse, not a fighter. I made it clear to everyone that you would not have to wear our armor and if anyone has a problem with it, they can take it up with me or the armorer. You’re not going anywhere… not if you don’t want to.”

You detect the way his voice lowers into a much more sheepish, subdued tone upon whispering the last part and your suspicions from earlier are proved correct.

He’s afraid that you’re going to change your mind about staying with the tribe.

In an attempt to squash his own fears and insecurities, you wrap your fingers around his wrist and urge his arm up past your chest until you are able to lean your head down a little and kiss his calloused knuckles tenderly. He lets out a content sigh as you let him splay his fingers out widely against the swell of your breast, your heart pounding frantically against his palm while his thumb studies your firm pulse at the base of your neck.

“I just want to be wherever you are, Paz,” You murmur, your lips stretching into a smile when he tenderly kisses your cheek again.

“I feel the same way about you,” He sighs, finally relaxing completely as you keep his hand cradled to your chest, “Anything else you’re losing sleep over, cyare?”

For a moment it sounds like he’s teasing you, but something about the rawness and sincerity of his voice makes you think differently and you swallow the lump in your throat as you think of the little boy from the nursery--the one that had clung onto your leg and hugged you. Though a part of you wants to ask Paz more about how he was found and what happened to his parents, you think it best not to ask and shake your head a little bit.

It is none of your business.

“Try to get some rest,” Paz murmurs against your cheek, his beard scratching your sensitive skin, “I’ll make sure to wake you up if you have any nightmares.”

You murmur a tired ‘thank you’ and let your eyes slip shut, feeling reassured by his words and the feathery press of his lips against the tail of your brow, along with the way his thumb continues to rest atop your pulse point at the bottom of your neck.

For once, you sleep restfully--not necessarily dreaming of much, but not really having any nightmares either. You’re stuck in a strange limbo for the rest of the night and at one point, you feel Paz stroking your brow in an effort to calm you down upon feeling your body jolt when you wake from a strange dream that has you crying out.

As you fall back asleep underneath the comforting guidance of his hands and sweet whispers against the shell of your ear, you briefly wonder if the heavy-infantry warrior ever sleeps.

The next morning when you wake up and tiredly crack your eyes open, Paz is already fumbling around the little kitchenette, his helmet and underclothes now on and you prop yourself up on an elbow as you watch him set a wooden bowl down in front of your excited vulptex. The dish is filled with colorful fruit and chunks of meat and you think it must be the best meal she’s had since she was born, what with her dramatic reaction. She lets out long, happy little squeaks between bites and you think you hear something reminiscent of a laugh or a chuckle from Paz’s vocoder when he reaches out to graze a bare hand along her rocky spine.

“And here I thought you hated her,” You murmur with a yawn, stretching your arms above your head before gracelessly rolling out of bed, the room dimly lit as you make your way over to your beloved companions, “You and everyone else are always calling her a runt.”

Paz snorts and shakes his head a little, tilting his head a little as he hands you a bowl of fruit that has some yogurt underneath, “She is a runt, saviin--doesn’t mean I hate her for it. Besides, she tried to bite Djarin in the leg yesterday, so I guess she’s starting to grow on me.”

You huff a little at that as you savor the fresh berries, your taste buds still not used to such sweet food, and you shake your head at your Mandalorian, “You better not be training my sweet vulptex to attack others, Paz.”

“I would do no such thing,” Paz still sounds a little smug as he begins to put on all of his thick padding and heavy armor, “I’d only train her how to attack the bounty hunter.”

You roll your eyes and watch as he puts his armor on piece by piece, the same way he’s done it every morning for the last couple of days he’s been here. It must be a routine for him, you think as you watch him clip his pauldrons in place and work his way down his body; you find the whole process to be mesmerizing and you wonder if he’s been doing this every single day for nearly his entire life.

“I can feel you staring at me, cyare.”

You feel your cheeks warm up when you promptly turn your attention to the breakfast that Paz had kindly made for you, though you had insisted the previous mornings that you didn’t expect him to do this for you. Your heart warms when you remember how he had admitted that it made him happy to see you enjoy little basic necessities that you had been robbed of nearly your entire life and you stopped arguing after that.

Though it was only yogurt and fruit, you still felt like the most spoiled woman in the galaxy.

After completing your usual morning routine, along with braiding the top half of your hair around the crown of your head, you pick out your clothes for the day and scoop your needy little vulptex into the crook of your elbow, her favorite resting place, it seems.

“What am I going to do when she gets too big and I can’t carry her like this?”

Paz snorts as you wait for him to snap his gauntlets into place around his black, leather gloves, “If you didn’t spoil her so much and carry her around all the time, this wouldn’t be a problem, cyare.”

You pout a little at that, struggling not to smile when he gives your earlobe a playful tug once he’s finished with his big gauntlets, “Her leg is still sore--would you really be so heartless to make her walk around the covert?”

“She seemed to have no problem limping around until you showed up and started carrying her all over the place.”

Not having a solid rebuttal to the playful words, you simply shake your head and watch as he checks all the big pouches attached to his utility belt. Your eyes immediately land on the vibroblade sheathed at his hip and you let out a shaky sigh when you remember the Trandoshan, though Paz seems to notice the change in your attitude and shields that side of his body from you.

“C’mon cyare, we have a long day.”

Following close behind Paz, the two of you make your way out of his private quarters and down the tunnels where others are starting to trickle out of their rooms as well. You’ve come to find that with the exception of a few Mandos, the tribe tends to stick to a pretty strict routine of going to bed at a certain time and waking up earlier, though you find this to work out quite nicely for you. Whereas once you were getting two or three hours of sleep a night, along with maybe a thirty minute nap on your break, you now have the entire night to rest, even if you don’t always get the best sleep.

Perhaps he’s worried that you’ll get lost, even though you memorized the directions to your little office on the second day of being at the covert, but you allow Paz to guide you there anyways, grateful for his company when you know you won’t see him until tonight. Though you feel slightly sad upon making it to your destination, you’re somewhat anxious and eager to see what today brings you and who you might meet.

With a gentle kiss of his Beskar forehead against yours, you and the heavy-infantry warrior part ways for the day and you contentedly enter the little office that you had managed to clean up pretty well since your arrival. As you enter the little alcove, something feels off and you quickly detect the sounds of soft hums and discontented grunts.

You freeze upon finding out that you are not the only one occupying the room and your brows shoot up at the strange spectacle taking place in front of you.

In front of your desk, where you had placed a small pot of violets that you’d taken from the room Paz and Ima had decorated for you, is an unarmored Mandalorian who’s currently inspecting something you wrote down on a little notepad the previous day. Though the Mando is wearing a light grey helmet with chipped away emeral trimmings around the visor and cheeks, you think they must be one of the elders in the tribe, what with their hunched over form, wavering hands, and the long staff they wield.

You don’t miss the sharp, pointed tip of the walking stick that is made from what you’re certain is Beskar and you make sure to approach slowly, not wanting to frighten the Mandalorian, though the thought of you startling a warrior is slightly amusing to you.

They’re humming something that you can barely make out through their modulator and your lips instantly stretch into a faint grin when you realize they’re reading the little list you had started of all the Mandalorians you had met in the tribe so far, along with the colors of their armor and their names to help you memorize the people who are supposed to be your new family. You watch with curiosity as the unarmored Mandalorian grabs one of your pens from the little cup next to your notepad, leaning down to try to scribble something down, though they seem to grow frustrated with how shaky their hands are.

You decide to step in when you hear a disgruntled voice uttering curse words under their breath that you’ve never even heard Paz say before and your cheeks grow warm.

“Hello, may I help you?”

Immediately, the Mandalorian whips around with a small gasp, making you jump as well and you hastily take a few steps backwards when they turn around to face you, their hand pressed tight to where their heart must be frantically pounding, just like yours currently is. Your eyes are wide, hands nervously clutched together as the Mandalorian tilts their faded, scuffed up helmet to the side while observing you closely. Though you think they must be elderly, they stand about only one or two inches taller than you and you’re finally grateful to meet someone who isn’t terrifyingly large or as tiny as one of the younglings.

“You cannot sneak up on me like that!” He lightly admonishes in a deep, gruff voice, still holding his bare, wrinkled hand over his heart, “I am not nearly as alert as I used to be, but it doesn’t mean I can’t deal out some damage still.”

He lifts the staff to show you the pointed, steel bottom of it and you immediately nod your understanding, bowing your head a little, “Of course, I am so sorry! I wasn’t sure if you were hurt or not and I just thought…”

You bite your bottom lip nervously--what were you even thinking?

“Ah, I see,” He seems to relax then, pulling out the chair in front of your desk and sinking down into it with a pained grunt while you continue to wring your fingers together in an anxious manner, “So you must be my replacement--the nurse Paz insisted on bringing to the tribe.”

Maker, did your Mandalorian actually tell the entire damn tribe about you?

Your leg bounces as soon as you take a seat at the end of the medical cot and you brush a few unruly hairs from your forehead before speaking to the elderly man, “I wouldn’t necessarily call myself a replacement, sir. I’m sure I could never be as good of a medic as you are for your people. I’m just here to help out as much as I can.”

He chuckles and shakes his helmet at your humbled statement, propping his steel cane against his thigh and you feel a twinge of sadness deep within your soul as he stares down at his trembling hands. You notice his right hand is trembling more than the left and you think that must be his dominant hand--the one he would typically use for certain medical procedures--and you remember what Paz had mentioned about the tribe’s medic growing too ill and shaky to actually help others.

‘No wonder why the office was so dusty and everything was unused,’ you think to yourself sorrowfully, your eyes taking in all the big dents and scuff marks on his gray and crimson helmet.

“Hey, don’t give me those sad eyes, little one,” He admonishes you again and though you don’t remember having any kind of grandparent in your life, you think being scolded by this man must be what it feels like to have one, “I was told by Paz that you are a tough one--a warrior, just like us.”

You offer him a wry smile, “I suppose he didn’t tell you that I tend to cry quite a bit as well?”

“Oh, he definitely mentioned that,” The Mandalorian chortles and you can’t help but to grin at that, immediately feeling better at how playful he sounds, “I was hoping he was messing around with me--our people aren’t exactly the best with tears and emotions, but I suppose it is not a bad thing. During times like these, the tribe could use a little more happiness and vulnerability.”

You contemplate his words deeply, thinking of the few times Paz had informed you that because of the Empire, his people were nearly extinct and you wonder how this stranger could so easily accept you into the tribe without really knowing you. Seeing how worn out and damaged his dented helmet is, you can’t help but to wonder what he’s been through and though he seems to be more of an eccentric member of the tribe, you’re certain he’s been through hell and back.

“If you do not mind me asking--” You offer him a fond gaze, your smile growing when he tilts his helmet dramatically to the side, his Beskar cheek nearly touching his shoulder, “May I have your name? I am trying to learn who everyone is, but the visors are all the same and sometimes the color of armor is similar and--”

“I get it,” The older man sounds like he’s amused and you briefly wonder if he was once an outsider like you, though you find it rude to ask, “I was about to write it in your little notebook, but I fear my hands are too unsteady for you to understand my writing, little one.”

You perk up and quickly stand up, making your way over to where he’s sitting before you crouch down in front of your desk and grab one of the several pens in the little cup near your notebook. The Mandalorian makes a funny noise as you give him an inquisitive glance, wordlessly asking for his name with a quirk of your brow and though he wears a typical Mandalorian helmet, you think he must be grinning underneath his Beskar guise.

“Ezir Ralas.”

You somehow manage to write down his name as fast as he spells it out for you and you grin at how demanding he sounds upon spelling every single letter out and how he describes the exact colors of his faded helmet. There’s something about his lighthearted tone that makes you think he’s not as intimidating as every other warrior you’ve encountered since being brought to the covert.

“Well, it is lovely to meet you, sir,” You beam at him as you make your way back to the medical cot to sit on while you wait for your first patient of the day, “Have you been the tribe’s nurse for very long?”

He chuckles again, long fingers curling against his knees, “Oh yes, I’ve been with the tribe since we were forced into hiding years ago. Before all of this, however, I was a field medic for my people on Mandalore, back during our civil war.”

“Oh, I um, I had no idea there was a civil war,” You frown at this new information, briefly wondering if Paz knows about this, though you think he must, “That must have been so scary to be out there on a battlefield, trying to save your own people.”

He lets out a small grunt as he leans forward to rest his forearms atop his thighs, “Even though I am a medic, I was also born and raised a fighter, little one. Though the things I have seen haunt me at night when I cannot sleep, I would not so willingly admit that I was ever afraid.”

You slowly nod and gaze down at the steel pendant that hangs between his collarbones and you recognize it as the one you often see around the covert, or in the morning when Paz tucks his own into the collar of his tunic. Seeming to recognize your curiosity towards the skull sigil, he unties the knot at his nape and holds out the necklace for you to inspect up close.

With great eagerness, you reach forward to accept the kind gesture, “Is it rude of me to ask what this is?”

“It is not rude,” Ezir sounds amused by your curiosity and your cheeks grow warm as you trace over the sharp horns protruding from the cheeks of the skull with your thumbs, “It is the skull of a beast that was once native to Mandalore--the mythosaur. They were these enormous monsters with teeth and horns sharper than a sword made of Beskar and when they tried to attack my ancestors, we either slayed them or conquered them and rode them as transportation.”

“How big were they?”

“Massive,” He flippantly waves a hand in the air, appearing far too nonchalant while speaking of terrifying beasts, “Well, I would imagine they’re the size of the village currently above us, little one.”

Your eyes grow wide and a chuckle escapes past his modulator at how incredulous you sound, “And you’re ancestors fought them?”

“Without hesitation,” He informs you and though the image of a monster so fearsome and enormous terrifies you, it also fills you with feelings of reverence and awe, “After the beasts went extinct, the mythosaur skull became a symbol of our people and all that we had overcome; it is a symbol of our history and culture.”

You hum quietly, barely noticing the way his tilted visor is trained on the way you tenderly trace all the curves and divots of the pendant with admiration, a smile tugging at your lips as you think of the symbolism behind the sigil. Suddenly, you understand why people have always murmured terrifying rumors of the Beskar-clad enigmas and you think it must be true that they’re the strongest warriors in the galaxy. You wonder what it must feel like to exude such power to the point where people fear you without even knowing who you are and though you still regret feeling so much terror upon initially meeting Paz, you’re suddenly grateful that you’d eventually let him into your heart.

“Perhaps one day, you will have one of your own,” Ezir concedes and your head snaps up to peer at him with shock; you hand the pendant back out for him to take, feeling undeserving to be holding something so precious to his people, “Oh, don’t give me that look. You may not wear our helmet or armor, but once I teach you some Mando’a and get a weapon in your hand, you’ll be a fearsome warrior.”

You think of what Paz had mentioned about the others in the tribe teaching you Mando’a, and while you’ve only known him for a few minutes, he seems to be a respectful man, albeit a little quirky.

“What does riduur mean?” You blurt out, your skin instantly growing warm when you see Ezir’s shoulders shaking as he laughs at the innocent question; suddenly, you fear that everyone has been saying something demeaning about you, “I just... everyone in the tribe keeps calling me ‘Paz’s riduur’ and I--it’s not an insult, right? They’re always laughing when they say it.”

He shakes his head as his laughter eventually ceases, “No, little one, it is quite the opposite of an insult, but rather a term of endearment. I do not think it is my place to tell you what it means and I am not sure if Paz has the guts to actually tell you, but I can say that I am certain you will find out for yourself one day when he calls you that himself.”

Your leg bounces anxiously as you watch him situate his mythosaur pendant between his collarbones and as you think of all the meanings that the word possibly possesses, one stands out to you the most.

“Is it something I would be allowed to say to him as well in the future?”

“Yes,” He reaches down to pet your vulptex that’s awkwardly making her way towards his boots, sounding utterly entertained by your inquiry, “Though I cannot promise you that his brain wouldn’t combust if he heard you call him that.”

“Then perhaps I would call him that as payback for all the times he’s teased me about certain things.”

Ezir guffaws at that, remaining diligent in petting the lazy vulptex that’s headbutting his calf in a needy manner, “I like you, little one. I almost didn’t believe Ima when she told me you had stopped the fight between Din and Paz, let alone when she informed me that you had stood up for yourself and the bounty hunter.”

You watch as the older man awkwardly scoops the little vulptex into his arms and you’re grateful that not many seem to mind her presence in the covert, as you’re not sure what you would have done had you been forced to get rid of her.

“I have been belittled by men all my life,” You shyly admit, staring at the little creature that’s reaching up in an attempt to bite his pendant, though Ezir doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest as you continue, “And for the longest time, I just learned to keep my mouth shut and deal with it because that’s just the way I was raised, I suppose. These last couple of days have taught me that it does not make me a bad person for only wanting to be treated with respect and my only regret is that I did not realize this sooner in life. Perhaps I’d be a stronger woman if I had realized my worth at a younger age.”

No longer is Ezir petting the vulptex, but instead, he now has his visor trained on you and in return, you offer him a small smile. He remains deathly silent for at least a minute before giving you a curt nod, as though he approves of either you or just your declaration in general.

“In our language, we have a word that I think perfectly describes you, little one,” His gruff, filtered voice drops to something softer as he watches you perk up with curiosity, “Ramikadyc--it means that you have the tenacity and determination of a Mandalorian, that you have our mindset.”

Your heart instantly swells with gratitude and you shyly cross your ankles together as you wring your fingers together on top of your lap, “I would hardly compare myself to your people. I do not think I would have the tenacity or determination to fight against one of those mythosaurs that your ancestors slayed.”

“Something tells me you and I are not too different,” Ezir informs you with what you think is mirth laced within his deep voice, “I do not think you would hesitate to put yourself in harm’s way if it meant protecting someone you care for or someone you do not wish to see to get hurt.”

You smile softly and give him a slight nod as you think of the bounty hunter that you had stood up for, despite him not deserving it, or even your little vulptex that you had taken a blaster shot for. If Ezir truly thinks that you have the heart of a warrior, then he must be saying it for a good reason and his words, along with Ima’s and Paz’s confidence in you, fills you with a little more hope in regards to your future with the tribe.

“Will you tell me more about you?”

“I am afraid my stories might bore you to the point of insanity,” Ezir chuckles, shifting in his seat a little so he can hold your vulptex in a more comfortable position, “But since you seem so curious, what is it you wish to know, little one?”

“Can you tell me more about Mandalore and the civil--?”

Before you can finish, a deep baritone from the entrance of your office interrupts your inquiry and both you and Ezir immediately turn around to find your blue Mandalorian standing tall behind another unarmored Mando, though this one is still taller than you and Ezir. The smaller Mando is holding their wrist protectively against their chest and it takes a few seconds for you to recognize the warrior as one of the younger ones that seems to have a knack for constantly getting hurt during training.

“Saviin’ika,” Paz greets politely with a slight nod, cocking his helmet to the side upon noticing who’s been keeping you company in the short amount of time you two have been apart, “Ezir.”

You raise your brows at the way your warrior tenses up a little upon seeing the elderly man, though you manage to get in a word before any of the Mandalorians can say anything, your attention focused on the injured boy.

“Is your wrist hurt?”

The unarmored Mando peers up at Paz with what you think must be a wary expression through his visor--something that your warrior immediately picks up on. With absolutely no hesitation, the heavy-infantry warrior murmurs something to the younger Mando in his native tongue and you raise your head with anticipation and a kind smile. As though that’s all the confirmation of the young teenager--Vhan--needs, he nods a little and you slide off the end of the cot so your first patient of the day can sit down.

You give the boy a small, encouraging smile as he takes his glove off and pushes up his sleeve to reveal a swollen wrist, “What happened?”

“It was my fault,” Paz says immediately, making you raise your brows in surprise at the thought of him somehow hurting someone so young, “He was sparring with his brother and I looked away for a minute. He fell and landed right on his wrist.”

You frown a little at the guilt in his voice, though judging by the exasperated sigh that wafts past Vhan’s modulator, you think this must be a common occurrence amongst the younger ones who get hurt on Paz’s watch.

“Well, it’s hard to tell for sure without x-rays,” You manage to rotate Vhan’s wrist in the slightest, a gesture that seems to cause minimal pain to the boy, “But it looks like it’s just a minor sprain, since there seems to be no crooked bones and you can still move it around a little. Nothing too serious and nothing to feel bad about.”

Paz lets out a relieved huff at the news, though you know your blue warrior enough to know he’s not going to let the guilt down so easily, especially not when it pertains to one of the younger members of the tribe. A knowing grin stretches your lips when Vhan groans, and now you’re certain this isn’t the first time Paz has been worried like a mother hen over the clumsy teen. Though the blue warrior has quite the reputation among all the adults in the covert, it seems he also has a completely different persona when he’s with the younger ones.

“See? I told you it’s fine. Can I go back to training now?” Vhan insists, moving to hop off of the cot, though you are quicker to stop him by placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“Uh uh,” You shake your head, earning another groan from the teen and what you’re sure are surprised expressions from the two other men occupying the room, “Just because it’s a sprain doesn’t mean you can go running off just to damage it even further. You should at least rest it for forty-eight hours and put some ice on it every thirty minutes for two hours until the pain goes away. Also try to keep it elevated as much as possible.”

“That’s so much work for a little sprain though!” Vhan argues and you let out a soft sigh as you begin to compress his wrist with a thick bandage, “Can’t I just--”

“Hey!” Ezir suddenly sounds annoyed, and you’re surprised when the boy tenses up a little, just as Paz had earlier, and something about their reactions has you growing even more curious to what kind of reputation the elder has among his family, “Listen to the nurse, di’kut. She only wants what’s best for you.”

“Yes sir,” Vhan mumbles, though you can tell he’s still not happy about it when he turns his visor to you, “S-Sorry, Saviin’ika.”

You blink your surprise at him calling you the familiar nickname, but eventually you give him a kind smile and stand up to retrieve your roll of ice wraps, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m sure it must be difficult for you to miss out on training, but it really is for your own good. I don’t have the resources here to fix your wrist if it was seriously broken, so it’s detrimental to make sure that the sprain heals properly before doing any serious training again. Perhaps there is… um, maybe something else you can do in the meantime that’s not too strenuous?”

He perks up a little and hope instantly flares in your chest as he gives you an eager nod before turning to look at Paz, “You told me the other day that you would show me how to take apart an assault rifle and put it back together--would that be okay?”

Paz glances at you and the boy’s eager tone makes it hard for you to say no, so you give your warrior a reluctant nod as you finish tying the ice wrap around his swollen wrist, “Just as long as you make sure to not move your wrist around too much and keep the ice wrap on, okay?”

“Alright!” He’s instantly hopping off the cot and you chuckle at his newfound excitement, “Thanks vod’ika!”

You huff a little, opening your mouth to stubbornly remind him that you’re far older than him, though he cuts you off with a quick headbutt to your forehead; while it’s not too harsh of a harsh gesture, it’s certainly not as gentle as all the times Paz has performed the same action. You rub your tender forehead as Paz turns to the side a little so Vhan can make his way, presumably, to the armory. Paz shakes his helmet in an exasperated manner as he steps toward you, most likely to get a look at your forehead, but Ezir’s small grunts as he slowly stands up has your full attention.

Instinctively, you move to help the elder up from your office chair, noticing his slight struggle to stand and you force yourself not to cringe at the numerous pops and cracks coming from his knees and back. After a lifetime of fighting and being a medic, you’re certain it’s taken a toll on him, though he simply chuckles a little and pats your back as you both make your way over to Paz.

“I suppose I should take this as my sign to leave you to your duties for the day, verd’ika,” You beam at the new nickname as he carefully grabs onto your elbow for better balance while you lead him to the entrance where Paz is still standing with a cocked helmet, “I’ll have to look for my old medical books and datapads for you to read.”

“Oh, thank you!” Happiness and warmth instantly blankets your heart at his consideration, gratitude filling your soul when you realize that he seems to approve of you being the tribe’s new nurse, “I would love that very much, if it’s not too much of a hassle.”

“Of course not,” He gives your hand a little pat before latching onto a grumpy Paz’s elbow instead, “I’ll just make this one help me later since he can reach the higher shelves.”

“I have other things to--”

Jutting a thumb out in your direction over his shoulder, Ezir sends a rough little whack! of his walking stick to Paz’s armored shin, “It is good she is here with the tribe now--perhaps she can teach you and everyone else some manners, you big brute.”

“Yeah, ori kebiin,” You giggle in a teasing manner, earning a small grunt from the blue warrior, “Would it really kill you to learn a few manners?”

Ezir lets out a loud laugh that has Paz shaking his helmet at you, and though you know you’ll soon regret it, you think it’s worth the delightful torment he’ll inflict on you later when the two of you are alone. Without another word, Paz reaches out to give your nape a tender squeeze before leaving you alone to your thoughts in your little office, though you think that seeing Ezir and helping Vhan has already given you a bright start to your day.

With a faint smile stretched along your lips, you add a few comments to your little notepad and take inventory of the supplies you have and what you need for the next time Paz goes on a supply run. For the most part, the day goes by slowly and uneventfully--something you are actually grateful for, what with being so used to the chaos that came as a result of working in a village full of crime and those with cruel hearts.

Needless to say, you don’t mind a calm day in the slightest and when Ima passes your office hours later to politely inform you that training and sparring lessons are done for the day, you’re grateful that no serious injuries were sustained. Packing up your things and making sure your office is in order, you turn off the lights and exit your office, eager to explore the covert a little more and go to the room that Paz and Ima had decorated for you.

After conversing with a few of the Mandalorians you had befriended in the short amount of time you’ve been at the covert, you happily make your way down the stairs that you know leads to everyone’s private quarters, as well as the nursery and your little flower alcove.

You hum a mindless tune to yourself as you stroll down the long tunnel, smiling when the atmosphere gets a little warmer when you pass the shielded alcove that leads into the nursery; your walking slows a little and you’re half tempted to go inside and say hi to the little ones, though you don’t want to cause any chaos again, especially so late in the day. Reluctantly, you continue past the nursery and make your way to the little room Paz and Ima had decorated with your flowers, your vulptex resting comfortably in your arms as you two seek out relaxation.

“I need to think of a name for you, little one,” You murmur, earning a soft gaze from her, crimson eyes slowly blinking up at you, “Maybe I should ask one of the younglings to come up with one. They must be far more creative than me.”

She simply answers you with a dramatic huff as you continue down the path that Paz had already taken you down a few times.

You’re completely oblivious to the little footsteps following you far behind.

Finally, you make it to your beloved sanctuary and let out a relieved sigh upon seeing all your growing flowers and the lights that hang above them. Placing your little vulptex on the center of the desk where you had placed a little pillow for her, you dutifully water the plants and flowers that look like they need it the most. It’s comforting to have a little place of your own, especially after dealing with so many of the boisterous warriors all day and while you feel as though you’re slowly getting used to their antics, you realize you truly had no idea what you were getting yourself into upon agreeing to be the tribe’s nurse.

A small smile quirks at the corners of your lips as you feel the tiniest ache in your temple where the younger Mandalorian had headbutted his gratitude a little too roughly earlier, though warmth fills your heart when you remember how he had referred to you as his sister.

You’re in the middle of checking on your little violets when your vulptex raises her head in a jolting manner; immediately, you turn around, expecting Paz or perhaps Ima needing you to tend to someone’s wound.

It is neither one of them, you realize with surprise.

You let out a little gasp upon seeing a pair of wide, fearful eyes poking from the tiny crack between the curtains and the doorway and you instantly recognize the sad, golden brown orbs from days ago in the nursery.

“Oh, it’s okay, little one!” You give him a warm smile that instantly seems to allay some of the despair in his big eyes, “You may come in, if you’d like.”

Hesitantly, he makes his way into the unfamiliar room, looking like a lost animal that’s experiencing a new environment for the first time and you think you know the feeling all too well; even after spending a few days at the covert, you still feel quite lost and you can’t possibly imagine what this child is going through.

You blink your surprise when he gets halfway across the room before spotting your lazy vulptex who is still curled up on your desk, staring at the boy curiously, though not unkindly in the slightest. Carefully, you make your way closer to the little who simply stares up at you with wide starry eyes, his hands clasped together politely in front of him and your heart melts at how nervous and scared he seems.

“It’s okay, little one,” You reassure him in a calm, hushed tone, reaching your hand out for him to take, “She loves younglings very much and would never hurt you, I promise.”

The curly-haired boy shifts his gaze between you and your rocky companion before ultimate latching onto your hand with his. Cautiously and without any force, you guide him closer to your desk where the vulptex is still observing the little boy with gentle eyes; you think that on top of being intelligent, her species must also be quite empathetic and can differentiate a kind soul from a dark one.

“Is it okay if I pick you up?” You question the boy softly, earning you a shy nod as an answer, and you carefully haul him up to the chair in front of your desk, keeping a hand pressed to the back of his shoulders to keep him steady, should he stumble, “If you want to hold your hand out to sniff it, it’ll be a sign that you want to be her friend.”

His eyes widen a little more and you can’t help but to grin as he holds a shaking hand out for the rocky vulpine to sniff eagerly, his other hand pressed shyly to his cheek in anticipation. A tiny, childish giggle meets your ears and warms your heart as the vulptex licks his palm, though he is quick to pull his damp hand back and wipe it on his beige tunic with a scrunched up expression. When he smiles up at you, you’re certain your heart is going to melt into a big puddle of goo in the pit of your stomach and you offer him one in return, smoothing his dark, unruly curls away from his forehead.

“See? She knows you’re brave and likes you now.”

He gives you a toothy grin and you feel a lovely warmth in your soul knowing that you were able to provide some emotional reprieve for the sweet child.

“Did you sneak away from the nursery, little one?” You ask him gently, not wanting him to think you’re upset with him at all; he simply drops his head in shame and you continue to stroke his curls in an attempt to comfort him, “It’s okay! You’re not in trouble, I promise. I just want to know why.”

For a moment, you don’t think he’s going to answer as he keeps his head lowered, but then he eventually peers up at you and whispers his response in a tiny, meek voice.

“Y-You were singing,” He explains quietly, and you realize he must have heard you humming and followed you all the way here, “‘M sorry.”

“Hey, no, none of that,” You crouch down in front of him so he’s taller than you while he stands on your chair and you give him a kind smile, “It’s okay, but how about next time you just ask the caretaker on duty, alright? They’ll come find me, wherever I may be.”

He gives you a shy nod, seeming thoughtful for a few moments as he presses a chubby index finger to his pouting lips, “Do I have to go back?”

You should say yes and you know it, but his eyes are all but pleading with you to say no and he looks so hopeful that you’ll let him keep you company. You think he must feel just as out of place as you do, not knowing who to talk to or who to trust, though you seem to be the one person he finds solace in.

How could you destroy that tiny amount of trust he already has in you?

You give him a tiny smile and shake your head, “You may stay for a little while, but I fear I do not make for the most exciting company, little one.”

The boy doesn’t say anything to that and you blink your surprise when he reaches out to clumsily touch the thick braid wrapped around your crown, along with the few flowers that you had strategically placed throughout the weaves that morning when Paz had been watching you. He seems curious by the vibrant flora, his eyes blinking and flickering with awe and you bow your head a little so he can get a better look at them.

“Do you like flowers?” You ask him quietly when he eventually ceases his exploration, and you look up to see him giving you a shy little nod, “What’s your favorite kind?”

You expect him to not know many, especially if he’s spent his few years of life on Nevarro, though he surprises you when he speaks in a barely there whisper, “I like roses--like the ones my ‘gramma used to paint.”

You’re desperately inclined to ask more about his grandmother--if he had any parents and what planet he had been saved from, but if he’s the covert’s newest foundling, the wounds on his heart and mind must still be so fresh and you do not wish to infect it further with your invasive questions. Instead, you force yourself to give him a warm, big smile and somehow manage to keep the tears out of your eyes when his chubby fingers find the little blue flower that Paz had tucked behind your ear earlier in the morning.

“Yeah? I bet they were beautiful,” You grin and he gives you a fervent little nod to confirm your thoughts, “What color roses did she paint?”

And what you thought was only going to be a ten or twenty minute interaction with the boy ends up to be more than an hour and a half long meeting where the two of you talk about harmless topics like flowers, favorite animals, different types of stars and constellations. Though for once, you do most of the talking and you are more than satisfied to describe the beautiful hot springs and caves that Paz had taken you to, sparing all the mushy details that you knew would probably gross out a child.

“He’s scary,” The boy murmurs as you tell him of the story, at least the clean version, of how Paz had stood up for you the night you first found your vulptex, “They all are--they don’t smile.”

“Well of course they do,” You inform the little one, curling a finger against his cheek and earning a tiny giggle, “Everyone smiles, you just can’t see it because they wear their helmets to honor their creed. It does not mean they are robots or incapable of feeling the same emotions we do.”

He’s perched on one of your thighs, seeming comfortable as he softly pets the sleeping vulptex and you smile down at him sympathetically upon realizing he’s still apprehensive of the armored warriors, “I was scared of Paz at first too, but he turned out to be one of the kindest, most honorable men I have ever met. These people are not cruel, but I understand why you are afraid, little one. I have only been here for three days and I am still learning how to fit in as well. Perhaps we can figure this out together.”

He gives you another toothy grin and nods, seeming comforted by your words as he leans back into you and your heart aches at the trust he shows in you; a part of you wonders if it’s because he can actually see your face. You’re not entirely sure of what to say as he continues to pet the sleepy animal, smiling whenever he hears the soft squeaks that the vulptex lets out every now and then.

“Do you have a name little one?” You ask kindly--tenderly--hoping that the question won’t overwhelm him as he tilts his head to stare up at you.

You truly don’t think he’s going to answer you, but then after a few moments of silence, he lowers his head a little, not looking you in the eyes.

“Odisian.”

“Odisian... what a lovely name,” You repeat it with a grin, earning a shy smile from him, “Is it okay if I call you Odi? Or do you prefer your full name?”

Suddenly, he beams up at you and kicks his legs a little, as if having a nickname makes him feel more at home, “I like Odi!”

Your cheeks nearly hurt from how big you’re smiling at him and you nod, deciding it’s best not to dwell too much on his own name or what nicknames he might have had before being brought to the covert. You straighten your spine a little and reach out to pet your little vulptex who keens under all the adoration and attention she’s suddenly receiving from you and the little one.

“Would you like to pick out a name for her?” You ask him softly, tilting your head to the side when he gives you an expression filled with awe and wonder, like he can’t believe you are asking him to do such a thing, “She needs one and I do not think I am creative enough to bestow her with such an honor.”

Odi swings his legs nervously and you can’t help but to grin as he seems to seriously contemplate this huge decision, his tiny hand squeezing his cheeks together in great concentration. You remain patient with him as he turns his head a little to stare at all the flowers on your desk and the colorful vines that are draping off the edge of the shelves attached to the wall with admiration.

“Rosie?”

He says it more as a question, like he’s nervous for your response, so you offer him a warm grin when you realize this sweet child wants to name your vulptex after his own favorite flower. You wonder if he somehow knows just how much your flowers mean to you, just as Paz does, or if the flower simply has some sort of deeper meaning to him and you playfully ruffle his curls, earning you a little giggle from him.

“That is far more lovely of a name than I could ever come up for her,” You inform him, your cheeks hurting from how big of a smile you’re wearing on your face and he perks up at your reassurance, no longer seeming quite as nervous, “Her eyes are red like roses too! Is red your favorite color?”

“I like yellow,” He bashfully admits, and you nearly chuckle at the way he pronounces his ‘L’s as ‘W’s, “It is a happy color.”

You agree with him as you begin to collect some flowers for the little boy, though a part of you lamely thinks he probably doesn’t even want them. You’re in the process of pointing out all the different flowers that Paz and Ima had been so kind to plant for you in anticipation of your arrival when the drapes to your alcove shuffle to the side a little.

You’re completely unaware of how long your blue warrior is standing in the entryway, simply observing you and the little one perched contently on top of your leg who seems utterly interested in what you have to tell him about the healing properties of violets and lavender.

“Oh! And then this one right here, if you just grind it up and add it into--”

“Cyare.”

Immediately, you and Odi both turn to face where Paz is standing just feet away in front of the rounded entrance, though the little one in your arms is quick to lower his head in fear of the massive warrior. Wanting the youngling to feel more comfortable, you simply smile up at Paz, who suddenly seems frozen to his spot as he stares at you with a cocked helmet, his shoulders tense as his pauldrons inch closer to the bottom of his helmet.

“Is something wrong, Paz?”

“No, it’s just--” His helmet slightly jolts to the side and he’s acting odd as you gently heave Odi off of your lap, offering him the little bundle of flowers so he won’t feel so lonely without you by his side, “It is time for the younglings to sleep and the caretaker on duty got scared because he was missing. I thought you might know where he is and it seems as though I was right.”

Odi is staring up at you with the saddest expression, as though he’s pleading with you to not return him back to the nursery and you gently cup the back of his curls, giving him a kind smile in return. Nervously, he fiddles with his hands as you stand up, easily scooping your vulptex into the crook of your elbow, all while the little one stares up at Paz with the most frightened expression you’ve ever witnessed, hiding behind your leg.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. I’m not going anywhere and you’re more than welcome to visit me anytime,” You offer him a reassuring smile as he gazes down at the little bouquet of flowers and he is quick to grab your outstretched hand with an eager expression, “C’mon, I’ll walk you back. Besides, he likes flowers too--I bet he would like it if you gave him one.”

You say the last sentence in a low whisper, as though you’re sharing some sort of gossip with him and you instantly notice the way he perks up as Paz holds the drapes to the side for you, his helmet still tilted to the side as he observes you two. Odi is still quiet and thoughtful as he stares down at the little bundle of colorful flowers you had gifted him, all while holding your hand as Paz slowly leads you through the dim tunnels.

Shyly, the child gazes up at Paz and warmth blooms in your heart and soul when he lowers his helmet to regard Odi with what you’re certain is the utmost kindness, most likely wanting nothing more than to earn the boy’s trust. Without saying anything, the little one holds up the colorful bouquet of flowers for Paz to see and you grin at the adorable interaction.

"Those are... pretty,” Paz comments in a softer voice and you can tell he’s trying to appear as placid as possible to the nervous boy, “Which one is your favorite?”

Odi lets go of your hand to press his index finger to his bottom lip in severe contemplation and you nearly chuckle at what must be a cute little habit that he does unknowingly when he’s thinking too hard. After a moment’s consideration, he points a chubby finger at one of the many violets that you had tucked in the center and you instantly grin.

“Those are my favorite too,” Paz says quietly, and you’re too focused on the way Odi is smiling down at the little bouquet to notice the Mandalorian’s visor trained on your face.

Odi seems conflicted as he gently tugs one of the violets from the middle of the colorful bundle and offers it to the huge warrior with a hopeful gaze, not saying a word throughout the entire exchange.

“What an honor,” Paz sounds like he's grinning as he accepts the little flower and Odi immediately seeks out your hand again, “Thank you.”

The youngling peers up at you with a cheerful glimmer in his eye, as though he’s proud of himself for showing such bravery and selflessness in the presence of a powerful warrior. Once you offer him a knowing smile and a gentle squeeze of his hand, Odi turns to gaze down at his colorful bouquet with a tiny grin on his face.

Content upon realizing the little one no longer seems sad or fearful, you tilt your head up to beam happily at Paz, your heart still full of love and admiration towards both him and Odi; immediately the warrior lifts his hand to tenderly stroke your cheek. The cold bite of leather nearly makes you flinch and suddenly you’re remorseful that both of your hands are occupied by your littlest companions as you now long to touch the lighter blue in the hollows of his cheeks.

It’s not until you make it back to the nursery that Odi’s smile drops and his lips form into a little pout. Paz presses his gloved hand to the small of your back to guide you further into the nursery and through a short tunnel leading the four of you to where the younglings must sleep and take their naps.

“Hey,” You whisper after the four of you enter a dimly lit room with several beds lined up; you notice the tiny lumps curled up underneath the fuzzy blankets and smile as you crouch down in front of Odi, “Remember what I said, okay? You ever want to come see me, just ask one of the caretakers. I’ll always be here for you.”

He nods, and before you can even think about standing up, he steps forward to wrap his tiny arms around your neck and you’re quick to return the sweet gesture, your free hand coming up to gently cup the back of his head. You feel his chubby fingers curl into the hair you had left unbraided that morning and smile when he holds onto you a little tighter; you can tell he’s still afraid of you leaving as an idea pops into your head.

“Since Rosie seems to like you so much, why don’t I leave her here with you for the night?” Immediately, he pulls away from you, his starry eyes wide and filled with disbelief as you gently shuffle the lazy vulpine into his awaiting arms, “She may be small, but she’s a fierce little thing that will protect you from any nightmares you may have, I promise.”

He holds the animal closer to his chest, grinning when she lifts her head to lick at his cheek and Odi instantly giggles in response. He gives you one last shy smile before making his way to his little bed and you stand up to your full height as you watch him shuffle underneath his blankets, all while holding Rosie close to his chest. It’s not until you watch his eyes close that you let out a deep exhale and you wonder when you had stopped breathing; tears nearly escape your eyes when you watch Rosie curl herself closer to the child, head tucked underneath his chin as he smiles sleepily.

“Ner cyare,” Paz whispers and you jump a little, nearly forgetting that he had been standing there this whole time; you turn to face him and you give him a questioning look when he threads his fingers through the valleys between yours, “There is something I want to show you.”

You think when he says ‘something’, he most likely means ‘someone’, and your heart thrums wildly in anticipation as he leads you away from the younglings’ sleeping quarters. The alcove he’s leading you to is the one he had popped out of a few days ago after you confronted him after the fight, you realize, and you wonder what could possibly be in the room that he seems so excited to show you.

You blink owlishly at him as he politely holds the drapes to the side for you and you hesitantly enter the warm room; instantly, another Mandalorian with black and yellow armor turns to face you and Paz. Before you can offer the stranger an affable greeting, a soft whimper cuts you off and your heart instantly freezes over when you spot a wooden crib in the corner of the dim room.

An infant…

There is an infant in the covert and the thought simultaneously terrifies you and breaks your heart.

Paz quietly says something in his mother tongue when the caretaker on duty tenses as you step forward to try to get a better look at the distressed infant, your heart now pounding so wildly that you hear it in your ears. Whatever Paz said to the caretaker immediately seems to calm them down and they simply watch as you observe the fussy baby that is kicking its little feet wildly and growing even more distressed. The infant is wearing tiny white socks and a long, dark brown tunic that falls to her ankles; her little head is adorned with a white beanie, but you see dark tufts of hair poking out from underneath.

“I… I cannot get her to stop crying,” The Mandalorian’s deep, filtered voice is coated with exhaustion and despite the tears burning your eyes, you fixate your attention on the defeated Mando, the vibrancy of the yellow stripes painted on his black armor nearly hurting your eyes, “What am I doing wrong?”

You wonder if he’s ever had to take care of an infant before, but judging by the way the black and yellow Mando shuffles around nervously makes you think it is not all too common of an occurrence in the tribe.

You swallow the lump in your throat and nod, shaking off your fears and insecurities as you remind yourself that you were brought here to take care of others, “O-Okay, how old is she?”

“I only found her a few weeks ago, cyare,” Paz informs you quietly, not wanting to disturb the baby even more, and you turn around to gaze up at him with wide, watery eyes; he must see the confusion etched on your features because he immediately explains himself, “I was walking back from seeing you one night and found her abandoned behind one of the vendors in the marketplace. I can’t… I can’t imagine what kind of monster does such a thing.”

You know all too well of the monsters that are capable of leaving a helpless creature behind to die, most likely feeling no guilt when they close their eyes at night.

You nod again and let out a shaky exhale as the caretaker turns his body to the side and allows you to lean over the crib, your chest aching something fierce as you carefully scoop up the tiny creature into your arms. Instantly, she lets out with a piercing, shrill scream and you heave a small sigh at how fussy of a little thing she is, though you think you already know what her problem is.

“What are you--?”

The strange Mandalorian jolts forward a little as you shuffle the crying baby around in your arms until her chest and stomach is resting against the inside of your forearm, her arms and chubby legs dangling lazily around in the air and her cheek tucked against the crook of your elbow. It takes a few moments of tenderly stroking her back to get her cries to soften into something less ear shattering, and you let out a relieved sigh when her whimpers turn into little coos and grunts.

“I think she might be colic,” You inform the caretaker with a shaky whisper, his helmet tilted to the side with what you think is either curiosity or shock as she dribbles, “I’ve uh, I’ve seen this before and read about it. Are you making sure to burp her after each feeding? Or perhaps she should be using a different formula if she has a sensitive tummy?”

“I--” He drops his helmet a little, staring at the cooing infant that you’re bouncing a little, “She wasn’t spitting anything up and I just thought… I wasn’t sure how to do it, how to burp her.”

You give the black and yellow Mando a sympathetic expression and nod, your eyes still burning with tears, “Babies can be pretty fussy sometimes, but once you find out how they like to be held and handled, it makes things a little bit easier. This tends to be a good trick at calming a lot of babies, but you need to make sure she gets burped after every feeding or else she’ll be really uncomfortable and even fussier than normal.”

“Thank you,” The caretaker nods his gratitude as you continue to stroke her back and you give him a weak smile in response, “Could you maybe get her to go to sleep? I should check on the others and I--”

‘Need a breather.’

He doesn’t say it out loud, but you hear it in the way his deep voice drops and his shoulders fall at the mere thought of having a few moments of peace and relaxation.

He fidgets when you hesitate, though Paz places a gentle hand on your nape and he must realize that something is wrong as he squeezes the warm skin there; it’s something he only does when he’s trying to comfort you. Afraid that your voice will fail you, you offer the caretaker a jittery nod and he wastes no time in leaving the nursery that’s dedicated to this tiny infant.

You find it difficult to even look at Paz as you make your way over to the rocking chair that seems far too small for any Mandalorian and slowly sink down until you’re sitting comfortably with a cooing, sleepy baby tucked in your arms. A soft sigh escapes your lungs when you feel a little bit of drool soak through the material covering your elbow and you risk a glance at Paz when he gets down on a knee next to the rocking chair, his gloved hand moving to gently squeeze your bicep.

“What happened?” He questions as quietly as possible, warranting a tiny grunt from the irascible infant, “Why are you so sad all of a sudden?”

The way he asks such a question so softly instantly leaves you feeling painfully raw and vulnerable and you are quick to shoulder away a tear before he can wipe it away for you; you shake your head viciously, “It’s nothing.”

“Cyare--”

“I will explain later.”

The Mandalorian gives you a curt nod and retrieves a piece of cloth for you as you move the calmed baby to burp her against your shoulder. You can tell he wants to say something as you pat her between the shoulders, but he remains silent and tilts his helmet to the side upon hearing the infant gurgle and do her business against the cloth draped over your shoulder. It doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep once she’s burped up all the air and spit from her meal and you let out a grateful sigh when you watch her eyelids slowly droop, somewhat eager to get her out of your arms and into her crib.

Once she’s comfortable in her cradle and fast asleep, you are quick to exit the little alcove, Paz hot on your heels as you practically storm past the exhausted-looking caretaker who’s sitting on a stone ledge in the main play area.

“Hey thank you for--”

You’re out of the nursery before he can fully express his gratitude to you and you hear Paz mutter something to the caretaker before rushing after you. Halfway down the tunnel leading to his private quarters, Paz catches up to you and carefully wraps his leather-clad fingers around your bicep, turning you around to face him.

“Cyare! What’s going--?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” You don’t even realize you’re sobbing until you hear your own voice and Paz’s other hand comes to squeeze your shoulder in a comforting manner, “Wh-Why didn’t you tell me there was a baby and why would you make me…? I didn’t know and... Maker, she was so much like--”

Your chest is heaving, tears streaming from your cheeks like raging waterfalls and Paz gently pulls you to the side and covers you when another Mandalorian passes you two, giving you what you’re certain is a curious gaze. He cups a massive hand to the side of your neck and leans down as you continue to sob and babble incoherent pleas at him, wondering why he’d put you through this, though he truly had no idea what he had done to you.

“I-I am sorry, cyare,” He breathes, squeezing your bicep firmly with his other hand, “You seemed to love the little ones so much and I thought… I thought you would love to see the baby, but I didn’t think…” He shakes his helmet in a jolting manner as you viciously rub at your eyes and cheeks, “What happened? What did I do wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” You ignore his frantic questions as you try desperately to stop the tears escaping your eyes, along with the horrific memories from flooding your mind, “I didn’t mean to be so rude! I thought I was over it and I could forget, but seeing her...”

“Shh, hey, it’s okay,” He hushes you in a kind manner, shielding you from any wandering eyes that might see your tears, “Why don’t… why don’t we go back to our room and you can tell me what’s going on? That’s what you said the other day, right? That we should talk about the things we feel?”

You nod your answer, not trusting your voice in that moment, and you try your hardest to force down the massive lump in your throat.

“Will you tell me why you are so broken up over seeing the baby?”

He’s quick to pull you in close, hunching over to hold you easier and you immediately stuff your face into the crook of his neck as you give him another jittery nod, “I fear you will hate me upon hearing what I’ve done in the past--how I have failed the ones I was supposed to take care of.”

“I… I could never feel such a thing towards you,” He promises with a deep exhale, sounding just as heartbroken as he reluctantly pulls away and leads you closer to his private quarters, keeping a firm hand on the small of your back, “Whatever it is, I could never hate you, I swear.”

Your chest aches more and more the closer you get to his private quarters and once you finally make it, he’s quick to sit you down on the foot of his bed, kneeling down as he collects your hands in his leather-clad ones.

“What is haunting you, ner cyare? What makes you cry so much when you sleep?”

You pray that once you tell him, the horrific memories won’t weigh heavy on your conscience any longer.

Translations:

Ner cyare=My beloved

Mesh’la=Beautiful

Ori Kebiin=Big blue

Ni kar'tayl gar darasuum=I love you (lit. I know you forever)

Saviin’ika=Little violet

Verd’ika= Little soldier

Di’kut=Idiot, useless individual, waste of space (lit. someone who forgets to put their pants on)

Taglist: @parabatai-winchester @auty-ren @theocatkov @oloreaa @talesfromtheguild @blindedbyyourgrace17 @datmando @dartheldur @miscellaneous-mando @karpasia @ben-is-a-hoe @the-feckless-wonder @whatababeleia @maybege @aerynwrites @corrupt-fvcker @lackofhonor @phoenixhalliwell @crazy-kat-in-the-hat @roxypeanut @mandolovian @honestlystop @teaofpeach @macabrefaerie @acynicalcat @spaghetti-666 @readsalot73 @lanatheawesome @absurdthirst @anakinsittinginsand @yes-music-is-my-religion @tangledlove27 @justrunamok @peqchynero @haloangel391 @awhiskeywithawinchester @aliciaxglasgow @bonesaldente @kawaiitimecharm @karaabove @clydesducktape @misssilvertongue @heartxheat @pazvizslasgirl4ever (Please let me know if I missed you or you’d like to be taken off!!)

Author’s note: As always, thank you all so much for being as patient and kind as ever <3 I don’t know why this chapter was such a struggle for me to finish, but I’m so glad eventually managed to get all the words I wanted down lol. I was worried it might seem like there’s a lot going on in this chapter, but I just wanted more interactions with our nurse getting more settled in with the tribe and meeting others, so hopefully this chapter doesn’t seem like it’s all over the place :( Anyways I love you all and thank you so much for all the support y’all continuously give me <33

#paz vizla x you #paz vizla x reader #paz vizsla x reader #Paz vizsla x you #mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian fanfiction #my writing #IDK WHY I'M SO NERVOUS TO POST THIS CHAPTER OML #I hope you guys enjoy it tho <3 #also now y'all know why christina and I were fighting over wearing socks to bed lmfao

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cryinginthebackseat · 4 years

Text

initials t.c.

Fandom: Open Heart

Pairing: Tobias Carrick x MC

Words: 7.299 (I’M SO SORRY)

Summary: Tobias Carrick makes Claire an offer she can’t refuse.

Warnings: 50% plot, 50% smut, swear-a-thon, blasphemy

Author’s Note: when the book first introduced us to tobias carrick, the first thing that hit my mind was “okay, but that dude is like the carbon copy of jesse williams and that’s hot” but then, once it reveals who he is and what’s his role in the book i went “interestinggggggg” cause you know, i’m a sucker for morally grey characters and all, and i’m not even ashamed to admit it. also, carrick is shaping up to be such an interesting character with each chapter and maybe one day- okay, maybe this sounds like a pipe dream- but one day, i hope he can be a li (let a girl dream plz) lmao

also if anyone’s interested, i made a PLAYLIST to accompany reading the fic.

the title is inspired by serge gainsbourg’s initials bb

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Cast down off heaven Cast down on my knees I’ve lain with the devil Cursed god above Forsaken heaven

To Bring You My Love - PJ Harvey

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Whenever Claire thinks about Tobias Carrick, admittedly, unfortunately, tragically, she always thinks about his eyes first before remembering what a colossal pain in the ass he is.

It always comes in that order. Like the number 3 always comes before 4, like the seawater dragging back from the shoreline before a tsunami occurs, like pouring milk before the cereal (she honestly didn’t get what the fuss is about until one day Elijah cried ‘oh, hell no you don’t, satan!‘ one morning and proceeded to give her bullet points why pouring the milk before the cereal is considered a sin and more of an abomination than Nephilims’ existence and that there’s a higher probability that she’s a psycho for being a ‘milk first’ kind of person). So apparently, Claire’s a psycho now which explains so many aspects- but she digresses and the point is, the reaction is uncontrollable and she high-key hates how she can’t control her goddamn mind most of the time.

The point is, she needs to stop thinking about him to begin with.

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Claire Castelnuovo was born in the summer, under the sign of Gemini. Marilyn Monroe once said that stands for intellect, being a Gemini, but she was too blissfully unaware of this guerdon that she devoted her adolescent years to being outdoors instead. Too many days she spent trampling along the cornfields with her cousins until the skies faded out with brilliant purple-tinged amber and she was carrying a piece of the sun in her skin and smelled like one, stuffing wildflowers inside her boots as she walked around the neighborhood with her dad’s old stethoscope, napping in a hammock with Oasis’ All Around the World on repeat. By the time she hit 15, her black strands had turned brown from repeated sun exposure. She loved it.

But it was a different time, a different place. Somewhere that only exists on the margins of her memories, lost and hidden.

Now, Claire prefers the night.

It’s 9:30 pm when she arrives at a hotel bar in downtown Boston. A newly christened establishment which has somehow become a regular spot for Hemingway’s enthusiasts once the Boston Globe wrote an article about their Hemingway Daiquiri and how, as they wrote it, ‘probably the only place that’s brave and crazy enough to adhere to the 1930s original recipe’ and bourgeois party birds at wee hours during the weekend.

Her eyes are gritty, dry and strange. Her mind’s much worse for the wear- she feels like shit, like in the middle of watching that scene from The Green Mile shit when all is hopeless and you feel like walking out of the theater, but you’ve spent your last savings just to buy the ticket, so you decide to stick through it.

Claire makes a beeline for the bar, tries to flag down the bartender. She orders an Old Fashioned, making sure to specify to double it because she’s not a regular here and he’s not Reggie and that’s how she’s been taking her drink for years.

She knows well deep in her bones that she should be somewhere else. Somewhere more familiar, somewhere where Tim Mcgraw often plays from the subpar speakers, and the rustic wooden bar countertop is gouging and discoloring from the cheap household cleaners and alcohol stains, and her friends are cramming together in the same booth in the back, reveling and laughing until they close the bar down and make a mess all over. Perhaps it’s a mistake coming here, where no one’s a familiar face and the drinks are a tad overpriced for her budget.

But then, perhaps this is exactly what she needs; the unfamiliarity, the visceral feeling knowing that she doesn’t belong here, where no one knows her name and the huge deal of weight she’s currently carrying on her shoulders. Perhaps, she can’t face her friends after what happened, after what Esme has done. Shit, how could any of this happen? Claire knows this all on Esme’s, but her guilt has grown hopelessly tangled with her anxiety. She’s her intern, for fuck’s sake, Claire’s supposed to prevent this from happening in the first place.

Man, where’s Declan Nash when she feels like punching someone in the face?

Claire makes the mistake of drinking her drink too quickly, because it hasn’t been ten minutes and she’s drained half of the content. Then she reaches for her phone in her bag, fiddles with it, absent-minded, equal parts bored before then settles on watching the band performing Art Pepper’s You Go To My Head and immediately thinks of that time she accidentally dropped her brother’s saxophone in a moment of her rather graceless, wine-soaked self with the whole family present.

Someone plops down on the empty stool next to her. Claire’s now scrolling through her phone- again, bored. Sienna commented on the post Elijah shared to the group chat with a few unnecessary-yet-totally-necessary emojis to the already convoluted series of texts and Claire only reads them in silence, not only because her friends’ texting behaviors are too chaotic for her to follow sometimes but she’s not really feeling like talking to anyone right now.

“Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.”

Famous last words.

Claire freezes in her seat. Her phone’s still glowing in her hand, alighting her features. She recognizes that voice- too well, that is and it’s enough to set off her flight-or-fight response.

She glances up from her phone, preparing for the worst.

Well, what’s presented before her is literally the worst.

“Of all the gin joints…” she says once her eyes find Tobias Carrick sitting next to her, still in his work shirt, sleeves rolled-up, a few buttons undone, reeking of smoke, soap and antiseptic with a shit-eating grin plastered over his face.

She should have gone to Donahue’s instead.

“Evening to you too, Castelnuovo. Drinking your dinner tonight, I see?”

“What, this? No, this is breakfast. 100% daily value of alcohol and pretty much nothing else. I mean, it’s not the weekend without a bad case of hangover and an aspirin snowglobe in the morning, am I right? You know, like a glass of aspirin? Not a literal snowglobe?” she blabbers, realizing just so by the time she hears him snort. Claire chokes down another sip to shut her mouth up. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m about to commit first-degree murder and burn this whole place to the ground,” he drawls, the ever goddamn sarcastic. “What do you think? I’m trying to get dru-”

“No, I mean what are you doing here, of all places? Can’t you get drunk somewhere else?” she interrupts, her midwest accent does funny things to the vowels and consonants- something that only happens whenever she’s in distress, or at least according to Jackie.

“Last time I heard, this joint’s still owned by the Hilton, not a certain junior member of the Diagnostics Team at Edenbrook hospital.”

“Dude, what do you think of the H in Claire H. Castelnuovo stands for?” Deadpan, trying to keep up with the rolling sarcasm, she retorts. He smirks.

“Horatio?”

“Get the fuck out of here,” she mutters, mid-eye-roll, mid-snickering.

He chuckles, his voice rich and smoky amidst the late-night swing and distant chatters. Carrick doesn’t leave, of course, typically him- if those anecdotes Ethan told her has taught her anything about his character, that is- defying everything, scheming his way to the top, the embodiment of ‘those devilish boys with their heavenly eyes’ type your mother warns you about.

Not that the latter is relevant.

“Or what?” His mouth twitches but there’s a hard, challenging light in his eyes that she knows too well by now.

“Or I’m leaving.“ She shoots him a glare. He’s testing her patience- again, like it’s his finesse. Some things never change, it seems.

“Come on, Castelnuovo, don’t be a sourpuss. The night is young and I can promise you, the last thing I am is a horrible drinking buddy.”

With a touch of irony, she replies: “I’m sure. I bet you asked your friends to fill out a questionnaire every time you went out with them, did you?”

Carrick hums.

“You’re funny.” But he says it in the same tone that someone might say Jesus fuck, you’re probably one of the most frustrating creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on. Also, because the next thing he says is: “A little rough around the edges, but funny nonetheless.”

“That makes one of us then.”

Carrick frowns, which is kind of a surprise because she’s half expected him to flash her that signature cheeky grin of his.

“Listen, I’m just trying to make a friendly conversation here. I know we haven’t really seen eye-to-eye with each othe-”

Claire snorts and crosses her arms over her chest. “That, doctor, is an understatement of the fucking century.”

“Okay so, we’re like Tom and Jerry but sans the background music and a naive little duckling running around calling one of us his momma, but I feel like now’s the time to call out a temporary truce between us.” A beat, then: “I heard about what happened with the intern.”

Something flashes across her face- and Carrick must have noticed it, because his face does this odd thing- it softens, even for a moment. She hates it. He’s not supposed to be looking at her like that, not supposed to see her at her weakest state or saved her ass- And Jesus, why does she have to be indebted to Tobias Carrick, of all people- But god forbid, the last thing she’ll ever do is crying in front of him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she mutters, barely audible, trying to temper her fluctuated emotions.

“Then don’t. We can talk about anything else or fall into some sort of endless, meaningless platitudes. Whichever will work.” As if sensing Claire’s lingering hesitation, he adds. “Tell you what, to sweeten the offer, your next drinks are on me.”

She assesses him for a long minute, eyes narrowing. She’s shaking her head, but her mouth, as if against her will, instead says: “Careful, Carrick, there’s a chance I’ll be abusing that offer and run you dry.”

"Hey, if you want to butcher your liver so bad, don’t stop on my account,” he says. “Don’t worry, though, I’ll make sure to save your ass again this time around. Pro bono.”

Claire looks as if she’s just swallowed a dead rat. “Thanks, but no thanks. Death seems more like an appealing choice.”

“Well, I stopped death from interfering then, I’ll stop it again.” Carrick winks, she pretends to gag again yet remains still in her seat, so Carrick waves at the bartender for their order- she orders for a refill and he, a martini and Claire is this close from asking 'shaken or stirred?’ but then remembers who he is and immediately washes the question down with her drink.

“You know, if anyone told me weeks ago that I’d be having a drink with you tonight, I probably would have socked them.“

Carrick is in the middle of lighting his cigarette, but laughs instead. “The Times They Are a-Changin’, as Bob Dylan said.” A puff of smoke escapes his mouth, curling around his fingers. Claire instinctively looks away. “Which reminds me of that one time your mentor sang Ballad of A Thin Man on the fucking subway when we were 20.”

She swivels her head to his direction, on the verge of choking on her drink. “Hold on, hold on, Ethan Jonah Ramsey sings?”

“Give him a dare he couldn’t refuse and a few shots of whiskey, and I promise you he’ll sing like Sinatra on crack.” He grins, his eyes are all crinkled and bright; she thinks that means he’s genuinely amused. “Ah, good times. We were like- wait, who was it he’d like to say we’re like again?”

A small smile pulls at her lips. “Bert and Ernie.”

“Jesus, he really fucking compares us to some Sesame Street characters, huh?” She laughs at that, loud and bright. He does the same. “Personally, I’d always say we were like Butch and Sundance back then- rebels with a cause, a band of misfits, trying to leave our marks on the world. You know those types. We were young, we wanted so much- I still do. I mean, let’s be real, whoever’s wanted to be defeated at their own game?”

A crease forms between her eyebrows, not quite a frown.

“Nobody,” Claire concurs, hating herself for it. “But was it worth it? Betraying the closest thing you had to a brother or a lover…” Carrick coughs on his smoke from the latter. “or whatever in the process just to get what you wanted?” Claire was obviously aiming for that brash, hard-hitting jab, but it lands gloriously too soft.

The bartender finally places their ordered drinks down on the bar. Carrick reaches for it, taking a careful swig, then sets his glass down. He takes a deep breath.

"It’s nothing personal. It never was. I never considered him as my rival.”

“Yeah, but by doing whatever you did, you’ve made an enemy out of him,” she counters. “Look, Carrick, I know we live in a dog-eat-dog world and I know being good sometimes doesn’t get the job done. Perhaps Machiavelli was right. Perhaps, when necessary, you have to be ruthless, dissembling and manoeuvring- what did he say again? ‘The end justifies the means’? But if any worthwhile end can justify the means to attain it, if everyone outright surrenders to their darker side, then what’s left of our humanity?”

For an interminable moment, there is only silence. He simply stares at her, as if she’s a walking, talking Rubik’s cube he can’t solve or a book that he has opened and now he’s got to know so much more and she feels pinned under those warm irises, uneasy.

Suddenly, his mouth begins to take shape; the corners hike up, stretch and then he does the unexpected.

The bastard fucking laughs.

“Excuse me?!” she spits, white-hot anger lacing each word. Carrick laughs harder- the audacity- despite Claire’s growing razor’s edge stare. “Did you just laugh at me? I was being fucking seriou-”

“Sorry, sorry.” Wiping an imaginary tear from his left eye. “I was just remembering Harper’s words. She’s right, you really are on the side of the angels, aren’t you?”

She points at him with her glass, snarling. “And you, mister, are the devil himself with a medical degree and an egg head- and I don’t mean the slang for a highly academic person.”

“Ouch,” Carrick says out loud, still kind of laughing, borderline frowning. “Okay, I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“Damn straight. Though you have a lot to apologize for.”

He groans. “Don’t tell me you’re still pissed about that one patient I stole under your nose?”

“The North remembers, ser,” she says, mean-spirited.

“Then does the North remembers that I saved her life?”

“Oh, so you’re discrediting the efforts of the other doctors that helped you make the cure?”

“Alright, alright. You win.” Carrick holds up his hands, the universal gesture of defeat and takes one final drag of his cigarette. He stubs it out, all the while keeping his gaze on her.

“So, how exactly can I make it up to you?“

Claire blinks- once, twice, thrice, realizing his intent. His voice drops an octave and he’s leaning in, close enough for her to notice the constellations of freckles splaying across his face and the way his brown eyes glinted like two shots of whiskey under a stream of light, intense and all-consuming. She feels her mind races, her brains feel as if they underwent a short-circuit and get caught on fire, and the fact that her mind’s on the precipice of exploring the idea is not helping.

A burst of laughter erupts from her throat, not that it’s funny- there’s nothing funny about the situation, but someone ought to diffuse this shift of tension between them, or that was her aim, at least.

“What, you wanna pay me back?” she asks, trying to keep her voice from cracking but failing miserably. Fingers trembling against her glass as she chugs nearly a quarter of her drink in one go.

He notices that.

"A Lannister always pays his debts, does he? If you think that I owe you one, then I’ll gladly pay.” His eyes flick back to her face, searing into her. The air crackles between them. The band is playing a different song now, a sound that only exists on the margin of her attention. If they’re in, say a mid 2000s rom-com movie, someone would probably interrupt this moment and save her from this. But this isn’t a movie.

Claire licks her lips, a candid reaction which encourages him to inch closer- or is it her? She can’t tell anymore. Tracing odd patterns on the palm of her hand with his finger and oh god, this is Carrick, the bane of her fucking existence, she’d shoot him first before she kisses him. But something about the prospect of fucking this bastard twists her insides deliciously into a confused mess.

“How? By fucking me?” she inquires, feigning scandalized- all that Catholic guilt bullshit.

He grins, all-teeth and wolfish and shrugs as if they’re talking about his life insurance policy or shit. “Well, that’s the idea.”

“But you don’t even like me.” It should come out as I don’t even like you, but even she knows that’ll be just another lie she tells.

“On the contrary, I enjoy our rivalry far more than I should, Castelnuovo,” he purrs and places a hand on her knee. Her throat bobs. She’s wearing a skirt, it didn’t seem important then, but now his hand feels warm against her skin, dangling on the edge of impropriety. Like gravity, all it takes is a little push for him to cross that line.

“I should be disliking the way you talk to me, challenging me and putting me on the back foot every goddamn time. I should be focusing on taking you down a peg, but the more I see you, the more I realize you have an attractive kind of power. And I’m just one man. And if there’s anything I learned, the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

But then his movement suddenly ceases. Claire almost asks why.

"However…”

“What?” she stares up at him, eyes wide, breath hitching.

“However if you only accept alcohol as the currency for transactions, then I’ll tell the bartender to get us another round instead,“ he tells her, offering her one last chance to back out from this, from making this mistake with him.

Claire stares into her drink, actually mulling this over. Her mind tells her no, but the other part- the alcohol-infused part of her mind- whispers otherwise. She imagines if Ethan or any of her friends are here, they would probably grab her shoulder and shake the living hell out of her for even reconsidering his offer.

But then again, intelligence, alcohol and desperation have always had a bad history of getting along together.

“What about June?” Claire asks against her better judgement, after a long, considerable pause. Carrick raises a confused brow.

“What about her?”

“I thought you guys…” she trails off, makes a face, feeling all-kind of flustered and aroused and wow, she’s really doing this, huh? “I mean, I don’t know- I don’t wanna get in between you guys.”

“Nah. It was only a three time thing, but there’s never been anything between us.” He chuckles at Claire’s askance look. “If you don’t believe me, you can fact-check it with the woman herself,” Carrick adds, looking at her dead-on with his eyes like he wants to get the message across.

She regards him silently for a long second, and maybe she’s a touch drunk now, maybe the bartender put something in her drink, or maybe she just needs to blow off some steam after what’s been happening in these past few weeks and Carrick happens to be a decent warm body for the occasion, but Claire finds herself shifting closer.

"Then I want you to pay me back.”

“You sure about that?”

“Yeah,” she answers, more sure this time, more determined.

Her nose bumps his, his breath fanning across her face all the while Carrick’s slightly pushing her skirt up, letting his fingertips travel higher. His eyes keep darting back and forth from her eyes and lips, checking for her reaction. There is no inhibition here, not anymore. People might be watching- heck, they could be already watching and it terrifies her that she doesn’t give a damn about it.

“But if you tell anyone about this, I swear to god… ” she warns and a shadow of mirth passes across his eyes, making her almost regretting this. Almost.

“Claire, darling.” It’s the first time he’s ever said her name and her stomach does a tango. “Your secret is safe with me.“ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

He gets them a room in the hotel, it’s on the twentieth floor. Carrick handles the accommodation- he can afford it, apparently, which is not really surprising and the nuisating check-in procedure while Claire only waits in the lobby like a beautiful, agitated china doll amidst the turbulent sea the whole time until he comes back, flashes the room key at her and beckons her to follow.

She goes ahead of him, but he catches up. His body heat sends her anxiety rocketing sky-high through the roof as they walk next to each other, hands briefly brushing against one another but she ignores that (or at least she tries).

They are silent in the elevator, they are silent even once they reach the designated floor and walk down the hall to their room where the dim and shadowed lights follow their steps like vultures.

Carrick holds open the door for her and she enters, taking in the windows and the striking view of Boston skyline peeking behind the curtains, the TV and the queen-sized bed. The latter does nothing to assuage the anticipation that’s bubbling in the pit of her stomach, by the way.

Claire hears him shut the door, locking both bolts. She peers at him over her shoulder, half-turned, one eye on him. Their eyes meet, neither speaks. He’s taking off his black peacoat, back against the door, he’s looking at her as if wanting her is his full-time occupation and the realizations comes in like a mule kick, how that tiny voice inside her head, the one that tells her that this is a bad idea and she’s better off leaving never comes.

The room is not considerably huge (with $110 per night, you would have expected you’d get a bigger room), he could easily have her in six large steps, yet he stands there. Sizing her up, smirking rather devilishly, handsomely as if challenging her to make the first move. It’s another fucking game with him. A display of power, waiting who would fall first.

Claire finally turns around to face him. With a renowned determination, she removes her coat, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the carpeted floor. Her blouse follows next and her skirt, which she tugs it oh so slowly down her legs.

Carrick’s eyes widen, if she doesn’t know better, she thinks he’s speechless. He takes a deep breath, his gaze religiously following every movement as she twirls around once more to unhook her bra. His jaw clenches and unclenches. He’s having a hard time keeping himself in check which she takes an immense pleasure in. Claire just wants to see the man squirm for a change, even if she has to shed every article of clothing she wears.

By the time she slips off of her underwear, she is breathing raggedly. He hasn’t yet approached her so she crawls onto the bed, lying on her back with one elbow props her up, legs crossed. She kicks off her heels, rolls down her stockings with a bit of that noir come-hither, Lauren Bacall-esque heavy bedroom eyes.

Finally, Carrick steps closer until he’s only a hair’s breadth away, like a target, filling her line of sight. The tension in the room is hot enough to send the thermometer reaching its maximum limit and she’s burning, burning, burning right through the core.

Claire cranes her head up to meet his gaze, noticing the way he’s drinking in her body like a pirate ogling a bottle of rum. High-strung, tense, Carrick lowers his head to her, his fingers carding through her long hair. Dimness consumes him raw, his silhouette is starting to find its place amongst the shadows except for his eyes. Never does the fire in his eyes falter, merely alight.

They are already nose-to-nose when Claire suddenly raises her hand over his lips. He withdraws from her, looking confused and hot and bothered.

“Take a seat over there, will you?” She motions to the settee near the bed, her tone leaving no room for argument.

He smirks, but she can see his bravado if faltering. “Ordering me around in the bed now, are we?”

“Didn’t you say tonight is about you making it up to me?”

“Touche, touche.” Carrick straightens his posture and makes his way to the settee across from her, shifting uncomfortably in his seat given the growing issue in his pants.

With eyes still trained to his, Claire cups her own breast, fingers pinching her pebbled nipple before the same hand travels lower down her stomach, her thighs. Carrick leans forward in his seat, obviously liking where this is going before Claire slowly and teasingly part her legs for him to see.

A surprised groan escapes him.

“Jesus, Claire,” Carrick hisses. “Fuck, I didn’t know you’re a goddamn tease.”

She doesn’t bother replying to him, but a winning grin finds its way across her face as she lays on her back, her shame and modesty are distant, knees pulled up so he can have a clear view of her. With two fingers, she runs them along her folds, dragging them slowly up to her clit. Claire imagines they are his fingers- which once upon a time would have horrified her, but tonight, as she repeats the motion over and over, knowing that he’s sitting there, watching her without being able to get his hands on her, she decides to submit to this newfound fantasy.

A rustle pulls her back to reality. He’s undoing his own pants, palming his cock, runs his fingers over the leaking head.

A low moan catches in her throat at that, her gaze snapping up from his erection to his face where his irises have darkened and pupils dilated. He wants to show her, that’s he’s as depraved as her when it comes to wanting, that he fucking wants her and in spades and she fails to think like a normal human being anymore.

Claire uses that image to work on herself harder, faster, feeling the intense pressure beginning to build beneath her fingers. She’s so wet now, despite him being able to see that, she wants him to hear it as well as she uses her idle hand to tap against herself. Carrick growls, his pace matching the rhythm she’s setting.

She slips her fingers inside her, drops her head back against the mattress and bites a loud moan that threatens to escape her lips. Flushing scarlet all over her abdomen, her breasts and up to her neck. Her blood thumping louder than bombs in her ears, her breaths begin to come in gasps.

Another fast and hard thrust from fingers, and Claire finds herself sighing his name.

“Tobias…”

And every last bit of his self-restraint snaps.

In just a blink of an eye, Carrick is already on his feet, grabs her waist, harshly, and tugs her down onto the edge of the bed where he’s now kneeling before her. He doesn’t bother with the teasings or soft kisses or caresses, and even before Claire has the time to register what’s happening, he crushes his face between her parted legs and eats her out.

She gasps, high and fleeting, twisting the bed sheet between her fists while his tongue flicks over her, moving back up, back down, lapping along her folds in the same motions she showed him with her hand, how she likes it. Claire forgets how to breathe. It just occurs to her just how arousing the sight of him on his knees like this, sending her mind hitchhiking into outer space.

“Oh, fuck.” She breathes, back arching on the bed with a drawn-out moan. “Fuck, Tobias!” Her hips gyrate over his mouth and she presses her heels against his shoulder blades. She’s so close. All she needs is a little push to send her careening into oblivion and it seems that Carrick can sense it because he brings two digits to her entrance and slides easily inside her, setting a ruthless pace.

With her hands reaching out to the back of his head, Claire cries out his name and trembles violently. Encouraged, Carrick curves his fingers inside her, hitting that exact spot that finally undoes her as she comes, long and hard, around his mouth and fingers- the kind of orgasm that you can feel deep in your bones- and watches as fireworks dance behind her lids.

When she finally comes down from her high, everything is hazy. It’s like waking up from a deep slumber after a decadent soak in a scented bath and she loses all orientation, until she feels him nipping the inside of her thighs. She hisses, glances down, heavy-lidded eyes finding Carrick is leaving bruises after bruises all over her skin like some kind of a lewd memento of his work, like he wants her to remember this the next time she wakes up in her own bed and he’s not there.

"Are you trying to turn me into a Na'vi, doctor?” She asks, still kinda breathless, feeling surprisingly conversational despite having just experienced, if not, one of the best orgasms in her life. He smiles against her thigh and withdraws from her, only after her thighs are sufficiently bruised enough, licks his fingers clean and stands up at the end of the bed.

“Maybe. You’d make a cute blue extraterrestrial creature, though,” he replies cheekily, then undoes the button of his shirt, showcasing his naked torso.

Claire feels her cheeks heating up again, but forces herself to stare; eyes following his pectoral muscles, down to the toned lines of his abdomen while he slides off of his pants. The man is one fine specimen, alright, and he knows- smug bastard- and she thinks it’s such a shame that Carrick is… well, Carrick. If the man learns how to shut up for one minute or avoid trying to sabotage everyone’s career at Edenbrook altogether, maybe, just maybe, she’d consider him.

“But honestly, I just wanted to hear you say my name again,” Carrick continues, crawling his way up to her, pulling her out of her musings. He settles between her thighs. His lips finding her ear and nibbling at the lobe while his fingers pinching and pulling at her nipple. Claire shivers. Nails scraping along his skin, raising angry marks that would certainly be there tomorrow.

When they kiss, it’s so good that she can’t help but curl her toes. He kisses her like he’s trying to steal her breath or her name. She can taste herself in his mouth, which sparks so many feelings inside her. Her mind’s foggy, sweat pooling on her forehead. Carrick is but shoves his tongue into her mouth, lapping at her, biting, sucking and she leans hard into the kiss, retaliates by scraping her teeth against his bottom lip. It spurs him on. Making his cock twitch against her thigh and Claire decides she can’t wait anymore.

Claire rolls her hips at him. He takes the hint and rolls over to grab a condom from his pants. Then he’s back on top of her, his weight and heat crushing her most deliciously and brings her body further up the bed with him; she drapes her legs around his hips, hands gripping his arms. Her lust and anticipation collaborate to the point of near madness.

Carrick nips the taut line of her jaw and drives himself into her.

They both groan in unison.

“Oh, fuck.” Carrick mumbles between shaky breaths, his face pressed against her throat. “Fucking hell, Claire, you feel so warm.”

Claire, on the other hand, goes rigid under him. Her mouth hangs open and her world narrows down to the feeling of his cock inside her and the pleasure that builds up again in her abdomen.

This is happening, she thinks, he’s inside her and it feels so amazing. She might as well be crazy for agreeing to do this with him in the first place, but the promise of the thrill beats the doubts.

He starts slow, just the smallest fraction of hips, gently thrusting back and forth in shallow motions. She whines, frustrated and impatient, raising her own hips to meet his, but Carrick’s weight pins her onto the mattress and she can’t fucking move.

“F-faster,” Claire stammers, her molars grinding like toothache.

The bastard smirks, like he’s been anticipating the word coming out of her mouth.

“Beg for it.” His words are punctuated with every unhurried stroke he’s giving her, teasing her and if she’s not in the middle of being fucked right now, she would have kicked him in the balls.

Growling, she swallows her plea by pulling Carrick down for another kiss. This time, she’s the one who does the biting and the sucking, making sure he’s distracted enough and then just like with all the things she does in her life, she takes the matter into her own hands.

With all her strength, she scrambles up, pushes him off of her and knocks him onto his back flat on the bed. When she swings her legs to straddle him, his eyes pop.

“Holy shit, you are feisty.”

“Only cause I’m angry and horny,” she bites off. Angling herself above him and with one hand, guides his shaft back to her opening. “And you- you weren’t doing a proper job fucking me.”

He smirks. “I was trying to wind you up.”

“Fuck you.”

She lowers herself and sinks back onto his cock, relishing in his moans and growls.

“Baby, you’re doing it.” His hands curling around her waist, his head falls back onto the bed, exposing his throat and Claire is so hard-pressed not to bite him there.

Claire ignores his smartassness, naturally, and lifts herself, drops back down. Slamming her hips into his until she’s bouncing on him. Nails clawing at his chest. Finally be able to set a pace she desperately craves for, finally wiping that smirk off of his face.

Under her, Carrick is biting his lip in an effort to not to lose control. His hands are everywhere now; her stomach, her breasts, her neck, her cheeks. Leaving fire on its wake. She might still hate him after this is strange, little arrangement is over but at this juncture, he’s exactly the remedy she needs after everything.

Then Carrick wraps his arms around her and picks up the pace, thrusting into her hard and fast. Claire shakes. She can’t catch her breath, her forehead pressed on his shoulder, her teeth latching onto his skin. Breathing a string of 'fuckfuckfuck’ while he squeezes her ass and continues to fuck her with careless abandon.

"Tobias.” Her moans amplify. She’s close to climaxing again, her legs quivering. Eyes wide shut. “Please, please.” So much for not begging.

He pulls her to him so their foreheads meet. Their lips brush against each other, but they aren’t kissing, merely trading breaths. A hand touches her cheek and her lids flutter open, finding his eyes- those depthless, amber eyes that pretty much lead her to this point, are watching her, pulling her in.

“Say it again,” he encourages darkly, face twists in pleasure. “My name. Say it again.”

She does it again, it comes out as a groaned whisper, repeating it over and over again like a sacred mantra.

Her second orgasm sweeps through her, making her spine arches, it tears a winded moan from her throat and it’s more than enough to trigger Carrick’s own release; fingers digging into the soft flesh of her hips, groaning gutturally.

Panting, sore but sated, Claire collapses on top of his chest, his arm still drapes around her. The rise and fall of his breath lull her to sleep. Before she knows it, he gently rolls her to his side, pulling the covers for them and kisses her on the shoulder, which comes out as… odd for her.

The bed moves and she feels him leaving.

He’s leaving.

She doesn’t know why it stings, but it does. But also Claire opts not to pay no mind to it and forces her mind to surrender to sleep that once again tries to take hold.

Claire wishes she doesn’t dream of him that night, but she does.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It’s way past midnight when she wakes up. The room is dark. The curtains are closed. She’s still naked and sore under the covers, mind reeling in from what has just transpired.

One might ask in which universe does Claire Castelnuovo agree to sleep with Tobias Carrick? Well, apparently they did it in this one and oddly still, she doesn’t regret it. Though she’s still low-key sad that he left her straight after sex, but hey, what can she do about it? This arrangement itself is nothing but a means to an end, anyway, a perverse alternative for him to pay back what he allegedly owes her, she shouldn’t be surprised if he left after the ‘debt’ is paid.

Feeling her mood somehow takes an unexpected dip, she gets us from the bed and gathers her clothes on the floor.

She’s in the middle of zipping up her skirt when the bedside lamp flickers and comes on.

Claire turns around. Carrick, rousing from sleep, looks at her, rubbing his eyes and stifles a yawn. His lips still tinged from her kisses and bites.

“Leaving so soon?” he asks, voice still raspy from sleep and Claire thinks her mouth is hanging open, standing rooted to the spot like a spider on an icicle; frozen in time.

For a moment, she does nothing but stares at him, being rendered speechless. For many times, Tobias Carrick never fails to surprise her. Just when she thinks she has him all figured out, he comes sneaking in through her windows like a thief in the night and it just strikes her, how he really is an uncharted territory for her. Despite her having him pinned under her, exploring the hard planes of his body under the touches just a few hours ago.

The man is like a fucking myth, at this point. She knows him only from stories and her limited time around him, but who is exactly Tobias Carrick? Is he the competitive doctor at Mass Kenmore, the Machiavellian asshole that severed his friendship/relationship with Ethan for the sake of his greed and ambition? Or is he, Tobias Carrick, the man who saves her life, makes her laugh and kisses her shoulder in the afterglow?

She’ll probably never know.

“Yeah, my roommates will probably deploy a search party if I don’t come home tonight,” she replies, distracted, finally finding her own voice back. He nods, feigning disappointment- or is he not? She clears her throat and continues putting on her clothes. “I thought you left.”

He chuckles at the absurdity of her deduction. “And without saying goodbye?” Carrick rolls off of the bed and rises to his feet. He’s already wearing his pants- thank fuck for that- and approaches her. “I may be an asshole, Castelnuovo, but just so you know, my mother raised me better than that.”

So they’re back to their usual last name basis perimeter. That’s good, right? After all of this, she thinks a little familiarity would be nice for her sanity.

“Good to know, then.”

Silence encompasses the room. It’s awkward and overwhelming and it throws her a little off-balance. At the bar, they seemed to know exactly what to say to each other- especially him; but now, even she can sense the hesitation in his gait, at the way he’s looking at her and a faint alarm is trilling her head. Because if he’s making this awkward, she can do a whole lot of worse.

"Oh, before you ask, that makes up for pretty much everything, yeah. I mean, it’s alright.” You fucking dumbass, she thinks to herself, averting his gaze while a smile blooms on his face.

“Good to know, then.” He parrots her words and she huffs a laugh, freely and sweetly, like she’s currently not knee-deep in her problems or she’s just fucked the most incorrigible man that ever exists. He does too, but his gaze lands on her mouth before going back to her eyes.

Another silence passes. It’s time to go.

“I have to go now.”

He nods mutely and moves away so Claire can step past him.

She wears her coat. In the mirror, she still looks thoroughly fucked; her hair’s dishevelled, she smells like him now, but she really needs to go. She promises herself that this will be a one time thing because, Jesus fuck, she’s supposed to be smarter than this. She’s not fifteen anymore, and this is not the summer where she can watch the sunset from the cornfields with her cousins even though his eyes possess the same color.

Yet she walks toward the door in a daze, like she’s forgetting something but can’t pinpoint what it is.

“Can I-”

“Hey, do you-”

She stops, mid-turning, and closes her mouth. She doesn’t realize she’s interrupting him.

“Oh, sorry,” Claire says, embarrassed. “You go first, it’s alright.”

“Can I have your number?” he asks, uncharacteristically hesitant.

She thinks he’s joking or maybe he’s just feigning interest, but one look at his eyes and she can tell that this isn’t smoke and mirrors.

The eyes, chico. They never lie. It’s dumb, but that line from Scarface is the first thing that comes to her mind. That’s why when she hands him her phone, her hand is shaking slightly. She has to bite her lip to stop herself from grinning like a maniac.

Claire takes a cursory glance at her phone once he returns it. He saved his number solely as t.c. with the water drop, the syringe, the ghost, the eggplant, the firework emoji and she chuckles endearingly, questioning the universe how he can easily get both a rise and a laugh out of her.

“I’ll text you?” Carrick asks again and she nods a little too enthusiastically at it, but what the hell?

“Sure.”

“Alright.” He takes one look at her, steps closer and for a moment, she thinks he might be going to kiss her.

“Goodnight, Claire,” Carrick says instead and she nods, admitting the fact that he’s not going to do it.

“Goodnight to you too, Tobias.” Then pauses at the doorway, feeling surprisingly bold. “I gotta give it to you, though, for someone who’s become the bane of my existence for months, you’re a damn good lay.”

He barks out a laugh, obviously, that Claire can hear all the way down the hall. And she thinks she can get used to the sound.

fin.

Tag list: @villain-fuckarooni @beckaroo @arfeiniel @this-person-is-busy @colossalpainintheass @drethanramslay @hatescapsicum @theeccentricbibliophile

#playchoices #open heart #tobias carrick #tobias carrick x mc #open heart mc #oh mc #pixelberry #choices stories you play

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sweeethinny · 3 years

Note

Hello, I’m not sure if ur still writing, but if u have the time could u write abt the time draco found out he likes Astoria? I kinda HC them having an enemies to lovers/ bickering type relationship.

thank you anon! and sorry for delay <3 I don't think it went very well as you asked, but I tried ahahahah I write about them interacting and discussing, but I thought it was more interesting to do Draco being dramatic after realizing that he likes Astoria

I hope you like it, I didn't think it would sound so melodramatic, until I reread it and realize that yes, it's dramatic lol

May contain trigger for drinks

Read below the cut :)

He shouldn't be doing this, he shouldn't even have cared that much when he saw her walking beside that Auror. He should have gone to his lonely and empty house, listening to nothing but the silence that surrounded him, while his grumpy father sends him a thousand letters complaining about the new laws, or that Draco had surrendered beside the Ministry and forgotten family roots. Perhaps his mother would send a letter as well, asking when he would see them.

But Draco hated himself enough not only to have watched her and that rascal Auror having dinner together in that stupid Muggle restaurant, but Draco bought two liters of firewhiskey with the rest of the money in his wallet, and borrowed two books on the history of the Muggles in the Ministry library, where he had already found her once, reading those same books.

He was sitting on the floor in the living room of his house, drunk, reading a book about Muggles, while thinking about her.

In her, and in her long and infinite legs, hidden behind the skirts and dresses she wears, those high heels that always make her almost almost Draco's height, making her look like the most menacing and most beautiful woman of all. With the silk shirts that seem to be perfectly sewn for her, grabbing her breasts and drawing the waist, disappearing under the high-waisted skirt that draws her hips as if it were one of those muggle dolls he saw that she keeps in the first drawer in her office. The black hair that is always perfect, and Draco feels an insane urge to run his hands and mess it up, see what it would look like after they spent hours making out on a sofa, bed, or against a wall. Her eyes... Her eyes of a person who will end your life if you allow it.

And Draco allows it. He always does.

He remembers the smile she gave to that Auror, not even like the looks of disgust and anger she gave him, whenever they met at the Ministry. Draco thought that she didn't look at anyone else, as she looked at him, and it wasn't a compliment.

Leafing through the book and swallowing some more, Draco remembered how many times he tried to hate her; The day he saw her accusing him of selling an old, cursed chandelier to a muggle. All the times she ran away from him looking like she was afraid of having to face him. The way she looked at him, when Draco accidentally left the tip of the snake's tail marked on his arm, appeared while he handed her another cursed object that he found in the hands of a stupid muggle.

She looked so disgusted that embarrassment burned Draco like pure ember, and he wanted to sink further into the floor with the memory.

Draco felt ashamed of the past, even panicked when he ran into Potter, just thinking about all the destruction he witnessed. It took years of believing in something, so that in a few hours, everything would be destroyed and all his convictions would fall down. He felt like a selfish sucker.

Of course, Astoria hated him. And she was not the only one.

But still, he ached as if a thousand giants stepped on his heart, remembering to see her at the date with the Auror.

Draco wanted it to be him. Reading that stupid book that told about Muggle war and female participation, he wanted it to be him. Let him be a decent man and have the courage to ask her out.

Astoria was so scary that she would have put Voldemort on the run. Those eyes made Draco forget all the words he had learned.

He wanted to kiss her hand gently, and then at the end of the date, look forward to a good night kiss. Would she give him a kiss on the cheek, a peck to make him full of desire, or a complete kiss? He wanted to feel her delicate hand touch his skin, to smell the sweet smell that emanated from her and stayed on his clothes for hours, to kiss that magnificent meeting of the neck with her jaw, where perhaps Astoria was tickled.

He would never know if she was ticklish, or the taste of her kiss, or what soap she used, even, what it was like to get one of those smiles that she distributed to everyone but him.

Draco never had a chance. It was a losing fight.

Taking another long drink, he finally finishes off the first bottle, lying on the floor with the book open on his chest.

Great shit to fall in love with a Greengrass that makes him doubt all the beliefs he grew up surrounded by.

Astoria bewitched him, and now he was questioning everything his father and mother had taught him, but in the end, he was still alone and earning her disgust... Draco snorted, looking at the roof of the old apartment he had rented, just to leave the family house, a little tired of all the tension that surrounded the mansion.

Maybe tomorrow when they had to meet again, for Draco to explain about one of the artifacts she had seen being sold in a Muggle boutique, he would try to show that he was trying to be different, and that he was starting to learn more about Muggles, mugleblood, and all those that for years he saw as inferior. He would try to make her smile just for a second, and he would try to smile too.

Draco really wanted to change, wanted to learn, but something told him that even if he tried until the end of the days, he was never going to be able to tell Astoria that he was hopelessly in love with her since they first met after the war. And that, made him open another bottle, defeated, listing everything that idiot Auror had and he didn't.

And the first thing, is possibly the most primordial, a clean forearm of any brand that linked him to Voldemort.

‘’Yeah,’’ He spoke to himself, numb from the drink. ‘’It’s a losing fight.’’

#draco x astoria #Draco Malfoy #drastoria #drastoriaprompt #drastoria angst #astoria greengrass #draco is such a drama boy

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floralfloyd · 4 years

Text

A Field of Flowers - Samuel Castell Chapter 2

Afternoon all, I just want to say thank you for reading the first part of A Field of Flowers and that it means a lot that it’s getting such great feedback. So, it’s taken me longer than expected due to power shortages and a rampage of kittens taking over my room but here’s the second part. I hope you all enjoy!

Word Count: 1248 words

Chapter 1 Chapter 3

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Samuel Castell stood inside the governor’s cottage discussing company business. His voice was raspy and smooth, just how Lucille imagined it. She didn’t want to interrupt but her days in Jamestown were numbered if she couldn’t get herself a man or at least the job of a maid.

As she stood ready to knock, she felt a presence behind her.

“Ah, Mistress Smith, what could we help you with on this visit? Unless you’re snooping” Temperance Yeardley, an older woman and wife to the governor stood in front of the brunette.

Lucille stood stunned for a couple of seconds as she let her mind think over what she had just been asked, me snooping? Before turning around “Oh, not snooping Lady Yeardley, I was on my way to talk to you actually but realised that your home was busy and was about to turn back”

“Is that so? Well, what would you like to speak about?” she asked as she gripped tightly onto the leather covered bible in her hand, almost if evil would come if she was so much as to let it go.

“I over heard on the ship that you and your husband were to be looking for a maid to help with the upkeep of your home” Lucille adjusted her cloak as she fished her mind for the right words “and I’d like to offer my services. Back home in England I worked part time as a maid for a wealthy family. I still know all the tricks.”

Temperance raised an eyebrow as she listened to Lucille present her case before nodding “That’s very kind of you, Mistress Smith, I shall offer you employment until you can find yourself a husband. After all God did grace Jamestown with the presence of women to bless the men with wives and bearers of babes” she smiled softly “You may start tomorrow morning early after morning bible reading at five, you may join me for that if you so wish”

“Thank you, Lady Yeardley, I promise I won’t as so much let you down. As for the bible reading, I’d like to turn you down on that one. I do my morning prayers at sunrise, it’s the only piece of home life I can really keep around here” she gave the most sincere smile as she moved to let the governors wife access to her own home but as she stepped back she hadn’t noticed where she was putting her feet.

Lucille closed her eyes preparing for the impact she was about to have with the stick wet mud, but it never came. The only sensation she could feel was like she was floating on a cloud of cotton. Her emerald eyes opened to be met with the same piercing blues eyes they landed on at the Wharf a day prior. Her breath caught in the back of her throat again as she became a rambling mess.

“I’m so so sorry, sir, I…I... didn’t seem to be watching these clumsy feet of mine and misplaced my footing…” she rambled hopelessly as her cheeks went a soft shade of rose.

“I can assure you that it’s alright Miss, the main thing is are you alright?” Samuel asked as he gazed over the young woman in his arms as he set her upright. She was absolutely gorgeous, he thought as he let her go taking a step back.

Lucille nodded as she dusted off her skirt making sure that everything was in place, not wanting to look anymore like a fool in front of the man who simply took her breath away, no other words were needed to describe how she was feeling.

“Umm, yes, I’m alright, thank you from saving me from hitting the muck. I’m Lucille” she held her hand out for him to shake

“Samuel Castell” he took her delicate hand in his large one before placing a soft and gentle kiss on her porcelain coloured skin. “It’s no problem, I couldn’t just ignore a young lady when she was about to fall. I hope to see you around more Lucille, it was nice meeting you” His smile could make any woman swoon for miles on end, never mind poor Lucille.

From afar, Jocelyn Woodbryg watched on, deep down she truly didn’t love Samuel, but it didn’t mean she couldn’t pretend. As Samuel began to make his way back towards his own home, Jocelyn chose her time to swoop in like the saint she made out to be.

Lucille watched with a heavy heart as the gorgeous blonde woman linked her arm with the recorder and laugh at something he had said.

A week had passed since Lucille had arrived in Jamestown, the young girl had got herself a small chalet on the edge of the town, nothing to fancy or big, just the right size for a bed and some chairs.

Whilst humming the tune of a nearby songbird, her long bony fingers worked in the soap on the weekly wash by the river edge. She was the first to arrive at the spot and the last of the maids there. The girl liked to make sure everything was done perfectly for her employers.

Samuel Castell was returning from a walk along the riverbank as he spotted the figure sat at the waters edge, her humming capturing his attention. As to not startle the brunette, he decided if it was best that he kept walking.

Lucille was more observant than most had penned her out to be and had spotted the recorder out of the corner of her eye. “Are you just going to walk by without as much as a good afternoon, Master Castell?” she asked as she placed the shirt down in the wicker basket at her feet.

“I didn’t want to startle you, Mistress Smith and please, call me Samuel” he smiled as he took a seat on the riverbank beside her

“That’s very kind of you, Samuel. You may call me Lucille if you’d wish” she smiled a genuine smile as she moved to finish washing Governor Yeardley’s shirt

“How about Lucy? It’s shorter and less formal sounding” the suggestion made Lucille’s cheeks heat up, it was a simple suggestion, but no one had ever shortened her name. Nodding she agreed as she folded the cream coloured cloth into the wicker basket “So, how are you finding being a maid to the Yeardley’s?”

“I’m really enjoying it if I’m honest, I’m not one to sit round all day and do nothing with my time. It’s a routine and one that makes the bread” she said softly as she began to stand up.

The grass was still damp from the morning dew making it extremely slippy and as Lucille nattered on about how working for her employers her footing became slippery and before she knew it, she was on top of the handsome recorder. Gulping she gazed up at him red in the face as neither of them moved.

Samuel’s mind raced miles per minutes as his gaze caught those of the emerald eyed beauty inf front of him, was it fate that kept bringing them together like this? He knew it was wrong, but he began to edge closer until his nose was nuzzled against hers and just as their lips were about to meet, the two acquaintances had to quickly jump apart causing Lucille to lose her balance.

“Lucille Smith! I’ve been looking all over for that face of yours!”

@supernaturalee @queensdivas @im-an-adult-ish @what-wicked-delights

#gwilym x reader #gwil lee #gwilym lee x reader #borhap cast #jamestown #samuel castell #samuel castell x reader #17th century #novel

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writinginstardust · 5 years

Text

Warm Inside

Pairing: Dorian Havilliard x reader

Request: anonymous asked: “Hello darling!May i request a Dorian Havilliard x reader where he sees the reader naked for the first time and it is just so fluffy”

Warnings: nudity and injury

A/N: This took the longest time to get to because I couldn’t decide which idea to go with but I went with this one in the end and I’m glad I did because it’s so soft and I actually kinda love it a bit (except the title but you probably know I’m bad at titles by now).

Word Count: 2229

The muddy water of the stream seemed to freeze my body in an instant as I was thrown into it and submerged in its icy depths. Luckily it was shallow enough for me to stand with ease, unluckily I'd twisted my ankle and wading the short distance to the shore felt like an impossible feat. The wind and rain whipped at my chilled skin as I limped forward, fighting the current that wanted to drag me downstream with every agonising step. Two familiar hands reached out to me as I drew closer to the muddy bank and Dorian pulled me out onto the grass.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N), are you okay? Are you hurt?” His worried yell was almost whisked away completely by the howling wind. I nodded, yes to both questions, and pointed to my left ankle and wrist, knowing my voice would never be audible over the storm. I knew he understood when a concerned frown settled on his face. There wasn't time to check how bad I was hurt right then and I knew he hated having to wait but we needed to get out of this storm, to somewhere dry and warm, before either one of us froze.

With seemingly minimal effort, Dorian lifted me onto his horse and climbed up behind. He grabbed the reins of my horse and brought us back to the road before urging the horses into a gallop towards the town nearby. Fortunately we weren't far away and as we stopped by the inn I could only hope the guards whose horses had bolted could find their way easily.

The warmth of the hearths fell over us like a blanket as we entered and I sighed in relief. Raindrops dripped from my clothes and wood creaked beneath my feet with every step across the room. The innkeeper looked up at our approach, a surprisingly friendly smile on his face, before doing a double take as he recognised us beneath our sodden cloaks.

“Your Highness, Lady (Y/N), what an honour.” His voice was low and he did little more than a quick bow of the head so as not to draw attention, obviously noting the lack of guards with us. “Are you in need of a room? They aren’t exactly luxurious but they’re warm and beat being out in this storm.”

“A room would be most welcome and may I request a hot bath as well? (Y/N) ended up in a river... hence the mud.” Dorian gestured at me and I rolled my eyes.

“I think he could work out the mud came from the river himself.”

“Not necessarily my dear, you could have had a bout of madness and decided to roll around on the ground or something.”

“But you already mentioned the river, why would he think anything else?”

“You never know what people might think.”

“You’re impossible.” I turned back to the innkeeper who had been watching our conversation with a faint smile. “Sorry about him.”

“No need to apologise. I assume you’re happy with a double room? It’s our nicest and the only vacant one right now but if i’m misunderstanding I can get someone to change rooms.”

“No need for that, we wouldn’t want to inconvenience anyone and we’re perfectly fine sharing. Assuming we can get the river stench off (Y/N) anyway.” He grinned mischievously and I scowled at him.

“Honestly I don’t know why I put up with you sometimes.”

“Maybe because I’m dashingly handsome and actually have a sense of humour unlike most people at court.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You wound me my love.”

As we’d been talking the innkeeper had gestured over a girl around our age and asked her to ready the bath in our room. She smiled at us both, eyes wide with surprise and disappeared upstairs before we’d even finished talking.

“Hopefully our travel companions will show up here sometime, we lost them in the storm. They’re 4 royal guards, 3 men and 1 woman. If they turn up could you let us know? Whatever the hour, I don’t mind being awoken, I’d like to know they’re alright. And if there’s any way you could accommodate them I’d be very grateful.”

“Of course, I’ll find somewhere for them to stay should they arrive.” He smiled and slid a key over to us. “Your room is up the stairs, 1st floor, door at the far end. I hope you’ll sleep well and can I say, you make a very lovely couple.” I felt my cheeks heat at that as Dorian just smiled and thanked him before taking my hand and leading me to the stairs. Our relationship was still fairly new and my first, it was something very few people knew about. Even though I’d been hopelessly in love with Dorian for years I was a bit embarrassed he could tell so easily.

Climbing the stairs took a little longer than it should have as I struggled up with Dorian's help so by the time we made it to the room the bath had already been drawn and was steaming temptingly. The girl from earlier bobbed a curtsey as we entered and asked if we needed anything else. She seemed nervous and Dorian assured her we'd be fine, allowing her to leave which she did with surprising speed. I made a note to thank her before we left. She seemed nice if a little shy. Dorian turned to me once the door was safely locked and pulled off his cloak and jacket, tossing them over a chair with my own. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he spoke.

“Do you...uh...need me to help? With your clothes or anything else? I know this is a rather large step but your wrist...” He trailed off clearly as nervous as I was about the situation. We'd decided to take things slow since it was all new to me and being undressed before him was...a lot. But trying to bathe without the use of one hand didn't seem like an easy task. I'd struggled enough just to shed my cloak and jacket.

“I'm- I think I might need a hand...if-if that's alright?” My cheeks felt like they were on fire and I couldn't look at him as I accepted his offer. He stepped in front of me and cupped my dirty face in his hands, making me look at him as he gave me a reassuring smile.

“It's alright to be nervous but I promise you don't need to worry. Just let me know if it's too much and we'll work something else out.”

I took a deep steadying breath and nodded. He smiled and kissed me quickly before pulling away and walking behind me to untie my hair. After that he worked methodically on removing the rest of my sodden clothes, checking I was okay with every article before peeling it off my soaked form. Every few seconds he dropped a kiss on my cheek or neck or shoulder, murmuring soothing words and little jokes that made me giggle and took some of the awkwardness from the situation.

With the last of my clothes gone a shiver ran through me and I wasn't sure if it was from the slight chill or Dorian's gaze. Before I could start feeling too awkward Dorian pulled me into his arms and just held me until I felt more comfortable, hands stroking soothingly over my back.

“You okay?” I nodded and he took a step back, lightly brushing my hair back and pressing his lips to my forehead. “You’re beautiful (Y/N). Even covered in mud and smelling like a river, you’re so beautiful.” I huffed out a little laugh, thankful for his ability to lighten almost any mood and make me feel at ease.

He took my uninjured hand and helped me into the bath. As the warmth of the water enveloped me I couldn't contain a sigh of pleasure and simply relaxed in the heat for a moment as Dorian discarded his shirt to keep it dry while he helped me.

Dorian’s fingers started carding through my hair, untangling the knots gently before he grabbed the soap nearby and started washing it thoroughly. The feel of him massaging my scalp and smoothing down the length of my hair so carefully was absolute heaven and I let my eyes flutter shut to more fully focus on the calming sensation. Too soon he was done and rinsing the soap out and a little knot of fear formed in my stomach. He was going to have to help me wash - I knew I couldn't do it myself - and it quickly started to feel like too much.

The sudden tenseness in my body didn't go unnoticed by Dorian and he put down the wash cloth he'd reached for, turning to me with worry in his eyes.

“Are you alright?” He asked softly and twined our fingers together on the edge of the tub.

“I...I just…” I struggled to articulate what I was feeling but he understood immediately what the problem was.

“Darling it's fine if you're not comfortable with this. There's nothing to be worried about but i understand if it's too much.” His free hand came up to cradle my face and the soothing motion of his thumb caressing my cheek started to relax me. He was right, there was nothing to be scared of. I mean this was Dorian, the man I loved and one of the sweetest, most considerate people I'd ever met. I could do this.

“No it's...I'll be okay. I trust you.”

He smiled and leaned in to press a lingering kiss to my lips. I closed my eyes and leaned back against the tub as Dorian picked up the wash cloth and started gently washing the mud from my skin. The whole time he whispered soothing things and little jokes to me as he slowly cleansed and warmed my body.

I felt tingly and light by the time he was done, despite my initial anxiety at the situation it was the most comfortable I'd ever been. With only a little warning Dorian lifted my from the water and set me carefully on my feet. He grabbed a large towel and cocooned me in it before pulling me into his chest and littering my face with little pecks that had giggles bubbling from my lips.

He was the perfect man I decided as he helped me dry off, keeping his eyes on my face as his hands roamed almost shyly. I was lost for words at his efforts to keep me from any discomfort or anxiety even after being naked around him all that time. His proximity and the tenderness pouring out of him might have had something to do with that too.

Leaving me with the towel, he crossed the room to pick up his shirt, walking back to me and sliding it over my head. It was then I realised we had no change of clothes until the guards arrived. The shirt hung to mid thigh and i was thankful for its size as I remembered I'd have nothing to wear with it.

I attempted to dry my hair one-handed and failed miserably before Dorian took over and did his best to get the remaining water from it. It was still damp when we had to stop and admit defeat but hopefully the heat from the hearth wouldn't take long to finish the job. After brushing through my hair as best he could with his fingers, Dorian gently turned my face to his and brushed his lips lightly over my own.

He lifted me with ease and laid me gently on the bed, pulling the covers over me as I curled up on the surprisingly comfy mattress. It didn't take long for him to take his own bath and join me in bed when he was done.

“Let me have a look at that wrist.” Wordlessly I held it out for him to inspect and he took it in both of his, brow furrowing as he concentrated. I hissed and winced occasionally as he moved or prodded it. “Sorry. I think it will be okay but I'll get something to wrap it in for you.”

Before I could protest he’d left the room to see what he could get from the innkeeper. I sighed and snuggled deeper into the warmth of the bed, feeling my eyes drooping with exhaustion more with every passing second. I was almost asleep by the time Dorian returned and, lacking the energy to move much, allowed him to wrap my wrist and ankle without a word. It felt nice to have him taking care of me and the gentle brushes of his fingers against my skin as he did was incredibly soothing. He finished just as i felt my awareness fading completely and i feel asleep with a smile on my face as i felt his arms wrap around me and his lips against my forehead. If I’d stayed awake a little longer I might have seen the loving smile directed at me, felt the hand stroking through my hair, or heard the whispered I love you, but for now they would remain known only to the man beside me and the gentle embrace of the night.

Tag Lists: (send an ask if you want to be added!)

Everything: @wonderfilledness

Dorian Havilliard: @myblackconfessions

Throne of Glass: @astressedwriter

#dorian havilliard #dorian havilliard imagine #dorian havilliard x reader #dorian havilliard x you #dorian havilliard fanfic #dorian #dorian fanfic #dorian imagine #dorian x reader #dorian x you #tog #tog imagine #tog fanfic #throne of glass #throne of glass fanfic #throne of glass imagine #fluff #dorian fluff #reader insert

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nerdy-flower · 6 years

Text

@sinunamor here it is! This is part 1 of a 3-part headcanon I’ve had for a while, I really hope you like it! Sorry it took forever ;^;

Hugo knows change has come to roost when Ernest's dinnertime debriefs turn from reluctant, barely-there details to soap-opera recaps with all the accompanying comedy and tragedy.

“-and I didn't even know this, but Mackenzie told me later, that they were dating before he even dumped Emily, which is like- come on, dude. Did you look at all your options and pick the douchiest possible one?”

“That is very selfish,” Hugo says, frowning around a mouthful of chicken. “I always thought Pat was a nice young man.”

“So did I!” Ernest snorts, stabbing at his rice and sending some spilling over the side. “He's literally the only reason I've been hanging out with the theatre kids. The rest of them are so-”

Damien cuts in as Ernest briefly flails, searching for a word. “Dramatic?”

“Weak,” Ernest pulls a face, seemingly physically pained by the quality of the dad-joke, while Damien appears rather pleased with himself, chuckling into his hand. “Anyway, so Mackenzie said that Pat told her he was just going to keep it on the downlow, basically, until summer because Emily's moving, right? It won't be as awkward then. Except I guess they kind of forgot that their Insta accounts aren't private? So now everyone knows, and Emily has to stage manage her ex-boyfriend while he has a romantic subplot with her former rugby teammate. Because that's not going to go terribly at all.”

“Good heavens,” Damien replies after a moment, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “I don't recall any tales so tangled from my youth, but then, perhaps I've repressed all that nonsense.”

“Didn't they get voted 'cutest couple' in the yearbook?” Hugo cringes as Ernest enthusiastically nods, kindly not answering with his mouth full. “Oh god, and that just went to the printers- No wonder Ms. Lee had aspirin with her lunch today.”

“Yeah, it's all like ten levels of stupid,” Ernest grumbles, not even distracted by Duchess' damp nose nudging at his lap. “I swear, I'm gonna have like no friends by graduation because I can't deal with everybody acting like they've found their soulmate and then dumping them in two weeks. No one our age is gonna get married until our thirties, anyway, shit's expensive.”

“Language,” Hugo chimes in, met with the usual roll of the eyes and offended huff.

“One's youth can be rather fraught and strained,” Damien adds with a knowing grimace, their cutlery clinking audibly against their plates in the quiet coziness of Hugo's dining room. “But you'll find people who don't engage with those sorts of theatrics. And besides, those who do will soon grow out of it.”

“Yeah right, I've heard that one before,” Ernest scoffs, returning to his food. He's quiet for the rest of the meal, and their walk through the park at dusk, Duchess and her boy running ahead. Damien's fingers find Hugo's after sending a quick check-in text to Lucien, and he feels a tentative kind of bliss run through him in the warmth of the setting sun.

***

Hugo's deep-down, etched-on-his-bones love for his job keeps him motivated through all the obnoxious students, righteously indignant parents, and illogical funding cuts, but he does keep a small, hate-fuelled torch burning for outdoor supervision. It's especially hard not to envision his student loan payments going up in smoke while breaking up fights, confiscating cigarettes, or discovering another hopelessly unoriginal piece of lewd graffiti.

Today has been blissfully quiet, if blanketed by damp warmth. He wipes sweat from his brow as he continues his circle around the middle school building. A new fast food joint had recently opened down the street and the promise of buy-one-get-one fries had draw most of the troublemakers away. With the bell approaching, he turns to head in and spots a familiar orange hoodie near the emergency exit ramp behind the library and sighs. No one is ever up to anything good behind the library.

He's still a good thirty feet away, obscured by the parked rustbucket cars in the student lot when he glimpses a shock of pink hair attached to one of his Comp Lit students from Ernest's grade. Tahereh is her name and she's giggling, along with his son, and leaning in awfully close- Nope.

Nope, nope, nope. He turns on his heel and walks away as quickly and quietly as he can. His son deserves privacy, and he had mentioned being paired on a geography project with that girl-

Hugo blows out a sigh, purposefully forgetting the follies of his own adolescence before he gets himself worked up over nothing.

***

A lengthy text conversation with Nick is an unusual relief. He would have preferred to do it by phone, but the man is in England of all places on a work trip. Besides, it's a little more private should Ernest come strolling in.

HV: You're sure you're okay with me taking the helm on this one?

NH: Oh yeah, I'm not worried. You're better at this kinda stuff than I am.

NH: I'll be home in a couple days so I can run recon if things go south lol

Hugo does manage to chuckle at that. Nick instructs him to break a leg and says he's turning in but to text if need be. A lengthy message pops in from Damien, having been Hugo's confidante the previous day, reminding him that his own similar chat with Lucien a few years prior was awkward at the time, but went a long way in maintaining good communication. As well as reassurance that Hugo is a wonderful father with no reason to doubt himself, and this is another prime example of it.

The usual expressions of affection at the close never fail to make Hugo smile. He types a slightly longer than necessary reply and pushes his glasses up. With a silent pep talk, he heads upstairs. It's not like he's going in blind. They've had plenty of very open talks since Ernest was small. About bodies and boundaries and babies. This topic isn't inherently uncomfortable, it's on him to shake that mindset.

Ernest's room is in its usual disarray, but he beckons him in quickly and takes his earbuds out. Flat on his back with his tablet held overhead. As good a start as any.

He assumes the best non-threatening parental figure pose, sitting on the edge of the bed with his elbows on his knees. Ernest is way too clever to fall for the small-talk nonsense so he skips to the point. “I hope you're not upset by this, but I saw you and Tahereh behind the school last-”

“What the hell?” Ernest bites back, anger narrowing his eyes as he drops his tablet and sits up fully. “You're spying on me now?”

“Of course not!” Hugo answers, quick and even with hands held up. “I was on yard duty, I turned right around. The only reason I'm bringing it up is-”

“She's not my girlfriend,” Ernest spits back, blushing and running hot. He draws his knees up and hugs them, a habit leftover from his toddling years. “We just kissed because we're cool like that. It was whatever. Don't make a big deal out of it.”

“I'm not, I promise,” Hugo says, confused and not entirely convinced but trying not to let on. “But say you did find someone you liked and wanted to start dating them, your Pop and I wouldn't be opposed at all. I only wanted to check in with you about er, safety and-”

“Oh my god,” Ernest covers his face, dragging the last word out into a strangled note of exasperation. “I've had sex ed like five times already, I don't need this. Please just shut up.”

Hugo decides admonishing him via their no 'shut up' rule would only make things worse. “I know you have all the basics covered. I just need you to know that you can always come to me or Pop for anything, okay? Don't ever feel embarrassed.” He reaches into his shirt pocket, takes a deep breath, and removes the small cardboard container, pushing it across the comforter towards his son. “And if you need these at any point, don't-”

“Oh my god, no,” Ernest's scowl deepens, the blush creeping down his neck as he explodes in frustration. “No, no, no! I'm never gonna need those, so just get the hell out of here!”

Hugo feels the wrinkles crease on his face as he struggles to say the right thing. Had the divorce put him off the idea of relationships entirely? God, he's too young to be thinking that way, isn't he? “I just want you to have these in case, you know, you meet someone and you want-”

“I don't 'want,' I never have and I'm never going to!” Ernest throws his hands up, eyes still flashing. “I'm a fucking freak, are you happy now? Get out!”

Hugo does not, merely stills as Ernest mashes his face into his knees, actually vibrating from anger, sadness, or both. It nearly does him in, there's nothing that hurts him more than seeing his son in pain. Thankfully, he had said just enough for the puzzle pieces to snap together in Hugo's head.

When the boy's breathing evens out, Hugo dares to inch closer, the mattress sagging with his weight. “Ernest, you're not a freak. There's lots of asexual people in the world and-”

“Name one.” The snappish tone is muffled by denim and knobby knees.

“Well, I mean, I don't know any personally,” Hugo says, rubbing the back of his neck. “But they do exist, they're not unicorns.”

“Unicorns don't exist? This entire day sucks.” They both laugh hesitantly at that, a sigh resounding from under the orange hoodie. “Mrs. Finn said in health that people who say they're asexual are just dealing with like, trauma or whatever. We're all driven to make more people, so it makes no sense scientifically.”

Hugo silently counts to three in his head. “Have you ever been hurt?”

That finally picks his head up, glaring at his father again. “No!”

“Then clearly that's not true. Ca- Mrs. Finn is sadly misinformed.” And would be told as much, without directly mentioning Ernest. Seniority be damned, he was going to have words with the Board that's what it takes. He manages a small smile for Ernest. “If sex is only about reproduction, how do you account for gay people?”

“Gay people can still like- do what's necessary to make a kid.” Ernest waves a hand towards himself. “C'est voila, or whatever.”

Hugo snort-laughs at that, he does admire his son's wit even in serious moments. “Well, so can ace people. There's lots of ways to make a family.” Ernest merely grumbles in reply and looks away. “And- I know it really doesn't seem that way sometimes, but there's a lot more to relationships than the physical bits. They're important to some people, but not everyone, and not in the same way.”

Ernest stays resolutely silent, staring at a fraying movie poster on the wall. “You will find someone who loves you, mijo. It might take time, but you'll find them.”

“Yeah, when I'm finally old enough to join Virgin4Virgin dot net.” Ernest only slightly resists his dad's chastising ruffle of his hair, glancing down at the box of condoms with moderate disgust. “Can you throw those out and we pretend this never happened?”

“I'll put them in the bathroom cupboard. I'm not saying you will, but if you ever did want to be with someone that way-” Hugo tucks the box in his pocket as Ernest's pained groan cuts him off. “Listen, this could have been much worse. Before I went to my first party, your Abuela made me sit at the dining room table and wouldn't let me leave until I correctly put a condom on a banana.”

“You're lying,” Ernest replies blankly, only for his eyes to bug out at Hugo's unfailing stare. “You're serious? Oh my god, that's- I can't believe Abuela is capable of such savagery.”

“You don't know the half of it,” Hugo chuckles darkly, then carefully touches Ernest's shoulder. “Hey, I'm really glad you told me. I won't tell Pop, that's your conversation to have with him.”

“Thanks,” Ernest glances down, frowning and fidgeting in place. “Can I like, go now? I promised Carmensita I'd help her set up for open mic night.”

Hugo smiles stiffly, moving out of his son's way. “Yeah, you can go now. Text me when you're there, alright?”

Ernest makes a non-committal noise and hurries down the stairs, drawing the attention of Duchess. Hugo shuts the bedroom door behind him with a small sigh.

***

Carmensita's dad comes with the most fringe benefits by far. Not only are they allowed 'backstage' provided they help out and don't cause trouble (Ernest never has, something about how calm Mat is kinda intimidates him to be honest, it's the ones with the longest fuses that you have to watch out for), they get to enjoy the whole show for free and eat/drink anything leftover at the end of the night. Even if some of the acts are a little weird, it's still way cooler than sitting around watching TV.

“Hugo knows he's picking you up, right?” Lucien asks over the roof of his secondhand car, keys in his hand. “I've got plans after.”

Ernest grins wide. “Man, don't ask him out if you can't even say his name right.”

Lucien somewhat-gently shoves him as they cross the small parking lot. “Hey, have you ever heard about shut the hell up?”

He disappears into the crowd and Ernest soon finds Carmensita. He's been spending way more time with her lately. Girls aren't gross about sex like all his guy friends are now, making “that's what she said” jokes literally every five seconds. She's also one of the last vestiges of sanity in his grade, as off-put by the constant dating drama as he is. They sit in the back kitchen, chatting with the younger, more anxious performers and talking about 'Hamilton' between sets.

“I'm pretty sure I'm gonna listen to the cast album once a week for the rest of my life,” she says, cheek full of Right Said Banana Bread, or whatever it's called this week. “And I'm totally okay with that.”

“Oh, once a week minimum,” Ernest nods eagerly, leaning out to watch some college kid plunk away on an acoustic guitar. Bo-ring. “I would straight up sell my soul to write that good. Like, find me one lyric that doesn't land. One, I dare you.”

“It doesn't exist,” she concurs, picking a crumb out of her front braces. “Oh! You'll never guess who's finally putting out a new album!”

“Who?”

And on and on it goes. Even though the linoleum hurts his butt, chilling with Carmensita is his favourite part of the week. No fighting, no bullshit, just goofs and talking about whatever. She's basically the funniest person he knows, doing an impression of Damien that has him choking on his own spit. It makes him forget everything else. Well, almost.

Once everyone files out, they pick up their brooms and try to clean up quickly while Mat counts the money. He heads into the back to put a bank bag together and leaves them jamming to the music still playing over the speakers.

Ernest stops polishing the counter to the beat, his curiosity getting the best of him. “Hey, 'Sita?”

Carmensita glances up, still doing something between the mashed potato and the tootsie roll while sweeping, not in the least caring about the backlit glass storefront behind her. He wishes he were that cool. “Yeah?”

“Do you think asexuality's like, a thing?”

“Oh yeah, sure,” Carmensita replies, knocking a couple muffin wrappers from beneath a table like she's going for the slapshot. “Why?”

“Eh, no reason.” Ernest shrugs and keep polishing. “Just seems kinda weird to me, is all?”

“Not really though,” Carmensita pushes her pink glasses back up, tucking the broom under her arm to gesture. “It's like that thing in that Bruce Willis superhero movie. If there's someone at one end of the spectrum, there's gotta be someone else at the other end, plus all the people in the middle, right?”

Ernest makes a considering noise, pitching his scrubber into the sink. “Yeah, you're right.”

Mat returns and they lock up, Hugo's car humming in the empty street. Ernest fist-bumps Carmensita as she heads off with her dad. “We're still on for the fair next Saturday right? I'm retaking my skee ball title this year!”

“In your dreams,” she sticks her tongue out and waves to him. “Don't get grounded, okay?”

“I won't!” Ernest grins, turning and shuffling towards the hopefully not-awkward, air-conditioned comfort of his dad's car.

#sinunamor #dream daddy #ddadds #hugo vega #ernest hemingway vega #there's a smidge of vegamarch #dream daddy hc #kind of a fic

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fourteenacross · 7 years

Note

For the fic summary, would you be able to do "The world turned upside down" with Lams?

I’m NOTICING A TREND in the choice of titles for all of these XD

OKAY, so I started writing this one at work Monday and then got distracted by boredom and life, so SORRY FOR THE WAIT, I still have two more to do after this.

ANYWAY.

PART ONEAlex and John have been friends since practically FOREVER. Or at least it feels that way. They met during college orientation and ended up dorming on the same hall freshman year and then moved into honors housing together their sophomore year and stayed there until graduation. They got an apartment right after school and lived together all through grad school, while John worked on his masters in elementary and secondary education and Alex dove into law school. They stayed together after grad school, too–Alex got a job at a firm in the city and John got a teaching job in Rockland or Westchester or something like that and it was easier to just commute on the MetroNorth than find a new place and a new roommate and all that.

Or, at least, that’s what John told everyone, because it was less embarrassing than saying, “Actually I’m hopelessly in love with my best friend like some garbage soap opera cliche and I’ll take any excuse to stay near him even though I know we’ll never have the kind of relationship I want us to have.”

Because Alex doesn’t do relationships anymore, and John has intimate knowledge of that. John watched Alex date around in college and drag a years long friends-with-benefits thing out with a girl in their friends group, the closest he would let himself come to a real relationship. In grad school, when Alex admitted that maybe it was time to settle down, John introduced him to a classmate of his, the nicest girl he’d ever met, the only person he could see himself not resenting, should she and Alex fall madly in love and get married. Except that blew up in Alex’s face, too–he was so busy with school and with life that their schedules never meshed and, in the end, it was easier for Alex to cheat on her with his old college fling than it was to build time for her into his already complicated life.

(“It’s not your fault, John,” she said after, while John, guilty for too many reasons to list and far more than he felt comfortable admitting to, gave her hugs and tissues and brought over a bottle of wine. “He needs to grow up and learn to take other people’s needs into account–there’s nothing you can do to change that. There was nothing I could do to change that. And I told him all of that.” She paused. “And then I set a box of his stuff on fire.”)

Right after law school, Alex tries one more time–this time with a guy they both knew from college, someone from history that I’d poke around and come up with, maybe John Andre–some too-suave asshole that John never liked much, but tolerated for Alex’s sake. And it was mostly fine at first, but it started to get stilted and awkward and eventually the dude ghosted him. John took him out for a consolation drink and tried not to be too pleased that it crashed and burned.

“The shitty thing,” Alex said, three vodka tonics into the night, “is that we’re not friends anymore! Like, I don’t have a ton of friends! And I liked him! I liked him, I liked…all of them. Eliza. Maria, too! When we were just hooking up, it was fine, but then I went and messed up with her and Eliza and…that’s what I need again. No more relationships–they ruin friendships. I can only date people I don’t give a shit about or like…hook up with my friends.”

“That’s…a way to go about it,” John says, and ignores the sinking feeling in his chest.

“You gotta keep me from crashing and burning like this again, man. Pinky swear.”

And he holds up his pinky and John fucking does it, even though he knows it’s the final nail in the coffin of any relationship they might have had.

So, yeah. John knows nothing’s going to happen and he knows he’s a little pathetic. He tries not to be. He dates around a little. He does his best not to be pathetic and pining. And why should he be? He and Alex are partners in everything–they live together, they make financial decisions together, they go everywhere together and do everything together. Alex sits through awkward Christmas dinners with him and his family in South Carolina, John goes with Alex to all his terrible office holiday parties and company picnics. Alex comes to fundraiser nights at the school when he can get off work, cheering John on in the kids-vs-teachers game nights and spending an embarrassing amount of money at the tricky tray.

(And it only sucks a little to say, over and over again, no, Alex is just John’s best friend, yes, John knows the school has a very strong non-discrimination policy, no, he’s not in the closet and trying to hide their relationship.)

There’s nothing more John could want except, you know, the kissing and the sex. All of the rest of it is already there, and if that’s the only thing he’s missing, then that’s okay.

This goes on for a few years, right up until John’s thirtieth birthday party. Their friends make a big fucking deal of it, Alexander leading the charge. There’s dinner out at their favorite dumb hipster restaurant with all their friends, then it’s back to their apartment for video games and cheaper drinks and cake and dancing. Everyone drinks too much–it’s like they’re all twenty-one again, except they’re too old to sustain it for long and by midnight, the living room is littered with their friends, curled up on the sofa, on pillows on the floor, leaning against the walls, but instead of being passed out from drinking too much, they’re just genuinely asleep.

John and Alex, meanwhile, are sitting in the bathtub side-by-side, fully dressed and passing a bottle of champagne back and forth.

“I can’t believe we’ve known each other for twelve years,” Alex says. “It feels like less and more at the same time. I can’t remember my life without you.” He puts his head on John’s shoulder and John’s heart sighs.

“I know what you mean,” John says. “It’s all a blur.”

“The future, too,” Alex says. “I can’t imagine a future where you’re not my best friend. Where you’re not there with me all the time, everywhere, you know? I can’t imagine my life without you.”

And he looks up at John and reaches up to push his hair out of his face and John forces himself not to do something really, really stupid.

“Same,” he says.

“Yeah,” Alex says, but he’s clearly not really listening any longer. He’s staring at John, like he’s a puzzle to solve. “Hey, why have we never hooked up?”

John blinks rapidly. “Um. I don’t…know.”

“Just…you’re fucking gorgeous,” Alex continues. “Like, you always have been. I can’t believe we’ve never had sex.”

“You’ve never…asked,” John says carefully.

Now Alex blinks rapidly. “You would if I asked?”

“I…think so.”

“Huh.” Alex keeps staring at him, then wraps a hand around his jaw and pulls him down for a kiss that he knows, John knows he should stop. He should push Alex away and say, I can’t do this if it means nothing to you because it means something to me.

He doesn’t.

Alex kisses him once, very sweetly, and then pulls away. “I think,” he says gravely, “we should definitely have sex. It would be fun. I mean, we do everything else together, might as well do this too, right?”

And it’s a terrible idea, because it’s crystal clear that Alex isn’t saying, I love you! Be my boyfriend! But John is drunk and it’s his fucking birthday and he only has so much self-control.

“Okay,” he says.

So they do. Alex gets up and he pulls John up out of the bathtub and they stumble first into John’s room, where Eliza and Peggy are sleeping in his bed, and then into Alex’s room where they kiss and laugh and joke while they strip each other and then have really good sex. Like. Annoyingly good sex. John is actively annoyed that sex with Alex is fucking excellent. It would be better if it was awkward enough to kill his feelings, but no, it’s great, OF COURSE IT’S GREAT, so there goes that hope.

In the morning, John is afraid things will be weird and ruined but that’s normal too–Alex kisses him when he wakes up and says, “That was awesome. We should do that more often, right?”

And John, still half-stunned by the whole affair and a smidge hungover, says, “…yeah, sure.”

And he knows it’s a terrible fucking idea, but he can’t make himself give it up. He’s not strong enough.

It becomes a thing that is simultaneously all he’s wanted and the last thing he fucking needs. Because things are totally normal! They go about their daily lives! They do everything exactly like they’ve always done it, except that sometimes, Alex will melodramatically throw himself across John’s lap on the couch and say, “I think you should kiss me” and sometimes he’ll get into the shower with John and sometimes he’ll just outright say, “Will you come to bed with me tonight?”

And sometimes he doesn’t even want to have sex! Sometimes he’ll crawl into John’s bed and they’ll spoon and just talk like they did in college, when there was five feet of floor space between their beds and John was fucking longing for it to disappear, imagining what it would be like if they were doing this instead, curled up together, skin against skin.

And if he ups his usual trips to box at the gym from twice a week to three or four times a week–well, he’s gotta get all of this misery out somehow and now that he’s a public school teacher, assault charges from bar fights are not exactly stellar additions to his resume.

Ninety percent of the time, it’s fine. Ninety percent of the time, John can pretend they’re in love and they’re dating and that’s why they live like this. But every once in a while Alex will hook up with someone else or dance with a stranger at a bar or make a throw-away comment like, “I feel like you used to date more” over dinner, and it all comes crashing down and John has to get drunk with Eliza or Martha or even, twice, Alex’s partner at the firm, this guy Aaron Burr who’s kind of a cold asshole at times, but is one of the only people who will straight up say to John, “This is the stupidest thing I have ever seen, you’re ruining your own life and happiness.”

Sometimes, that’s what John needs to hear.

PART TWOFrom Alex’s point of view! It’s been a little over a year since Alex and John started their arrangement–it’s just after Thanksgiving and yesterday they had a very nice dinner with Alex’s boss and his family and today they’re taking out their Christmas decorations because it’s tradition. John is fighting with the boxes, standing on a kitchen chair as he reaches up to the very top shelf in the closet to get them down while Alex “directs” and thinks absently about how nice it is to have traditions, how comfortable and happy he is having built this routine with someone he loves so much.

It’s a Friday, they’re both off, most of their friends are away to visit family and whatnot, so it feels quiet and comfortable and relaxing in a way Alex’s time off sometimes isn’t. There are only so many hours free in a given week and sometimes he gets overwhelmed with the need to fill them all with friends and work and things, like doing nothing and relaxing will waste them. Today, though, there’s nothing to do but be here with John and that feels…okay. His thoughts aren’t overtaken by the ticking of a clock that reminds him that he only has so many more hours left on this earth and he still hasn’t written a book or done anything Worth Something.

John is updating Alex on all the family gossip so he’ll be Prepared when they fly down to South Carolina next month, sitting crosslegged on the couch as he untangles the tree lights, monologuing about why no one likes Henry’s new girlfriend. Alex is sitting on the ground in the corner, setting up their tree, and he doesn’t even really mean to look at John–the things he’s saying are just background chatter, nothing Alex can’t read between the lines from Facebook–but he turns around and maybe it’s the lighting or the smile on John’s face or the way he still has bedhead or his too-big hoodie or…well. Alex doesn’t know what it is. All he knows is that he’s overcome with the urge to burst into tears at the sight of him. He’s suffocating in how much he loves John.

And of course he loves John–John’s been his best friend for over a decade, the most important person in his life. John is his family, his partner, his…his whole fucking world. He has been for forever. It feels like forever, at least. Of course Alex loves him, John knows Alex loves him, Alex knows that John loves him back. But it’s like he’s seeing it for the first time. It’s like…it’s not just that he loves John, like he’s in love with John. Like he’s passionately, breathlessly, hopelessly in love. Like his heart is going to explode with it, like he can’t breathe right.

Which is…it’s bad, right? Because relationships do not ever work out for Alex, relationships just ruin his friendships, they always have. He’s fucking lucky he’s been able to salvage some of them, and really, the only reason he was able to patch things up with Eliza is because she was John’s friend first. He can’t fucking lose John–if he loses John, he loses his entire fucking life.

So he’s a little panicked. John notices, eventually, and asks him if there’s something wrong and he makes a vague excuse and goes to put on another pot of coffee, where he lets himself freak out quietly for the length of time it takes to brew.

Ultimately, this realization means nothing in the scheme of things. Life will go on–he and John have it good, now, they have a life together, they have the perfect relationship, romance be damned. Hell, they even sleep together sometimes! More than sometimes, lately, if Alex is honest with himself. He hasn’t really slept with anyone but John for at least four or five months, now. There just hasn’t been any point–if he wants sex, why chance it with some rando when he knows he can have great, fun, amazing sex with his best friend without leaving the house?

They have it good, is the point, and Alex absolutely cannot ruin that by getting his fucking feelings involved. He needs to think about this objectively. He needs time.

He gathers himself together and brings coffee in for him and John and if he shivers a little when John grabs his hand and pulls him down onto the couch next to him, he came blame it on the drafty windows and cool November air.

Alex gets through the weekend by sheer force of will, by pretending nothing has changed. Monday is a different story–he’s already at work, chewing on his fingernails and trying to focus on a legal brief when Aaron Burr comes in to join him.

“What’s wrong with you?” he asks. He raises one eyebrow when he says it. John can raise one eyebrow at a time and Alex has always thought it was a neat trick and pretty hot, but now that he’s seeing it in his mind’s eye, it’s turning his insides into putty.

“Nothing,” Alex croaks.

“No, seriously,” Aaron says. “Are you alright? Is John alright?”

And something must change in Alex’s face because Aaron immediately looks smug and bored. Both. Simultaneously. That shouldn’t even be possible.

“Ah,” he says. “I was wondering if you’d ever get there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alex huffs.

“You just realized that you’re ass over teakettle for the guy you’ve essentially been married to for as long as I’ve known you,” Aaron says.

“We’re not….” Alex says awkwardly. He can feel himself blushing.

“You are,” Aaron says, sitting at his desk and booting up his computer. “He’s even worse than you. I think he’s always known, maybe as long as he’s known you. He certainly acts that way.”

“Wait, what?”

The look Aaron gives him over his computer screen is condescending as hell. “Alexander, if you hadn’t realized that your roommate is obsessively in love with you by now, you have no business being this good of a lawyer.”

Well, fuck.

“Let me give you some advice,” he continues, and Alex settles in, arms crossed, preemptively glaring. The last time Aaron gave him advice it was to keep his mouth shut and be more pleasant, the sort of neutral garbage that Aaron does best. But this time, he surprises Alex. “You overthink things and then you sabotage yourself. You do it every time. Don’t ruin this by overthinking it.”

For once in his life, he’s speechless. All he can do is nod in reply.

Alex spends all day picking this new information apart in the back of his head. John doesn’t seem in love with him. John seems the same way he’s always seemed. Of course, if what Aaron said was right, then maybe that’s because John’s always been in love with him. But he would have said something if that was true, right?

He leaves work with a headache and being around John that night shouldn’t help it, but it does. John can tell something’s wrong, so after dinner he drags Alex to the couch and makes him abandon his work to watch a dumb movie on Netflix. They cuddle under a blanket. John kisses his forehead. Alex wants to marry him and adopt a million babies with him and kiss him in front of all of their friends. It’s horrible.

Because the core issue here is that Alex is fucking terrible at relationships. He’s ruined every single one. And if John is in love with him, maybe he’s already ruined this one. Maybe years and years of not noticing have burned out John’s feelings. Maybe John has built this up to something so perfect in his head that Alex can’t compete. Because Alex isn’t perfect–far from it. Alex is going to hurt him. Alex is going to completely destroy John, just like he completely destroys everyone around him. His beautiful, sweet, obnoxious, bullheaded, asshole best friend. His favorite person in the world.

He has no idea what to do.

And because he’s just the absolute fucking worst at this shit, he has to go and make it a zillion times more complicated.

He can’t help himself. He’s always had terrible self-control. So when they stay in on Friday night drinking and playing video games and John murders him in Mario Kart and does his dumb little victory dance, Alex can’t help but grab him and kiss him. He’s so fucking cute what the hell else is he supposed to do? He grabs John and he kisses him and John laughs and kisses him back and they stumble into Alex’s bedroom, laughing, and start to undress and halfway through the whole thing, Alex just gets…completely overwhelmed.

He doesn’t mean to make it different or weird or whatever, but it turns so quickly into something new and strange, something soft and tender and deliberate. Normally, they laugh and joke all through this, they rib each other and poke fun and grin, but tonight Alex thinks he might cry. He’s careful and slow and John goes quiet and soft, a little shaky with something not unlike desperation. It’s…it’s…intimate. It’s different and perfect and he’s never felt like this, never, and he knows it’s a terrible idea, but he falls into it fully, completely, embraces it.

He says, “I love you” in the quiet moments afterwards. He’s said it while they were having sex before, but he’s never said it like this, soft and sweet and honest. John looks like he’s about to burst into tears–he just lays his head on Alex’s chest and doesn’t say anything at all. They fall asleep that way.

In the morning, things are…weird. Alex maybe starts it–he normally gets out of bed long before John on the weekends, but he feigns sleep until after John has woken up and slipped out of bed and left Alex alone in the bedroom where he spends a few minutes just breathing and re-centering himself. Once Alex does go out to the living room, John is quiet and won’t make eye contact with him and every time he does, he flushes and looks away quickly. He’s trying so hard to be normal, but Alex can see right through it. He can’t blame John, though–he can’t quite seem to find “normal” either, stumbling over his words, self-concious about everything from what he’s doing with his hands to where he’s standing and how his hair looks.

They’re like that all day. It’s awful. It’s just–it’s the opposite of what he wants. It’s the opposite of what he and John have had for fucking years. He had to go and ruin it all with his goddamn feelings, just like he always does.

So, in the end, he makes a half-hearted attempt to hit the reset button.

“I think I’m gonna go out for a drink,” he tells John after dinner. “Just, like…to the place around the corner. Do you want to come?”

John is surprised. He can tell. And maybe hurt? At the very least, he looks resigned for the brief second he glances up at Alex before turning away.

“Nah,” he says weakly. “Go on. I might. Um. I guess I’ll just…go to bed early.”

Everything in Alex wants to follow him into the bedroom, wants to hug him and hold him and explain in a rush all of these feelings.

He does not listen to that part of himself. He makes some vague noise in affirmation, grabs his coat, and heads out to the bar.

The bar is loud and full of people and getting lost in the crowd helps him relax for the first time in a week. No one here knows him, no one here has any expectations of him. He can’t disappoint any of these people. He orders a drink that he finishes too quickly, then orders another, then takes it over to the corner, where there’s a woman standing at a high-top on her own, glancing coyly in his direction.

The music is so loud he needs to speak nearly directly into her ear for her to hear him and vice versa, which might be by design. He pulls out a few of his best pick-up lines, but the delivery is off. He keeps thinking about how terrible her perfume smells and how it will probably be a hike back to wherever she lives. He can’t bring her back to his place. Maybe they can hook up in the bathroom like they’re in college. But that seems like a lot of work too, especially for some stranger. She’s pretty, sure, but…he’s having trouble mustering up the energy to do anything about that.

He’s also not been listening to her for the past five minutes, zoning out completely as he weighs the pros and cons of sleeping with this woman.

Pro: She’s pretty. He has all of this energy that he needs to expend. He’s jittery. She’s here.

Con: He can’t stop fucking thinking about John.

Will John make him move out? Or maybe John will want to move out–Alex knows it’s only been luck keeping him in the city since he started teaching. He could have a much better commute and a much larger place for the same price if he left the city. John will probably move out and get a nice little apartment and he’ll start dating again and meet some gorgeous, smart guy. They’ll invite Alex over every once in a while. It’ll be awkward as shit. Alex will be John’s best man at their wedding and then probably barely ever speak to him again.

Fuck.

The woman is still talking and Alex is nodding along and now he’s definitely gonna sleep with her, because he can’t stop thinking about John and some mystery hot guy who’s gonna make him so fucking happy, so happy he’ll leave Alex behind. Alex who’s broken, who can never do this shit right without ruining it, without sabotaging it.

And then he’s thinking about what Burr said on Monday morning. Don’t overthink it. Don’t sabotage yourself. And, weirdly, from there, he’s thinking about the night Eliza broke up with him. You need to grow up! she had shouted at him through her tears. You need to realize that other people have feelings and needs and the world doesn’t revolve around you! If you really want to love someone besides yourself someday, try thinking about someone besides you for once!

He pulls away from the girl, abruptly, and then realizes she won’t be able to hear him, so he leans back in and says, “Hey, wow, I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” and pulls back again. He can see her lips form what? and he just smiles apologetically and starts to weave in and out of strangers towards the door.

He’s about ten feet away from it when it swings open and John is there, looking red-eyed and resolved.

“John?” he says, and John meets his eyes and says something that he can’t hear. “What?” John starts to speak again and then rolls his eyes and shoves his way forward. He grabs Alex’s arm and pulls him back towards the door, into an alcove next to it.

He’s still holding both of Alex’s wrists when he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then opens them again and stares right at Alex as he begins to talk, half-shouting to be heard. “Look, you should know–you should know I’m in love with you. And I have been for a long time and I just–need to tell you. I can’t pretend anymore. I can’t just go off and let you do this and pretend it doesn’t fucking kill me because it does. I’m in love with you, and I’m not saying that to guilt you or to…to force you to be with me. I’m saying it because it’s been going on for too long and I can’t let this be the rest of my life. And if–if you want me to leave, that’s fine. If you think this is going to make things weird, that’s fine. But I can’t sleep with you anymore, I can’t kiss you. And I can’t keep this up if you don’t know. So.”

John drops Alex’s hands and shrugs. They stand in…well, it’s not silence, because the bass is still giving Alex a headache and he still can’t hear himself think, but.

He grabs John’s hands, weaves their fingers together.

“Can we go outside?” he shouts, and John nods gratefully. Alex lets go of one of his hands, but keeps hold on the other and pulls John back out to the street.

It’s cold and windy, but Alex is filling with resolve. He’s not sure where it comes from–Aaron’s words or Eliza’s or John’s, the silence around them begging to be filled, the churning in his gut when he thought about sleeping with a rando at the bar, the way John’s hand fits perfectly in his own and always has, the fact that he’s thirty fucking years old and needs to stop being afraid of things he can’t control, the cautious, nervous look in John’s eyes.

“So,” he says, and turns to take John’s other hand again. “So. I was just coming to find you, actually.

John blinks at him. “Okay?”

“To like…basically say the same thing, I think?” Alex continues. “I just…yeah. I think I’m in love with you. And I think I probably shouldn’t try to, like…torpedo everything between us just because that’s really scary. Which it is. But also you’re my favorite person in the world, ever, and for the past week all I’ve wanted to do is like…kiss you and pick out china patterns.”

“We already have china,” John says automatically, and Alex can’t help the laugh that bursts out of him.

“Oh my god,” he says. “That’s really…you’re right. We already fucking have good china. Jesus.” He wraps his arms around John, still laughing, hugging him tightly. He practically melts when John returns the embrace just as fiercely. “I think we should probably get married or something.”

John sputters a laugh or maybe it’s something closer to a sob. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You’re gonna have to–like, I’m probably gonna be an asshole and panic every other day for the first few weeks, but you’re gonna have to be confident that I love you and I’m just a goddamn lunatic.”

“I already know those things,” John promises him. “I’m gonna be an asshole too, but probably not about this, just because…you know, I’m an asshole.”

“I already know that, too,” Alex says. “Aaron says he thinks you’ve been in love with me for forever.”

“At least since you stole that freezer full of ice pops from the dining hall freshman year and made me pinky swear not to tell the RA,” John confirms.

Alex suddenly, deeply wishes he could say the same thing. He wishes that his realization had come with some knowledge of one event, one day that he can pinpoint as the day he fell in love with John. It doesn’t, though. Maybe he’s always been in love with John or maybe it really happened just last week. It’s all a muddle of everything they’ve always been to each other. He doesn’t know when one stops and the other begins.

“I wish I had known sooner,” is what he says instead of me too. John laughs again and pulls back. He’s definitely crying. Alex is pretty sure he was crying before he came to the bar, too, and it makes him feel a little sick.

“I don’t,” John tells him flatly. “You were a fucking nightmare boyfriend in college and in grad school and even just after. Eliza’s a good person who limited herself to one box of your shit–I would have torched your whole closet.”

There’s a pause and they both crack up again and then start to stumble back towards home, still laughing, with their arms around each other, and Alex is a little scared and a little nervous and a little uncertain, but while he might doubt himself, he’s never in over twelve years doubted John for even a second, so he thinks they’ll probably be okay.

EPILOGUEBack to John for this. It’s about seven months later, the middle of the next June. John is finishing up final grades for his kids and Alex is lying on the couch typing something on his laptop. He keeps sighing theatrically and finally says, “Hey, can I run this by you?”

Without looking up, John says, “are you done with your vows, then?”

“No,” Alex says, “that’s what I’m running by you.”

John doesn’t know whether or laugh or roll his eyes or throw something at Alex. “You can’t have me workshop the eternal promises you’re going to swear to me in front of all of our friends!”

He throws his pen at Alex, just because. Alex ducks.

“No one would know better than you though, right?”

“If you don’t stop, I’m not gonna marry you at all.”

“That’s an empty threat, we’re spending a stupid amount of money on this thing.”

And they are. They almost went to the courthouse the weekend after they got their shit together. They would have if, of all people, Aaron Burr hadn’t caught wind of the plan and demanded they throw a party.

“You’ve made the rest of us suffer through this for years, the least you can do is give us cake and beer for our trouble,” he had said.

(Alex, he told John privately at their friends group’s holiday gathering a few days later, has not shut up about how smart and perfect and great John is since they first started sharing an office. Burr honestly thought they were married for the first month. He never wanted to say anything to John before because he was afraid to get his hopes up, but now that they’re two seconds from eloping, he’s happy to bitch extensively about how maudlin and affectionate Alex is all the fucking time and has been for years.)

So there’s going to be a wedding–a bigger one than either of them imagined, if only because they have a lot of friends and, somewhat surprisingly, a nice chunk of John’s family is interested in attending as well.

(“Does this mean we have to go to Henry’s wedding?” Alex asks. He is, by this point, very aware of all the reasons Henry’s girlfriend drives them all crazy.

“Unfortunately, I think so,” John admits.)

So there’s going to be a party, and it’s not like they had to spare expense. They already live together, they already have stupid adult stuff like furniture and matching bath towels and blenders and, yes, good china. No one has to move, no one is changing their name, nothing is changing, really, so they folded all those parts of a newlywed budget into an open bar and a nice venue outside the city. Almost every single fucking RSVP invitation is returned with some snarky remark scrawled on it, it’s about time or glad you stopped kidding yourselves about this. Every time he opens one and sees something like that, he throws it at Alex.

“Your fault!” he announces.

And then Alex, inevitably, says something ridiculous and cheesy and emotionally candid like, “Yeah, but I needed to work through my growing pains to really understand how much I love you” or “It is, but I would do it a hundred more times if it meant I could be as sure as I am that I’ll never want anyone else,” and John gets wibbly and lets him get away with it.

It’s so fucking annoying how sweet Alex can be sometimes. It drives him up a fucking wall.

So here they are, finishing up the last of their real life shit before the wedding. John’s got a week left of school, Alex has one more big case and some background interviews and research for one smaller case and then it’s July and they’ll be packing up to spend a long weekend in the country where they’ll get married in front of all of their friends. Married. Alexander is going to marry him.

He has to put his head down on the table.

“Are you okay?” Alex asks. “I was only joking about workshopping my vows. Well. Sort of.”

“I’m fine,” John says. “I just…can’t believe this is really happening. I can’t believe it’s real.”

Alex gently urges him to sit up and then pulls him away from the table and over to the couch. He slides his laptop under the couch and they both fall into a sprawl over it.

“I mean this, you know,” Alex tells him seriously. “I’ve never meant anything more than this. I want to marry you. I wanted to marry you six months ago.”

“No, I know,” John says. “I know you do. I trust you. I just…for a very long time, this seemed impossible.”

“I know,” Alex says. He frowns for a moment, then holds out his pinky. “But this is us now, okay? Forever and ever. Like I said, I can’t imagine my life without you and I don’t wanna, so this is me promising that we’re gonna be together for the rest of our lives. I’m not leaving you behind.”

And John links their pinkies together and they shake three times and then Alex is grinning at him brilliantly and maybe this meant more than any vows in front of a justice of the peace could possibly mean. Maybe this is all John really needs–him and Alex, alone and quiet and making this solemn promise to no one but each other.

Of course, they’re still going to have a party and a wedding–they’re still gonna sign paperwork and eat cake and dance in front of all their friends and listen to a million smartass speeches that start with, “I’ve known this day was coming for five hundred years.” But all of that will be icing on the cake of this quiet, private promise that John isn’t going to break for as long as he lives.

The end!

#not writing meme #fic by me #sort of #lams #john laurens #alexander hamilton #obligatory tag about how this is way longer than i thought it would be goes here

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