#still asks for consent over every tiny decision though which is fair enough I love player control but

[earl-grey-love]

I honestly love the new relationship content in the sims 4. Finally after all these years other sims make decisions without my input. The joy at being asked by Jake to be best friends. The elation of him asking my sim to be his girlfriend. Un-fucking-paralleled mate.

#i think most of it is paid content from the high school pack #but idk for sure cus I dont pay for EA's garbage at this point #its such a breath of fresh air though??? #npc sims having actual desires??? #i thought they could never lol #still asks for consent over every tiny decision though which is fair enough I love player control but #it also has its downsides #i didnt know my friends had to ask me if they should make friends with someone else? #sure we could talk about their budding friendship but cmon #its immersion breaking idk #i played the sims my entire life idr a time before sims #im gay cus of the sims it let me kiss girls when i was like 5 years old #and now im using the game to kiss fictional men to cure my depression #and its WORKING ✨ #levi speaks #ship: daredevils

[whatwashernameagain]

Keep him safe - Chapter 26

You can read the previous Chapters here: Ch 1, Ch 5, Ch 10, Ch 15, Ch 20, Ch 25, Previous Chapter, Ao3 Link, Lo’s, Pat’s and Virgil’s aesthetics, Fantasy AU You are Magical, I’m dying to be with you

Pairings: Logan/Patton, Roman/Virgil

Words: 9.842

Warnings: abusive relationships, anxiety, low self esteem, fear of sexual assault, described injuries, bathing, mentioned striptease dancing

Summary: Detective Logan Sanders and his best friend and dorky partner Roman Prince have made a dear friend in the lovely pattisier Patton. Logan however feels a lot more than friendship for the sweet man, even though he knows he cannot possibly have him. Their routine is broken abruptly when Logan finds bruises on Patton’s fair skin and slender wrists he could hardly have received from his costumary clumsiness. Meanwhile his partner Roman has his own demon to fight, which comes in the form of a little delinquent who seemed to have been pulled into a street gang quite against his will. Roman is determined to help the strange young man. It would be so much easier though if he just stopped hissing at him!

Notes: Late again. No one is surprised. However, I will have more time to write soon and will be starting on the next chapter as soon as I know what exactly I want to write about. Suggestions are very welcome! Thanks again to my amazing beta readers who corrected SO MUCH in record time! @ultimate-queen-of-fandoms2 and @hanramz-the-fander <3

Chapter 26

He couldn’t seem to stop shaking.

He was bundled up securely, his hand and arm hastily cleaned and wrapped by a paramedic that had mercifully patched him up as briefly as possible. He was in a place where he’d never been hurt before – Logan’s apartment – and still the shaking would not stop. He couldn’t focus on anything else. It seemed to seep into his very core, rattling everything loose – his lungs, his heart, his very emotions.

The rattling made him restless. Despite how heavy his limbs felt, some old, animal instinct told him to get up, to move, to find a spot that was dark and tiny which he could crawl into and not be found. He was far too exposed.

Agony shot up his leg as he tried to stand before he’d consciously come to the decision, startling a soundless cry of pain from him. His ankle throbbed with heated, angry sensations, twisted as he’d fallen when Trevor had hit him. Try as he might, he couldn’t seem to manage to put any weight on it, despite having walked off so many injuries. It was the shaking – he was so weak, cold and unsteady, he wanted to pull himself together so badly, he had to, but everything seemed so hazy whenever he moved, nausea and dizziness threatening to overwhelm him whenever he tried to get up, to not be in the way and be noticed and draw more anger towards himself. This was bad, being vulnerable was bad. It invited worse things every time. Every sound made his heart thunder anxiously, he just wanted to hide and not be seen, he felt so ugly. So unsafe.

Patton flinched so hard he felt it in every bruise on his slender body. The knock had been very soft, just a gentle warning against the not quite closed door, but it felt loud. Tears of shame and terror made his vision swim as he was confronted with how gentle he was being treated after causing so much destruction.

“Yes?”

He could only speak the word quietly, annoying and feeble, he’d never be heard this way and everyone would have to wait for him to repeat himself again-

The door creaked open softly. He’d been listened to.

Logan stood on the other side, much more composed than before, and blessedly alone, respecting Patton’s wish for privacy. He could not be seen by anyone else this way, the humiliation of having been so very wrong would break him. Patton felt like he was about to fall apart as it was. Like a fragile little thing with shattered, bird-like bones. Yet his quick gaze took in the man before him on instinct, noting the hunched shoulders, the sock clad feet, the lack of a belt and service weapon, the fact that he’d dressed down to his pristine white shirt to soften his image. There had been blood on his vest and jacket, he recalled shamefully.

“May I come in, Patton?”

His voice was very gentle, almost calm enough to hide the tremor in his voice. Poor Logan, he was distressed!

“O-of course. I mean -you don’t need to ask, this is your room! Please don’t be- I shouldn’t- I really don’t want to- to take up too much space and cause a fuss, you don’t need to worry about m-me or feel sad, I don’t want to- I don’t want to cause t-trouble-”

“It is alright, Patton.” Logan interrupted his increasingly frantic, breathless mumbling soothingly. “You are not imposing. I could not begin to express how relieved I am to know you are here now. I would not want you anywhere else.”

Tears threatened to blind Patton upon hearing the sincere reassurance. Logan – considerate, gentle, wonderful Logan – had tried his hardest to hide how shaken and hurt he was, but he’d never been good at keeping things from the young man. Still he was a steadying presence in the room, large and quiet. Slowly, so as not to startle his guest, he offered the tea he’d left to fetch for Patton to take.

The mug had cooled a little, he noticed, so not to burn his skin. I was a wasted effort, considering how badly his hands were shaking. With his injured hand wrapped and of little use, Patton managed to spill a bit of the hot tea over his bandage immediately.

Logan reached out quickly to steady him.

The flinch caught both of them by surprise. Patton whimpered, flooded with sudden terror. The mug slipped from his numb hand and was barely caught by Logan who must be furious – the white carpet under the bed – he’d – Patton pulled his hands to his chest and curled into himself, silent as a mouse, feeling every single one of his injuries as if he were just receiving them, feeling tiny and terrified. He sensed Logan freeze over him, a wall of muscle boxing him in. Squeezing his eyes shut, the patissier waited for his hair to be grabbed, for the screaming to start.

The clink of china being set down was loud in the utterly still room. Then heard nothing but his own shallow breathing and the rushing of blood in his ears. Though he tried so hard to anticipate what would be done to him, the dizziness and the burning pain of his cuts made it hard to focus. His head felt strange and hazy and he felt exposed.

“Patton?”

Surprise made the smaller man pause. Logan sounded much farther away than he’d expected. Blinking burning eyes open, he found him backed away against the door, wringing his hands anxiously. The mug sat next to his feet innocently. He did not look angry.

“I am sorry for startling you.” He uttered very softly. He hadn’t expected a man so large speak so quietly. “Please, is there anything I can do? Would you like me to leave, or ask Virgil to...”

Patton shook his head. He didn’t want to be alone, yet he was afraid to be approached, to anger someone with his mistakes. He didn’t know what he wanted. To feel nothing, perhaps. To not have broken things so badly in the first place. He wished he hadn’t done all the terrible, dumb things that had caused them all to be here, hurting and sad and burdened because of him. He’d only wanted to love Trevor, to have a family, but all he’d done was cause him pain. He’d trapped him and betrayed him and he’d left him, unconscious, and who knew what Logan would do with him now?

A small sound of defeat escaped the younger man. He couldn’t help him anymore. Logan had seen him hit Patton and he’d be so angry, he’d put him in prison. Oh my gosh, Trevor wouldn’t survive there, he didn’t even know where he was right now, with no one to comfort him after Patton had just… broken him. The memory of his tear stained, twisted, angry expression made cold fear stiffen the baker’s limbs, yet the guilt weighed much more heavily on him. He only noticed that his shaking had turned into painful, rattling sobs when he realized Logan was rambling at him.

“...please, just- let me know how I may help you! I cannot imagine what you are going through right now but I promise we will fix this, somehow. You’ll have whatever you need. Please, Patton, please believe me.”

He looked terribly lost on the other side of the room, unable to touch Patton and therefore barely knowing how to make things better. His pleading cut the gentle man like a knife between ribs that were aching and bruised. He wanted Logan to be alright, he wanted to feel safe in his arms, yet he felt frightened of what he would do to Trevor. He realized with sharp clarity that he had no idea what this protective man might be capable of - the thought scared him. He knew he had no right to ask anything of him and might just make things worse with his insolence – he had every reason to be furious at Patton’s impertinence, yet the irrational plea burst from his lips without his consent.

“Please don’t hurt Trevor!”

Logan stilled. A terrible look washed over his face. It was worse than anger. He looked baffled, hurt, defeated.

He neither raised his voice nor his hand against Patton.

A long moment passed.

“I will not take any measures without your consent.” The promise sounded like he had to rip it from his own, bloody chest. Hearing his voice was like a stab to Patton’s heart. He hated himself for this.

“I’m so sorry.”

The words broke out of Patton like a sob of a frightened child.

None of this would have happened if he had listened to all the people who’d told him – over and over again – to leave, to stop trying, that their relationship was bad. Logan had told him. This very day, he’d looked at this brilliant, well meaning man and had told him he knew better than him. Humiliation made his face burn.

“Logan, I’m so sorry- you t-told me it wouldn’t work. I’m so stupid, you must think I’m the most foolish person and now you’re feeling bad because of me and s-surely- surely Virgil is really distressed and- and I shouldn’t ask you to- I hurt you and I know you shouldn’t- but- but it’s all my fault, he d-didn’t- he can’t help it- please-”

“Patton, please stop.” The detective pleaded. Panic welled in him upon seeing this precious creature’s suffering. He wanted to grab him and press all of his shattered pieces close, yet he hardly dared to touch him. Patton had never looked smaller or more fragile. His lovely face was discolored with bruises, pink and reds bleeding together around his cut lip and swollen cheek. Even his hair was still mattered with blood where it had been pulled too harshly. The brutal sobs shaking him had made his face redden and shine with tears. Logan’s hands felt too big and rough to touch him. He hardly knew what he was doing in ordinary situations, how was one supposed to fix suffering this unimaginable? How would Patton ever recover from this?

“I’m sorry.” The patissier mumbled. Ever attentive, he’d spotted his protector’s helplessness. His chest felt heavy with grief so great it was crushing him. He’d hurt Trevor so terribly, and now Logan was in pain because of him. All he had ever wanted was to help the people he loved so much sometimes he felt like he couldn’t breath from it, like there was not enough space to fit both his lungs and his emotions in his narrow chest.  His face burned as he recalled Trevor’s twisted, reddened face, caused by his failure to love him.

“I’m so ashamed.” He admitted in a small voice, feeling the words break in his throat.

A wounded sound escaped the taller man. He felt his expression melt out of his control – a picture of pain and weakness when he needed to be strong the most. Oh so carefully settling on the bed next to the patissier, giving him time to pull away, the detective cupped his delicate, discolored face in his large hands with utter gentleness. His voice was rough as he spoke, as if the very truth of his words rose from the burning behind his ribcage and scalded his throat with how much he needed Patton to believe them.

“Patton, you have nothing to be ashamed of. Something terrible was done to you by someone who was supposed to love and protect you. Who failed to protect you - like I did. We, the men in your life, are supposed to feel ashamed for failing to live up to the way you accept and care for all of us. Everything you are responsible for is your honest attempt to heal us from wounds inflicted to each other and shield us from ourselves, because we are not like you. You are a man who will love even when everything is lost. It is your primary response to the world and – it will not always work. Sometimes, love is not enough, but that is not your fault. In a world as good as you deserve, it would be.”

Feeling his vision blur, Logan rubbed at his eyes with a shaking hand, unable to see Patton through his tears and frustration. His words kept spilling from him with little more control than he had over the salty droplets falling between them.

“How can I make you understand – Patton - when I look at you I feel – hope. You are too good, too gentle for this world. But that does not mean we get to hurt you or that you need to change. It means we need to reach for your example. Your pain and ours is not your fault but the effect of our failure.”

He gave up on drying his tears.

“Patton, you are not to blame because you gave him your everything. No matter how broken and undeserving a man is, you take him with his flaws, without judgment, and give everything you are, hoping to heal what the world broke not because there is any hope left, but because you refuse to leave anyone behind. The strength it must take to uphold this fight, this life – it humbles me. Patton, you leave me awed whenever I look at you. Even bruised and hurt by a relationship that failed, you didn’t because you are stronger than anyone I have ever met. You were cut and beaten by the world and responded with kindness. I don’t understand it, because I am not – I am not like you, but I admire you for it. I know you are in pain now and that you must feel like you will never recover from this, but even though I have little of your power, I will- I would like to...”

Patton was in his arms.

He felt where the blood had tangled his fair locks together where the smaller man pressed his head under his chin, felt his trembling in the strong arms he wrapped around the slender body. Patton’s breath was ragged where he pressed himself against him, as if he could hardly be close enough. As if the embrace of his man, who saw him not as ugly and broken but as strong and beautiful, could take him to a place where nothing could hurt him. He closed his eyes and held on.

Soft sounds reached them from beyond the walls of the bedroom. Roman’s voice was so deep and honey-rich, Patton imagined he felt it seep into the warm wood of the floors and walls and reach him through the very air around him. Virgil was there with him, responding to a soft warbling with the pitch he’d reserved for the neurotic raccoon stress-gnawing on objects. The sounds were faint, almost drowned out by the steady heartbeat under his ear. He pressed closer, letting the melody of the flat around him flow into the awning hole ripped into his chest by unforgiving hands, sharp words and terrible, suffocating guilt.

“You’re trembling.” Logan remarked softly. His hands were large and warm on his back, yet the coldness in his limbs would not quite go away. His fingers felt icy where he’d twisted them in the pure white of the detective’s shirt.

“I-It’s okay. Just cold.” Patton mumbled.

He was no stranger to this feeling. When things were especially bad and his hands shook too much to dress his wounds for long hours, sometimes this coldness settled into his bones that no desperate amount of blankets he’d wrap himself in could chase away. It happened when his shame and exhaustion were so great they threatened to grind him away to nothing but dust carried away by the breeze. There was no heat left in his brittle form. No will left to keep it warm and alive. In those long nights when Trevor took his frustration and pain out on him and then slammed the door behind him, Patton was pathetically wishing for a warm body to hold him, for Trevor to come back and forgive him, for anyone to wrap him in their embrace so he would not have to feel so alone.

Logan pressed him closer with a gentleness at odds with how firmly he brought them together, as if he could not bear any space between them. Patton’s bruises hurt, but he tried to curl in tighter, smaller, make himself tiny enough to disappear, so he didn’t have to be so cold. His breath caught as he realized he wasn’t alone with the chill this time.

“Would, um-”

The patissier quieted his ragged breathing, noting his protector’s unsureness.

“Would you like me to- to draw a bath? I know you are feeling…”

Hurt, broken, ashamed, needy to be held and hidden from the world-

Patton swallowed the bitter, clingy words with difficulty.

“...unsteady. It is only an offer and I will not- I would not want to push you into anything, but I cannot help noting how cold you are. The shock is likely affecting your system, and I have learned that it helps some – survivors – to feel more safe and clean when they – when-”

“I’d like that. Thank you.” Patton responded quietly. They had no bathtub in their flat, and often standing had been too difficult or the spray of hot water too painful on his body. He felt so drained and tired of hurting and trembling that he wanted to try. Even if the idea of peeling off his bloodied clothes, his last line of defense he’d gotten to keep today, make him anxious.

Logan was as gentle with him as he’d been the whole day. He helped him up with careful hands and pulled him close steadily when he noticed the wince of pain caused by his sprained ankle.

“May I carry you?”

His voice was deep and soothing. Patton closed his eyes and focused on nothing else.

Being picked up by the detective was nothing like being grabbed by Trevor. He was out of control when he was tentatively lifted off his feet, but he knew he would not be dropped or restrained. Not wanting to be seen, he buried his face in the man’s neck as he crossed the corridor, breathing in nothing but his scent. Sounds – Roman’s concerned rumbling, Virgil’s softly treading feet and an excited mewling, reached him from the kitchen, a respectful distance away.

The bathroom smelled nice.

It was the first thing he noticed upon being enclosed in the warm, tiled room and dared to turn his head. Roman had clearly widened his territory and left his many, sweet scented products covering the various surfaces. There was more furniture than last time he’d been here, he noticed. A small table with a dark, wooden chair had been placed close to the window. Various boxes and brushes and other beauty products were scattered around a mirror almost obscured by the spotted orchid spilling its flowers over the table as it grew at an odd angle. The detective had clearly tried to wrangle it under control with sticks and string, but had made little progress so far. Slowly, Logan lowered him onto the cushioned chair.

Quickly starting to fill the tub, he kept his voice very gentle.

“I will be just outside in case you need anything at all. If, um, if you like, I can help you with- with your clothes, only as much as you want me to, of course! And you may of course feel free to wrap yourself in a bathrobe or towel to bathe, if the additional cover provides you with added comfort.”

He was blushing, Patton noticed. Though anxious about the situation, the taller man’s insecurity put him at ease. Logan was far too concerned about his comfort to try to take advantage of him, the rational part of his mind told him. Yet he could not bring his heart to stop racing.

Tentative hands on his own made him realize how firmly he’d been clutching his bloodied shirt. His cut hand was throbbing awfully.

“You do not have to do this, Patton. I can simply carry you back to bed and tuck you in with some warmed pillows. Or I can ask Roman or Virgil to assist you, if their presence might make you more comfortable. I would absolutely understand you not wanting to be so… vulnerable in front of me.”

“No! I can’t- Virgil can’t see me like this.”

He couldn’t bear to be so ugly, so disappointing in front of someone so strong and hurt as Virgil. He’d wanted to support him and make him feel safe, not burden him by breaking apart when he was needed. He had been supposed to be the one to take care of the former gang member. He’d been supposed to be strong and reliable and now he was failing at both.

Roman was out of the question as well. The man was so gentle and sweet, he’d never expose him to something like this. Seeing him suffer by being confronted by someone as sad and broken and sick as Patton – he didn’t want that for him.

It was true that his feelings about Logan were conflicted sometimes. He was still shaken by what the man had done to Trevor, but despite the shame and frisson of fear shooting through him at every sudden move, he trusted Logan not to injure him. Moreover, he wanted him here. Logan was tough and intimidating, overly protective and dangerous, and he was safety. He was patient and gentle and kinder than anyone had ever been to him and his hands and words were steadying and encouraging him every day since they’d met. His voice captured all of Patton’s frightened, jumbled thoughts and brought them here, into the present where Logan was taking care of him and so willing to... it felt like loving him.

Patton’s thundering heartbeat slowed.

“I can undress myself, but… would- would you help me get into the tub?” He asked softly. Something calmed in Patton’s chest as he saw Logan nod vigorously, so willing to serve and protect.

“Of course! I will wait outside. The towels and bathrobe are right here, just call and I will, um… Yes, I will be right outside.” He rambled, backing away as he spoke, clearly awkward. The patissier felt more of his fear drain away, replaced by soft feelings for the man almost stumbling over his feet in his haste to give him privacy.

Undressing was as painful as he’d expected. Bending forward to take off his socks made him terribly dizzy. For a moment, he had to steady himself at the tub next to him as black spots from pain and nausea made his vision swim. Sweat dampened his clothes from the effort as he moved. He knew he was taking a lot of time to peel out of his shirt and pants and was worried about making Logan impatient, he was really trying to be quick, but there was little he could do to speed up the process with his bruised abdomen and bandaged hand and arm. The torn skin on his forearm throbbed painfully as he pulled his shirt over his head. Trevor had shattered a glass so close to him against the wall that the splinters had cut him.

He was quivering like a leaf and feeling weak and helpless once he was finally wrapped in a large robe. Even breathing seemed like too much of an effort for a few long minutes. He was so tired. By the time his icy hands had managed to tie the robe around his small waist, the tub had filled. He felt barely conscious.

Logan stepped into the room quietly upon being called, as if he were afraid any sound would make Patton shatter. There was no hiding the distress on his face upon seeing the state the patissier was in.  His face was pasty white under the discolorations and the robe had slipped down and exposed one thin, harshly bruised shoulder, adding to the gruesome picture of his beaten face. The younger man turned away with shame, fumbling with the fabric with numb fingers. Carefully, the detective grasped the material and pulled it closed.

“It is alright, Patton. You have nothing to be ashamed of.” He promised earnestly. In contrast to the image he knew he presented, Patton was painfully aware of how handsome the other was though. His clear cut features, his dark, clear eyes and long, graceful limbs clad in expensive fabric. He felt small and dirty in comparison. The patissier knew exactly how he looked. He’s seen it in the mirror often enough, late at night or early in the morning, trying to cover up bruises in the cold light of their bathroom.

Trevor was ashamed of hurting him. Every time. Sometimes, that shame made his words about his looks sharp and hurtful. It did not mean they weren’t true though.

Yet, Logan did not look repulsed as they gazed at each other. His expression was very soft.

“May I lift you now?”

Yes, being in the warm water and not having to sit upright anymore sounded like a great idea. And it was. Compared to his chilled hands the temperature felt too hot, yet he knew Logan had made sure not to scald him. His bruises burned uncomfortably in the heat, but the pain would pass. Despite the initial discomfort, after only a few seconds, Patton felt his tense muscles loosening. Laying his head down was a blessing – Logan had even hastily laid a towel at the edge of the tub so he could rest his head against it. The young man tiredly watched him kneel next to the tub fold a second towel over its edge to place his bandaged arm and hand on top of the fabric comfortably. He was having a hard time taking in so much consideration.

Despite the heat, his body was still shivering from a coldness deeper than the skin. In comparison, his bandaged hand felt even colder. Logan appeared to notice and tentatively curled his own, warm hands around his smaller limb. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on the pale skin, distracting him from the pain.

“Would you like me to leave you alone? What can I do?”

A husky laugh escaped Patton that had nothing joyful about it. He still wanted to do more? After saving him and carrying him around like a useless child? He’d already done so much while Patton was doing nothing but selfishly take more, need more from him. He pulled his knees close to his body, feeling small and naked and awkward even with the robe wrapped around his bruised body. When they’d met at least he’d felt he could offer a nice place to stay to the detectives and feed them, take care of them. He’d wanted to take care of them. But the longer they’d known each other, the worse Trevor’s paranoia had grown and the needier Patton had been.

He really only wanted to love and heal everyone he cared about so deeply, but he’d made his own boyfriend distrustful and sad and violent and now he leeched off Logan’s kindness and still failed to respect what he’d given him. His eyes started to burn where they were fixed on the bandage. The perfectly white fabric was stained with the tea he’d spilled and it suddenly felt terrible.

He felt guilty and afraid and he knew he should have taken better care of it and he would not cry anymore. He’d been messy and annoying enough. Biting his lip hard, he tried to pull himself together, almost managing a smile after a moment.

“It’s fine. I’m perfectly fine, thank you so much, Logan. You’ve done so much.” He promised lightly. His hand had grown stiff in the detective’s hold as if trying to avoid drawing attention to the ruined fabric and the possible consequences. Concerned and insecure, the taller man looked down to where Patton’s cold fingers had tensed, fearing he was overstepping.

“I apologize if my contact made you uncomfortable.” He muttered, drawing back his hand. “I should have asked before initiating it. Would it be alright if I changed your bandage? I promise to be quick so not to cause you any further distress.”

Oh.

Patton’s breath caught quickly at the mention of the bandage, fearfully hunching his shoulders. He did not know what he expected, but no more accusations or anger emerged from the concerned detective.

“I’m sorry I ruined it.” The patissier mumbled, fighting the instinct to draw his hand closer to his chest. He shivered despite the warm water lapping at his collar bones like a liquid blanket.

Blinking in surprise, Logan hastened to reassure him. “It is of no consequence. Whenever Roman injures himself, his bandages need changing several times a day when he suffers accidents with his makeup or nail-polish. He irrationally appears to fear his appearance might suffer due to any injury and attempts to make up for it with especially colorful cosmetics. I will take care of it right now, if you do not mind.”

Patton waited for the other shoe to drop, but Logan simply gazed at him patiently. After a long moment, the tense limbs uncurled slowly.

“Oh- alright. I can do it myself, though. You really don’t have to. You must be really uncomfortable sitting on the floor like that and I already took up so much of your time.”

“I would like to do it.”

And that was that. Logan dug out the first-aid kit and unwrapped the cut hand with the utmost gentleness. One layer after the other came off and still nothing but the sound of lapping water and quiet breathing filled the room. More than a little awed, Patton observed the look of concentration on the handsome man’s face as he touched him as if he were a fragile, newborn bird. He had a hard time understanding why he wasn’t angry. Anger always followed him after days like the one he had just survived. And then, he recalled a day early in their friendship. Logan had come to fix his lights with barely cleaned scabs on his hands. Patton had taken care of him. He had knelt before him much like Logan was beside him now and had silently wrapped his hand and arm. He had liked doing it.

Fear and tension finally seemed to seep out of him, making him almost weightless in the warm water. Seeing Logan from Patton’s perspective made him suddenly, clearly understand why the man did all of this. He liked taking care of people. Perhaps… perhaps he was more like himself than like Trevor. What a novel thought, to see Logan not as the hardened cop with the frightening temper – severe and dangerous, but to understand that he was just a man wanting others to feel safe and good, a man just wanting to help, like Patton, and that he sometimes did not know how to do it right – like Patton.

When the detective looked up to check if the changing of the bandage had hurt him, Patton curled his fingers around the larger hand and smiled, warm and loving.

“Thank you.”

For the first time, the words were not spoken with fear or guilt, but calm gratefulness. The tone seemed to shake something loose in Logan’s chest. His posture relaxed with a shaky breath. He smiled back – a small, tender expression.

“You are welcome, Patton. Now, tell me what I may do to make you comfortable, please.”

“Okay.” Patton answered softly. His insides felt very warm, suddenly. What a welcome relief from the freezing loneliness and despair that had nested so deeply in his chest. Yet, the image of Trevor standing over him, raising his fist to strike, his shaking hands undoing his fly, his body lying on the floor unmoving kept threatening to creep up on him. He needed a distraction.

“Would you tell me a story?”

Contemplatively, the detective brushed his fingers over the sensitive inside of the smaller man’s wrist, casting his mind back to find a suitably light anecdote to lighten the mood.

“Did I ever tell you about the incident that led me to arresting Roman?”

Patton perked up, interested and a tad worried about his big friend. Poor Roman, he hoped they hadn’t had a fight! The corner of Logan’s lips turned up at the memory though. The baker shook his head curiously.

“I’m afraid I am not much of a storyteller. You are advised to allow Roman retell the story to you at a later occasion.” Logan warned a little shyly before beginning his tale.

“We had not been partnered for very long and were still working at our first precinct. Roman had been out of commission due to a viral infection for a week while I worked a case of a robbery. It proved to be a stimulating puzzle. Though the evidence I had gathered was circumstantial, I believed to have located a group of five middle aged women as the possible culprits with reasonable certainty. All I required to close the case was a warrant to search the premises they had chosen for their operation in order to identify the serial-numbers on the money I believed they had stored at the apartment. Unfortunately, my previous Captain believed I had imagined the connection on a basis of a misogynist mindset.”

Patton gasped, scandalized at the accusation. “But that’s not true!”

Logan ducked his head, feeling his ears heat upon being defended so passionately. “No, certainly not. However, Captain Smith failed to take my logical reasoning into consideration. Additionally, he did not appreciate my calling out the hypocrisy of his belief that women were incapable of robbing a money transport.”

“I bet he didn’t.” Patton mumbled, feeling his admiration for the other man grow. He could clearly imagine an annoyed Logan telling off a superior officer fearlessly. Surely, he would not be scared to stand up for himself.

“I was frustrated, since I irrationally believed the case would surely be solved already had I been able to rely on Roman’s insight. This assessment, based on emotion rather than evidence, angered me further due to it being unprofessional.” The detective confessed, focusing on Patton’s small hand in his bashfully. The slender fingers looked very delicate in his own, rougher ones.

“To my great consternation, it looked like I would not be able to adequately complete my assignment due to a lack of creativity or ability to convince my superior. Then, however, Roman returned.”

Patton leaned closer, captivated by the little lift in the older man’s voice. Although composed and calm as usual, he seemed fond and pleased at the memory.

“Upon being confronted by my less than tranquil mood, Roman asked me to elaborate on all of the details of the case. After my conclusion, he excused himself briefly and returned in a regular police uniform, grabbed my hand and escorted me outside. Once we had arrived at the apartment building the suspects had taken residence in, he asked me to wait in the car for him so I would not be recognized from the interrogations I had conducted. Then, he proceeded to ring the suspect’s doorbell and to my horror identified himself as a police officer and demanded to be admitted to the premises. Of course, I feared such behavior would not only frighten the suspects into getting rid of the evidence, but also cause them to take legal steps against Roman or the precinct, with would have caused us considerable problems and doomed the case for certain.”

Flushing slightly at having to relay the shenanigans of his friend, he rumbled, “However, I appeared to have underestimated my young partner. After about 20 frankly agonizing minutes in which I feared not only for the case, but for him as well, he emerged from the front door in a rush, dressed in nothing but...”

“But what?” Patton asked, alight with curiosity. The fact that Logan was flushing with embarrassment drove all other thoughts from his mind.

“Dressed in nothing but his- his underwear – preposterously patterned might I add, several bills trailing after him and sticking out of the garment.”

“What? Nooooo!” The patissier squeaked, trying to make sense of what the poor man must have come up with. Logan chuckled at his tone.

“Indeed. Knowing we needed to secure samples of the stolen currency in order to compare the serial numbers of the missing money, he decided to pose as a male police themed stripper. As he had expected, they must have assumed one of them had ordered him for the purpose of celebrating their success and enthusiastically chose to pay him according to his performance. Once they worked out none of them had placed the call to any escort agency, he made a hasty exit with the evidence  without his clothes.”

“Oh my gosh! Did it work?” Patton asked, eyes wide.

“Certainly. The serial numbers matched. Roman gloated for days.”

The patissier cheered gleefully, so easily swept up in the success of his beloved friend and very eager to forget his own feelings.

“That is amazing! He did so well! But - why did you arrest him, then?”

“Well, unfortunately, Roman escaped the building and rushed onto the busy street in quite a hurry. Apparently feeling elated at his success, he yelled ‘Gotcha, ladies!’ just as he jumped outside. At the same moment, a group of mothers heading for their spinning class were passing by and unfortunately received the wrong impression.”

Patton felt terribly guilty. Those poor women must have gotten such a fright by a tall, almost naked man leaping at them and Roman had not deserved to look like a sex offender at all. Yet, he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks and his elated squirming nearly caused the tub to overflow.

Chucking with him, Logan’s face showed nothing but warm amusement as he explained, “In conclusion, by popular demand, I was forced to arrest him.”

His face ached from smiling as he recalled Roman’s pouting and loud complaining as he cuffed him and gently herded him into the back of his car, furtively brushing his hand through his silky locks lovingly while making sure he wouldn’t hit his head on the door-frame. His partner’s face had been flushed from exertion and his hair was in disarray from long nailed, manicured hands running through it. Yet, he’d been proud, so proud, of solving a case for Logan. Around the next corner, he’d climbed into the backseat with his friend and released him, before wrapping him in his jacket. Though he’d griped about the unsanitary nature of the bills and refused to touch them without his leather gloves, he’d been filled with an affection he’d still had no idea what to do with, back then.

“So you were able to solve the case with him after all, like you thought.”

Patton’s admiring observation brought him back to the present. He was right. Despite feeling embarrassment for the illogical wish to have Roman there to confide in and the childish hope to want him to help find some impossible miracle solution he could not see himself, his partner had come back and had done just that. Logan would have never come up with such a ridiculous, clever plan. His friend had saved his reputation around the precinct and had proven he was just as reliable as Logan had wished he would be. Perhaps he hadn’t needed to feel so uncomfortable for wanting his partner with him after all.

Patton watched him with soft eyes, comfortably curling up in the warm water, weightless and safe. He didn’t feel ugly or ashamed when Logan turned his eyes back on him, dark and caring. The closed wooden door of the bathroom enclosed them in soft light and the quiet breaths of two people who did not need to speak to feel connected. Separated from the world outside and all of its cruelty and worry, Patton enjoyed the scent of Roman’s perfumes, the lush greenness of the plants filling up the glass of the windows and the way his smaller hand fit into the detective’s. The moisture of the bath’s steam settled on everything like dew on a spring morning. It coated every surface with a blanket of a softening veil. It washed out all colors and muted every sound until everything took on a pale, hazy quality. The mirrors and windows turned opaque with fog, protecting Patton from the harsh reality of his reflection and the sharp edges of the outside-world. He felt like he could stay this way forever – until he noticed just how itchy his scalp was.

Reaching up unconsciously, he winced as his stomach and bruised torso protested sharply. He whimpered softly, curling around his abused middle slightly. Logan looked panicked and helpless immediately. Patton couldn’t help giggling. He didn’t know where the reaction came from, he’d never dared to do anything like that with Trevor, but his realization that Logan just wanted to help and care and was so good and so bad at it at the same time – he was just so strong and brave and intelligent and sometimes so clueless, it was the most endearing thing he’d ever seen.

“I’m fine, Lo. It’s all good! Just itchy, is all. You can scratch that problem!”

Though in pain, he smiled at Logan contently, finally feeling like himself again. It was astonishing how Logan could consume his very thoughts with his presence and push everything else from his mind. Especially the blank look the man gave him at his very clever pun coaxed a real smile from him.

Now that he noticed the blood crusted around his hair and skin, he could not quite ignore it anymore. He resigned himself to the effort it would take to at least rinse it out. He had to admit that Logan had been right. He wanted the memories of this day washed away from his body completely. Once he woke up tomorrow, he needed as much of the violence that had been committed against him forgotten as possible. He could not bear any more anger and bitterness to touch him. Not here, in this place covered in dark wood and colored fabrics and pet hair. Not here, where Roman nested on the couch with fluffy pillows, fashionable magazines and bright paint, where Virgil had learned to smile again and those poor animals were growing fat and glossy. There was something magical here - healing magic, he was sure of it. And the source of it was this man who would likely scowl at such a ridiculous idea. Patton didn’t care. How could he doubt what he felt was true when those hands were soothing his pain right now.

Logan had reached out tentatively, patiently waiting for the other to refuse it he wanted, before parting his pale brown curls to check on the wounded skin and crusted blood.

“Would you like me to wash your hair?” He inquired. The thought of leaving Patton marked by his violent experiences did not sit well with him.

“Oh, you don’t have to! I’ve washed myself plenty of times after I fell.”

‘After he fell’ - if Logan noticed Patton falling back into old patterns of making up excuses he mercifully said nothing about it.

“It would be illogical to attempt it yourself. I already told you that I do not mind taking care of you, and I shall tell you again as often as you require hearing it.” The detective explained patiently.

Patton flushed slightly, realizing he was right. Accepting help and thus being a burden was just so hard for him to do, no matter how often he’d been told it was okay today. Logan did not sound annoyed though. The way he went about rinsing the blood from his hair with the softest spray from the shower-head did not feel like the task burdened him either. He was utterly focused on the attempt of not aggravating his injuries or getting water into his eyes, so Patton didn’t have to worry about a thing as his bangs were brushed back by long, slender fingers and his locks combed this way and that. It was a soothing feeling.

After a while, he became warm and weightless. Those capable hands in his hair caused pleasant shivers to run though him even as they sometimes hurt a little. Patton didn’t care. Being petted like that made him feel like he was melting. Keeping his eyes open was becoming increasingly difficult, so he allowed his eyelids to flutter closed trustingly, focusing only on the sensation of tender hands rubbing his skull. The moment felt intimate, yet he was not ashamed of his swollen cheek, split lip, discolored shoulder or the way his body was built anymore as he’d become in so many other intimate encounters. Here, surrounded by sweet smells and being touched like something fragile and precious, everything seemed far away. He’d agonize over the things he’d left behind in his flat later. Right now, he was protected and cared for.

A scratching noise, accompanied by a sudden, pleading sort of mewling woke him up from his slumber. Muffled by the door, a whispered curse reached his ears as Virgil hastily tried to remove the escaped kitten. It had grown quite playful and energetic in the last few days, alternated by bouts of sleepy, loving cuddliness. Considering how tired and ashamed Patton had been, they had simply grabbed everything that could cause him stress and locked themselves in the kitchen so Logan could calm him down privately. Virgil could understand the urge to hide better than anyone after all.

Patton appreciated the security the closed doors had provided him with so very much. He still felt anxious and humiliated by the prospect of being confronted with his other friends, even though now that he was reminded of the existence of the tiny, perfectly fluffy kitten, he wanted it.

“Would you like me to help you get ready to go to sleep? If you like, the kitten may stay with you of course. It is yours, after all.” Logan offered gently.

It was?

Patton didn’t have words. Hearing Logan admit so easily to having adopted a pet for him, a thing he’d always wished for, made the patissier feel so- loved.

The detective lifted him out of the tub easily and settled him in the chair in front of Roman’s vanity before handing him a large towel to wrap up in while he went to find clothes for him. Feeling much better than before, Patton managed to get out of the robe and huddle in the towel by the time the knock sounded at the door. His protector helped him get dressed with the utmost respect and gentleness, careful to neither look at nor touch the revealed skin. All of the clothes he’d brought him were well worn and soft from washing them often. The shirt looked like it might belong to Roman -  white cotton with a faded, rainbow-colored crown printed on the chest. He even carefully rubbed the washed curls dry. Though Patton promised he could make it, Logan insisted on carrying him to the bedroom.

The younger man was very small in his arms as he cradled him close. It felt a lot like carrying a cat, this time, since Patton wasn’t shivering and tense anymore, but soft and mellow in the way he yielded to the touch. He seemed to sink into his embrace with a trust born from contentment and tiredness. In his half asleep state, it took the small baker long moments to realize where he was being set down and tucked in.

The comforter that was pulled over his thin, bruised shoulders was midnight blue and smelled of laundry detergent. A single gray hair made his snub nose itch. Finally feeling much calmer, Patton noticed the wooden beams running along the ceiling, the shelf built along the opposite wall filled with colorful books, plants and papers as well as plastic models of what looked like toys at first glance. He spotted a bright red Baymax figurine, a circular replica of what looked like the USS Enterprise, a duck-like model of the star-ship Serenity. Next to the bed, sitting on top of a crimson copy of Isaac Asimov’s collected works was a bluish porcelain figure of Bulbasaur with a succulent planted inside. This was most certainly not the living-room!

“I can’t sleep here, Logan! This is your bed! I’ll just curl up on the couch, I’m sure there is plenty of space left.” Patton exclaimed, feeling dreadful at the thought of chasing the poor man from his room. It was clearly a very personal space for him. No matter how very intrigued he was at encountering actual toys in Logan’s room (how endearing!), he would not impose! As it had become a pattern for them already, the detective refused his attempt to make himself small and invisible with admirable patience.  

“No. You are injured, Patton. I will accept no refusal. Please allow me to do this for you.”

His voice and the strong hands pushing him down carefully left no room for refusal. He was blushing, Patton noticed as he was covered securely. The mattress was just perfect under his body that was so tired and painful to move, taking the weight from his throbbing ankle and the pillow was so downy – his eyelids grew heavy. Yet there was a restlessness in him again that did not allow for the other man to just – just do everything for him! He had to- to- he wanted to help. To be useful after being so-

“I should see if Roman and Virgil are okay. I probably scared them, poor things.” Patton rambled, trying to rise and escape the unpleasant thoughts of being useless, being worse than useless, creeping into his mind.

“Patton, you have no obligation to think of anyone but yourself right now.”

“Of course I do!”

How could he say something like that? He’d been so selfish already!

Logan looked tired as he caught him around the upper arms and pushed him back down slowly and deliberately.

“No, Patton. I must once again ask you to rest now. I can see that something causes you to feel agitated, but whatever the issue is, it will be dealt with in the morning, with our help. I can ask Virgil and Roman to visit you while they bring the kitten to you if that is agreeable to you?”

It was. Having Logan take the lead and simply forbid any attempts to move and talk and helplessly try to make things less terrible was a relief. He sighed thankfully and closed his eyes for only a moment.

He must have been more tired than he’d thought. The next thing he noticed was a soft purring rumbling under his chin as a silky furred tiny cat rubbed itself against him. It felt like a living little engine, rumbling and happy.

Virgil was there.

He’d knelt next to the bed, pale and thin and anxious. His long fingers were twisted in his hoodie, hie shoulders hunched, his dark eyes bruised with bluish shadows. A hurt sound escaped Patton that was not caused by the stinging pain of opening his arms for a hug.

Virgil crawled into the offered embrace with a little hitch of his breath and held on oh so carefully. The patissier buried his face in his neck and clutched at the bony sides of his kiddo, feeling too much, too hurt, too exhausted. Yet he loved Virgil so much – his thin body in his arms, it made his throat almost close with rising tears.

A grumpy warbling sounded from the side of the mattress Virgil had just climbed, followed by a dreadful tearing sound of little sharp claws ripping expensive fabric. A little despairing noise escaped the older detective.

The top of the fat raccoon’s head was appearing at the edge of the bed, suddenly boosted up by a large, helpful hand under the furry bottom. Patton flinched almost violently.

The whole room stilled in shock, especially the tall, handsome detective who’d unintentionally caused the frightened reaction. Roman looked devastated.

Curling his prettily manicured hands to his chest, he stepped back to Logan’s side, green eyes wide and guilty.

“Oh- dear Patton, I apologize earnestly for- for frightening you. I’ll just- I’ll leave you and the others alone.” He muttered, giving him a brave, unsteady smile. Patton almost fell off the bed trying to stop him. Both Virgil and raccoon rumbled a complaint while the kitten simply rolled where it was moved with a jostled purr. Though his bruised face paled from the pain, the baker’s voice was strong as he called his friend back.

“NO! Ro, please c’mere! I’m so sorry, it was my fault, I love you bunches, please come and let me hug you!”

The plea did not have the desired effect though. Roman’s lovely eyes filled with tears. Holding back a sob only barely, he slowly sank down on the mattress (ignoring a hiss as he almost settled on a striped tail, there were too many animals, okay?). He cupped Patton’s reaching hand carefully, telling him seriously “Patton, darling, you do not need to apologize or take care of me. We are here to protect and aid you. You do not have to be strong for everyone all the time. And- of course I love you like sunshine on flowery petals as well, but how about you relax and I hug you for a change, my dear?”

Oh. Okay, he would like that actually, as long as it helped his sweet RoRo not to look so crushed because he couldn’t handle the simplest situations again. After waiting for his nod, Roman slowly crawled behind Patton to envelop him in his careful embrace. Though Patton had agreed to the contact mainly to show his poor friend that he loved him and did not want him to feel abandoned, now that he was there to loosely hold him, it felt really good. Safe. Roman smelled as nice as the products scenting the air in the bathroom, especially his thick caramel locks. The kitten wormed its way back under his chin, briefly making Virgil splutter as he got a mouthful of hair. He’d been very quiet, the poor kiddo.

“It truly loves you.” Roman rumbled gently at the tiny baby cat started to knead the cotton shirt contently.

“The feeling is mewtual.” Patton promised truthfully, hoping for the sake of his friends that his tone sounded light and unconcerned. It was easier than he’d expected to push the frightening coldness inside of him aside. He imagines it coiled and moved inside of him, icy and alien with its tentacles that suddenly shot out and turned to ice in his throat at unexpected moments. Patton could barely remember a time where it had not been settled inside of him, this thing that had crept down his neck in terrified nights where tiny Patton had squeezed himself between the couch and the wall as his father had screamed. It had been there so long, he sometimes feared its tendrils were growing into his flesh and becoming part of him, make him colder and colder until he could not move his limbs anymore, leaving him frozen and trapped the way he had been as a child. Helpless.

He’d learned to live with it, nested like a parasite next to his fluttering, full heart. Sometimes, late at night, he imagined feeling it grow, taking space from his excitable little heart. He’d lain there, silently wrapped his arms around his chest and had been afraid.

This time however, Roman’s arm was wrapped around him. Virgil had gently laid his head against his ribs. His heart grew, taking back some of the space stolen from it. It beat strong, surrounded by quiet company as he was. Logan had settled on a comfortable looking brown leather chair by the large windows, briefly battling a bunch of feathered fern leafs that tried to take up too much space over his shoulder where the adorable rat apparently needed to sit. Roman’s tense muscles were loosening behind him where he had the feeling of being able to protect Patton from the cruel world and Virgil – well, he was still very small and quiet in his arms, but he was holding on.

Patton got distracted from his worry by a weight dipping the soft pillow at his head. Cat was stomping around it, trying to find a comfortable spot close to, but not too close to her humans. She finally settled on her side like a fat sausage with an audible ‘thud’, her head curled adorably with her furry belly resting against Virgil’s head. Her foot was close to the patissier’s face.

Was that nail polish?

Distracted, he sent a questioning look Logan’s way. He’d know what was going on. Sensing the attention, the detective looked up from petting the composed rat in his palm and examined the now professionally cleaned, pointy claws. The sigh that escaped him could only be described as long-suffering.

“Roman, you can not put nail polish on a forest critter.” He reprimanded his partner severely, trying to ignore the sheepish look the little delinquent attempted to hide in Patton’s shirt upon hearing the accusation directed solely at the young detective.

Roman’s metaphorical feathers rose immediately. “I beg your pardon? Your- stray showers with you! How is that not worse than adorning this poor beast with some culture and beauty?”

Patton tuned the argument out, for once not feeling too concerned since he heard Virgil’s soft snort at the detectives’ expense. He quite liked the burgundy coat that decorated the pointy claws actually. They looked snazzy and went well with the golden spot at the tip of the striped tail. It swished slightly, landing in Virgil’s hair and mixing with purple locks. The patissier’s blinks turned longer and longer as his limbs grew heavy and he was lured to sleep by the gentle rumbling of Roman’s words resonating through his chest where it was pressed against his back. Both detectives had gentled their deep voices, now exasperatingly arguing softly about the acceptability of clipping an actual miniature diadem on a raccoon. He fell asleep thinking it would be a cute idea. For once, there were no stressful thoughts of having to disentangle himself from the people he loved to go back to a flat covered in cold, white tiles and bone-pale leather furniture. The comforter wrapped around him was ironed smooth and warm and the air was thick with the scents of perfume, plants and animals. Virgil’s breath was soft and quiet on his skin and still, the kitten was rumbling its love.

______________________________

If anyone has ideas about what might happen next, I’m more than happy to hear them! My mind is a little empty right now >.< Comments make me happy weather you have ideas or not though <3

Check out the art and writing which always makes me the happiest of people!

FICS:

You can enjoy this incredible take on what could have alternatively happened in this chapter if you feel like reading more. It is absolutely moving and wonderful! Link

ART:

This graphite drawing made by @charmingkari shows a lovely image of Virgil after he got caught by the Scorpions. It’s very sad though.

@dweeborg drew a really intense close up of Virgil which I really love.

@bangthekobrakid colored in a drawing of Roman with the long hair for me and made it really really cool looking!

Next Chapter

#keep him safe #detective AU #Prinxiety #Logicality #Platonic LAMP #Hurt/Comfort

[thereisnobearonthisisland-arc]

anocht, beidh muid (tonight, we will)

a/n: this was written for @phanfichallenge​‘s language challenge and i’m actually really proud of it. it would not have been possible without the magical beta touch of @auroraphilealis​, so thank you thank you thank you for making me break up my paragraphs, they were a mess! i love you, boo <3

summary:  when phil walks into a dingy bar on the outskirts of galway, he's not sure what to expect - least of all, a beautiful, irish-speaking fiddle player named dan.

3.6k words

read on ao3

warnings: alcohol, homophobia, homophobic slurs, a language you will more than likely not be able to pronounce, let alone understand

If there’s one thing that Phil Lester is sure of, it’s that Guinness is the worst drink ever invented. And unfortunately for him, there’s a lot of it in this pub because the tourists love it. (Okay, so maybe Phil is also technically, maybe, sort of a tourist as well, but at least he doesn’t see Guinness as the epitome of Irishness.) Every time a pint passes beneath his nose and into the hands of whichever tourist has ordered it, Phil wrinkles his nose a bit. It smells like a pile of dirt that’s had just a little bit of yeast sprinkled on top of it. He’s actually feeling kind of queasy.

This pub he’s in smells like oak and piss, and the rickety wooden stool he’s sat on isn’t doing anything to help his poor, aching arse. Phil is uncomfortable, and all the tourists are ordering Guinness. He should really just leave, he knows that, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, he can’t bring himself to slip off of his stool and walk out the front door.

Phil can’t really pinpoint what it is that drew him here in the first place. The pub is tiny, situated on the corner of two streets with names he can’t pronounce. It’s made of stone that’s been pissed on thousands of times by drunkards who don’t even remember where they are - which would probably explain why it smells like piss in here. The staff is friendly enough, although the bartender gave him a hell of a time for asking for a mixed drink when he’d walked in. If Phil’s being honest, this isn’t the kind of place he usually finds himself gravitating towards. But here he is.

He thinks it probably has something to do with the fiddle player.

To be fair, he hadn’t actually seen the fiddle player before he came in earlier this evening. In fact, the warm brown eyes and rose-gold cheeks on the frontman of the band playing in the corner hadn’t actually had any influence on Phil’s decision to wander in. The fiddle he was playing had, though, had drawn Phil in with the promise of a tune he could tap his foot along to while he drank the night away.

No, the fiddle player was just an added bonus, something pretty for Phil to look at as he listens to pretty music. So, maybe it wasn’t the fiddle player that brought him in here after all, but his instrument and the way he played it.

Blindly, he reaches for his glass and takes another sip of his margarita, licking at his lip to catch the bit of salt stuck there from the rim of his glass. His drink is almost gone by now, but he’s been too busy staring at the gorgeous fiddle player from his stool at the bar to notice it’s gradual depletion.

There’s no way he’ll be able to convince the barman to make him another one. Getting him to make Phil a margarita in the first place hadn’t been an easy task. He’d had to promise the bartender, who was already low on tequila, that he’d only drink one and then he’d find something to drink from the tap, so he’s been trying to savour it.

Here he is, though, with only a couple more sips sitting in the bottom of his glass. With a sigh, he downs the rest of his drink. Maybe if he chooses a cider from the tap and finishes it quick enough, he won’t have to think about how bad it tastes. Phil prefers his drinks made with ninety percent more sugar.

The music is loud. Not so loud that he can’t hear the buzz of conversation around him or hear himself think, but he can feel it thrumming in his veins, drawing a rhythm out of him he never knew he had. His foot taps softly against the bar on the underside of his bar stool, and his shoulders sway from side to side without his consent. This is the kind of music Phil thinks he might find on a soundtrack about him falling in love.

Phil really needs another drink. He needs one, but the fiddle player with the big brown eyes is still on stage, and those eyes seem to have found Phil’s, and he’s set down his instrument to sing some lyrics that Phil can’t understand from a song he’s never heard, and Phil can’t bring himself to look away.

O gairim gairim é,

Agus gairim é, mo stór;

Míle grá le m'anam é

'Sé Pádraig Leitir Móir!

There’s a roar from a small group of people sitting closer to the stage, and Phil can’t decide if it’s friendly or not. The fiddle player doesn’t seem to care either way. He picks up his instrument and begins to play again, closing his eyes as the rhythm picks up in the next verse.

Phil closes his eyes, letting the sounds of the fiddle and its player’s husky voice sweep over him. Except for the particularly rowdy group of people sitting up near this stage, it’s  actually quite soothing. If it weren’t for the way his nerves catch fire every time the fiddle player’s eyes land on him, Phil thinks he could probably fall asleep to the music alone.

There’s a crescendo as the song comes to an end, and Phil’s eyes fly open. The fiddle player is looking right at him with dimples carved into round cheeks and a sheen of sweat spread over his forehead.

“Bhí sin Pádraig Leitir Móir.” The fiddle player speaks into the microphone, his voice low and rumbling, washing over Phil like warm rain in a thunderstorm. He’s still not entirely sure what’s being said, but that doesn’t keep Phil from wanting to hear this voice as much as he possibly can.

There’s a shout from up near the stage, and Phil feels his muscles tense up. He hates when people yell.

“Peigín Leitir Móir is ainm do do an amhrán. Cén fáth a bhfuil tú a rá ‘Pádraig’?”

Phil doesn’t have to understand the language to know that whoever these people are, they’re currently heckling the fiddle player. Bile rises in his throat. He wishes he knew what they were saying so he could tell them to fuck off in their own language, but he doesn’t know, so he settles for glaring instead.

The fiddle player’s face flushes, and he sets his instrument down roughly onto its stand before turning to glare at whoever’s heckling him right now. “Tá mé aerach. Má a bhíonn mé ag iarraidh Peigín go dtí Pádraig a athrú, beidh mé. Focáil leat. Ní bheidh aon duine eile sásta a fhocáil leat.”

Phil can’t quite see exactly what’s going on, but there’s another roar from the crowd, and he feels his heart skipping rope in his chest. He wishes he could run up there and put a stop to whatever this is.

One of the people up front yells, “A Deaglan, an bhfuil tú ag ligean cigirí anseo anois?”

The fiddle player swipes his hand over his forehead and combs his hair back. “Dia ár sábháil. Tá deoch uaim.”

The bartender, who’s stopped in front of Phil to watch, unimpressed, as the scene unfolds before them, scoffs. “A Máirtín, faigh thairis nó imigh.” He rolls his eyes as he spins back around to wipe down the bar with an old rag, and Phil thinks somewhere in the back of his mind that if heroes wore aprons and yielded dirty rags, this barman would be one of the greatest heroes in Galway.

With a sigh, Phil casts a glance to his empty glass. Now he really needs another drink. The band members are slowly making their way down from the short platform they’ve been stationed on for the past forty-five minutes or so, but Phil’s already lost track of the fiddle player. Actually, it’s not even until now that the fiddle player is out of site and the other musicians are making their way off the stage that Phil even acknowledges their presence.

Fuck, that makes him seem like an asshole. It’s not like he’s had no idea they’ve been here this entire time. He’s heard them playing, listened to the bellows of the accordion and the strums of the acoustic guitar. But he hasn’t really seen them, not really. Not when the whole room is lit up by chocolate curls framing hazelnut eyes. Not when the fiddle player is so breathtakingly beautiful.

The rest of the band, Phil decides here and now, is also beautiful; although he’s not sure that anyone could hold a candle to this complete stranger who seems to have swept away with his heart without a single interaction. God, he wishes he could lay his eyes on that face again. Drink, he needs another drink.

Phil swivels back around to get the bartender's attention, only for his knee to clack against the knee of some other person sat right next to him.

Why is there someone sat right next to him? There are plenty of open seats along the bar. Even more important: How did he not notice someone sitting down and ordering something directly beside him?

The new figure doesn't even look up from where he's staring moodily into his pint of lager, but Phil still feels a swoop low in his stomach. He's not drunk enough for a conversation yet, but he also doesn't want to be rude and leave his accidental assault unacknowledged.

Taking a deep breath, he turns to face the man on the stool next to him. Right next to him. "Sorry," Phil murmurs softly. "I didn't see you there."

The man doesn't turn his head, not fully, but his eyes slide sideways to look at Phil, and Phil's breath catches in his throat. They're big and brown and warm and set deeply into the cherubic face of the fiddle player from the band, and Phil reckons he'd really like to stare into them for a while if he could. No, scratch that, Phil reckons he’d really like to stare into them for the rest of his life if he could.

All too quickly, they're gone again, and the man just lets out a gruff grunt before knocking back the rest of his lager and waving the bartender over their way.

The barman gives them a tight smile. "What can I get for ye, lads?"

"An feidir liom lager eile agus pionta Guinness do mo chara anseo?"

Phil's barmate has a softer voice than he expected. It had been low and husky onstage, but the fiddle player had been speaking into a microphone then. This, though, this is completely natural, free from the speakers that warp it until it’s no longer soft and sweet. It’s smooth like satin, and Phil wishes he could listen to it play over and over again like a record.

Phil blinks stupidly, not even registering the twenty euros the fiddle player's sliding over to the barman or even that the barman is turning away before Phil can even place his drink order. How can anyone speak so softly? Granted, Phil has no idea what he actually said; he could have been cussing Phil out for all he knows, but at least the man sounded good while doing it.

It's probably a bit creepy, Phil knows that, but he can't bring himself to look away from the stranger beside him.

His hair is tousled from all of the tugging he’d given it at the end of the first part of their set. It’s been pushed back up off of his shiny forehead, but the body heat in this room is so overwhelming that it’s already started to flop forward to cover his eyes again. His skin is lightly golden, cheeks turned slightly pink from the warmth in the room, and Phil wishes that this rose-gold beauty would turn to look at him again.

When a glass thunks onto the bar in front of him, Phil startles, shifting his gaze to look anywhere but where it's been focused for the past few minutes. It settles on a tall glass of some dark, thick-looking liquid.

Phil looks up at the bartender. "Erm, sorry," he says slowly, "but I didn't order anything yet."

The bartender nods to the beautiful specimen who is somehow sitting beside Phil. "Your man's getting this round."

Phil frowns, glancing over to the fiddle player beside him again. He certainly isn't "Phil's man," although that doesn't necessarily sound unappealing. Actually it sounds quite appealing, but no one else needs to know that. If nothing else, Phil can just pretend for tonight just to keep any awkward conversations with the barman away. He lets his eyes rest on the pint in front of him again, glaring at it suspiciously.

The barman sighs. "I've had my eyes on it the whole time. He hasn't slipped anything in there, and it's all yours. For free. I'd take it if I were you."

Phil picks it up warily and sniffs it. He vaguely remembers the man beside him saying "Guinness" when he spoke to the bartender a few minutes ago, but he'd just assumed that the man had been ordering one for himself. This drink in front of him, though, it looks a lot like Guinness. Phil hates Guinness.

He swallows down the lump in his throat, but lifts the pint to his lips anyways and takes a big gulp of it, trying to swallow it all before it can leave any lingering taste on his tongue. It doesn't work. The drink somehow still manages to taste exactly as it smells - like yeast and dirt and piss, but Phil can't bring himself to put it down politely. Instead, he does the only rational thing he can do in this situation. He takes a few more gulps, trying to empty his glass as quickly as possible, squeezing his eyes shut and wrinkling his nose all the while.

The soft voice from the man next to Phil returns a moment later, making him jump. He sets down his glass.

"Mise Dan," the man says, and Phil's mouth forms a small "o". Dan sounds like a name. That doesn't necessarily mean that it's this man's name, but it would make more sense than anything else. It's not likely his neighbor would be trying to introduce Phil to the bartender.

Phil turns to look at Dan, whose eyes are still fixed on the drink in front of him, but whose lips have turned up slightly at the corners. "Phil," he says, as way of introducing himself.

"A Phil, ól liom." Dan picks up his glass and turns to look at Phil head-on for the first time tonight. He raises the pint, and even though Phil’s not entirely sure what Dan just said, the message is clear enough. He casts his own pint a brief, disdainful glance before grabbing it and turning to face Dan again.

Warily, he lifts it up to around the same level as Dan’s and sweeps his hand forward to clink their glasses together.

“Sláinte,” Dan says with a small, dimpled smile.

Phil can’t help but grin back. Without even making a conscious decision, he throws back the rest of his drink and drops the pint back onto the bar.

The fiddle player’s eyes blow wide with surprise, and he slides his hand over to cover Phil’s. “Woah,” he says softly. His thumb brushes gently over Phil’s knuckles. “Moilligh. Tá mé ag iarraidh anocht a chuimhneamh.”

Phil gulps. God, he wishes he were a native speaker because Dan’s eyes are fully on his for the first time tonight, not focused anywhere slightly to the left, not drifting to pass over the entire crowd. They’re just two orbs of molten caramel...fixed on Phil like he’s the most beautiful person in the room, but Phil knows that it’s a farce. No one is as beautiful as the man sat beside him.

Dan slips his hand off of Phil’s, and Phil almost whines, but it doesn’t go far. It’s still right there beside his, close enough for Phil to hook his pinky over Dan’s if he wanted to. He does want to, but he’s not sure he’s brave enough.

Like he’s read Phil’s mind, Dan takes another large gulp of his own drink and then hooks their pinkies together. Phil watches, mesmerised as Dan’s lips start moving. They’re plump and pink and smirking slightly as they form words Phil’s never heard before. “Tá súile álainn agat.”

Phil feels his cheeks catch fire. “I don’t know what you just said, but you have the loveliest lips I’ve ever seen,” he blurts, slamming a hand over his mouth as soon as the words have slipped out. He doesn’t know what came over him. It’s not like he’s had too much to drink - it usually takes a lot more than two to loosen his tongue. Maybe it’s just Dan. Dan and his soft voice and his tousled curls and his soft hands and his plump lips that Phil really wants to cover with his own right now. Everything about him is intoxicating. Phil reckons he probably wouldn’t ever need to drink again if he had Dan around all the time.

“Well, in that case…” Dan speaks in English for the first time tonight, and Phil’s mouth drops open in surprise. It’s not a surprise that Dan speaks English; most people in Ireland, Phil’s found, do. What is surprising, however, is the post British accent Dan has in place of an Irish one.

Phil doesn’t have much time to dwell on this, though, because one second he’s lost in his own head, and the next second Dan’s warm mouth is pressing gently into the corner of Phil’s, causing his mind to short-circuit.

Dan pulls away, but only just. “I have to go get ready for the second half, but wait for me? My lovely lips have a few tricks they’d like to show you.” He winks, and Phil can feel his soul leave his body. It’s one of the worst pick-up lines he’s ever heard, but fuck it if he’s not about to fall for it anyway.

Phil opens his mouth, preparing to agree right then and there, but all that comes out is, “You’re English?”

Dan chuckles. “Yeah, I’m actually heading back to London in a few weeks. We’re just playing in a few Galway bars for now. Eoghan’s from here, and he was feeling a little homesick, so we thought why the hell not?”

Phil can hear his own heartbeat. He hasn’t actually registered anything that Dan just said besides I’m heading back to London in a few weeks, and he wants to bottle up that sentence and stick it on a shelf. “I’m from London,” he breathes, relishing in the way he makes Dan laugh again. There’s nothing really funny about what he’s said, but maybe Dan’s just the kind of person who finds everything funny. Maybe he’s as drunk off of Phil as Phil is off of him.

“Well then maybe we’ll see each other around there, too.”

Phil’s heart skips a beat, and then the wires in his brain reconnect. “Wait. If you’re English, how do you know how to speak...Gaelic? Is that what that language is?”

Dan beams. “Irish, actually, but you wouldn’t be the first person to not know the difference. My grandma was from Galway originally, actually. She taught me how to speak her native language when I was really young, and it just...stuck, I guess.”

“That’s amazing,” Phil says softly.

“Thank you. Maybe I can teach you sometime.” Dan’s eyes crinkle at the corners. There’s a shout from the stage, someone calling his name, and he swings around to look at them. For the first time, Phil notices a small patch of skin on Dan’s jaw that’s a bit redder than the rest of his face. He wishes they had more time right, time for him to brush his thumb over that spot on Dan’s jaw, to press his lips to it, but he can already see the resigned look on Dan’s face that says he has to get back onstage.

Phil’s heart aches for that look, but he smiles in spite of it. “I’ll still be here when the show’s over. Maybe then you can show me your nifty lip tricks.” That is by far the worst sentence Phil’s ever said in his life, but Dan doesn’t seem to mind at all. In fact, he looks rather pleased by it.

“I’d like that,” Dan says softly, lifting Phil’s hand up to brush his lips over Phil’s knuckles. “I’d like that a lot.”

“O gairim gairim é,

Agus gairim é, mo stór;

Míle grá le m'anam é

'Sé Pádraig Leitir Móir!”

“O welcome and acclaimed

is he, my love!

Dear to my soul, a thousand told,

is Patrick Lettermore.”

“Bhí sin Pádraig Leitir Móir.” - “That was Patrick Lettermore.”

“Peigín Leitir Móir is ainm do do an amhrán. Cén fáth a bhfuil tú a rá ‘Pádraig’?” - “The song is calle Peggy Lettermore. Why are you saying ‘Patrick’?”

“Tá mé aerach. Má a bhíonn mé ag iarraidh Peigín go dtí Pádraig a athrú, beidh mé. Focáil leat.” - “I’m gay. If I want to change Peggy to Patrick, I will. Go fuck yourself. No one else will fuck you.”

“A Deaglan, an bhfuil tú ag ligean cigirí anseo anois?” - “Declan, you’re letting f*gs here now?”

“Dia ár sábháil. Tá deoch uaim.” - “Fucking hell. I need a drink.”

“A Máirtín, faigh thairis nó imigh.” - “Martin, get over it or get out.”

"An feidir liom lager eile agus pionta Guinness do mo chara anseo?" - “Can I have another lager and a pint of Guinness for my friend here?”

"Mise Dan." - “My name is Dan.”

"A Phil, ól liom." - “Phil, drink with me.”

“Sláinte.” - “Cheers.”

“Moilligh. Tá mé ag iarraidh anocht a chuimhneamh.” - “Slow down. I want you to remember tonight.”

“Tá súile álainn agat.” - “You have beautiful eyes.”

#phanfiction #phanfic #my fics #phanfic writing challenge #language challenge #phan #phandom

[just-watch-me-hachiko]

Without Anesthesia: Chapter 13 - “Wie Schön sie sind, Herr Göring!”

Read it on AO3, DeviantArt, or FanFiction.net  Author: Pawpels

Miraculous: Tales of Ladybug & Cat Noir English, Rated: PG (ish) Slice of Life/Romance/WWII AU Characters: Marinette Dupain-Cheng/Ladybug, Adrien/ Chat Noir Chapters: 13/?, Words: 26,770, Status: In-Progress __________________________________________________________ Summary: Marinette Dupain-Cheng works as a field nurse for the French army during World War II, and Adrien Agreste winds up her patient after a battle. Notes: First, because this is Tumblr I want to be clear that the title is a sarcastic quote from the fic and not an actual statement about Nazi Official, Hermann Göring. Next, although you're probably used to the graphic descriptions of wounds at this point, this chapter also contains references to a physical altercation that could be considered extremely similar to abuse.Brief mention of injury to a child. There's also mild profanity in this chapter. __________________________________________________________

Before the child had woken from her mid-day slumber, a decision had been reached as to the fate of her arm, and it was not one about which Marinette felt comfortable.

The doctors had very quickly deemed amputation to be the most reasonable pathway, and had sent the girl to the proper team almost immediately upon arriving at the conclusion.

Marinette did not think the decision itself was necessarily the wrong one given the present circumstances—after all, the child couldn't feel the arm, couldn't move the arm, and already had a sickly yellow pooling at the end of her fingertips which could only mean that blood wasn't circulating either—but she was perturbed by the fact that she would not be allowed to assist.

Although most of the doctors at the base were more than willing to take her on as an aide for her skills alone, there were those who refused to work with a nurse whose linguistic abilities were not up to par. In the case of an amputation—and one involving a child no less—Marinette had been instructed to stay away.

She tried her best to bide her time. She knew, of course, that such a surgery would not be completed quickly, but an infinite number of possible complications meant that the wait was agonizing. She roamed from room to room, theatre to theatre, hoping to find something to take her mind off of her worries. She even opted out of her breaks and lunches after discovering that her idle mind contained flashes of only the absolute worst outcomes that could possibly befall such an undeserving recipient.

When, shortly before dinnertime, she heard her named being called frantically from the next room, her heart jumped into her throat and threatened to escape out her mouth. She dashed over, fearing the absolute worst, only to be met with a trio of truly frazzled nurses, who seemed to be too exasperated to be bringing news of the child's surgery.

"She won't stop speaking French!" the nurse cried, "We can't understand a word she's saying!"

"Won't you please talk to her?" asked another.

"Get her to calm down!" griped a third.

It took Marinette only a second to assess the situation. Inside of the room was a small, ill-mannered woman—or perhaps only a girl—no older than she, with mousey-brown hair that was more a mess than even the most overworked nurses and factory women would have thought proper to keep. She lay on a cot in the middle of the room, covered head to toe in all manner of injuries—some still only half-bandaged—and screamed and beat her mattress in a self-flagellating fury. The other patients cowered in fear of her, although it was obvious from her flailing that she was unable to rise up and attack them.

"Please calm down!" Marinette cried out as she entered the room.

Perhaps it was the sudden loud noise, or perhaps it was the fact that she had found another body speaking her native tongue, but the thrashing stopped suddenly, and the girl blinked at her in wide-eyed confusion, as though she had only just realized what a racket she was making.

"Now," Marinette continued calmly, as though she were hoping to impress upon the other that she was quite certain she was speaking to a sane individual, when in reality she had no idea if that was the case, "can you tell me what's wrong?"

"We're at war, dimwit," the girl spat.

Marinette was taken aback by this response, but she pressed on: "I… was hoping you could tell me about your injuries."

"Gee, sure, ma'am. I'd love to!" the girl smiled sarcastically, "This one here is from where they beat me. And this one is where I got slapped across the face. Like the blood? It's from the officer's stupid wedding ring—the cheating bastard. Oh! And this one here's from his boots when he was trying to crush my lungs. You ever had a punctured lung?"

Marinette couldn't say that she had. The girl kept going.

"I've got scratches from the forest, blisters from my shoes, bruises from being dumped in a trash-bin, a black eye and bleeding lip, and this lovely little lady right here."

The girl lifted up the tattered edge of her shirt to reveal a bullet wound that covered more than half her abdomen, nearly a week old and completely untreated.

"We need to take a look at that," Marinette tried to say calmly, but the panic of seeing such a large and grotesque wound on such a tiny person—especially one who seemed to care so little—threatened to creep into her voice with every syllable.

"What's the point?" the girl asked, her angry sarcasm melting into a defeated tone. "I'm no good to anybody now. Never was."

"I'm certain that's not—" Marinette began.

"Look around!" the girl cried, "I could have prevented this! I could have prevented all of this!"

"There's no way you could have—"

Although it had been many months since she'd had the opportunity to practice her skills, it seemed that Marinette's presence alone was enough to induce candor in even the most guarded individuals.

"I could've and I should've," the girl said with an air of finality, but she continued anyways. "See, I was a spy for the—"

"Should you really be saying that so loudly?" Marinette asked in a whisper, as though the walls had ears.

"They don't understand a word we're saying," the girl almost laughed, "Dumb Brits. Only speak English. Est-ce que tu me comprends?" she shouted at a terrified looking woman who showed absolutely no sign of understanding.

"At least let me examine your cuts," Marinette muttered as the girl continued with her story.

"I was a spy, see. For the French first, and then the British when we damn near lost it all, but pretending I was working for the Germans. I spent near eight months working for the bloody Nazis. Bringin' em tea. Pretendin' I respect 'em. 'Ah, Herr Goebbels, möchten Sie etwas Tee?' "Wie schön Sie sind, Herr Göring!" Bastards."

As the girl engaged more and more passionately in her narrative, Marinette had the opportunity to examine more of her wounds. She motioned to one of the other nurses, who was still hovering in the doorway to bring some antiseptic and bandages and got to work on the tiny, stinging cuts on her legs and arms.

"I heard everything. Every meeting, every conversation, every plan. They thought I was a regular German citizen. Sometimes I'm glad my father was so insistent we learn to speak it right, because I wouldn'ta lasted a day if they knew I was the 'enemy.'"

She paused and chuckled… "Well… they sure found out alright. Stupid."

The other nurse had returned with the requested supplies, plus a small pair of tweezers, and Marinette had begun the arduous effort of cleaning every individual wound on the girl's body.

"I heard about the errant bombers back in August. I knew they were errant, but by the time I'd managed to phone base, they'd already sent retaliation to Berlin. I knew I could have called earlier, but I was scared of bein' caught. Scared in September too, but I had to risk it. I knew where the planes were headed. I knew WHEN the planes were headed."

Marinette tried not to look it, but she was absolutely enthralled by the girl's story. She almost hoped it was true, although it was just as likely that her patient was absolutely loony and she was audience to little more than a delusion. Still, her effortless German and knowledge of specific occurrences gave credence to her tale.

"I thought maybe I could sneak into the marshal's office late past midnight and use his private radio insteada meeting up with my usual contact. Only… he wasn't sleepin' too well that night, and he caught me speakin' French into the microphone."

"So he did this to you?" Marinette asked.

"All 'cept what the branches added," she shrugged, "Say, you done pretty good on those scratches. Why didn't I notice you doin' that?"

"A nurse's touch, I suppose," Marinette replied nonchalantly. In truth, recounting her tale seemed to be acting as its own sort of anesthetic for the girl, who hadn't once noticed the stinging antiseptic solution which had touched her open wounds no less than a dozen times already.

"Right," she continued, "and I got a high paint tolerance. Always have. If I didn't, we probably wouldn't be talking. You ever have a broken rib? No, I asked that already…. You ever play dead after someone shoots you?"

Marinette couldn't say she'd done this either.

"Could I take a look at that?" she asked instead.

"What do you care what I give you permission to do?" she griped, but in-genuinely enough that Marinette took it as consent. "You already patched up the little stuff I told you not to. Why don't we just fix everything? Gimme a new set of organs while you're at it. I'm sure you got plenty layin' around these days."

Obviously, she was used to the dark sarcasm and gallows humor that the girl seemed to be using to cope, but it was true that the hospital had lost its fair share of patients this morning, and there were undoubtedly many more innocent bodies in the streets and morgues that had not made it to their doors.

"Anyways… The Marshall—after he's pretty sure I'm dead—has his officer thugs toss me in the dumpster, like I'm human garbage. Probably didn't want his fellow assholes to know he'd personally hired a spy to be his damn maid. I wait until it's quiet and then work my way outa the bag and try to meet up with my contact, but he's nowhere to be found. Maybe he split. Maybe his passport went through and he moved outa this hell hole of a continent. Maybe the Nazis found him first. I don't know. Either way, I'd lost my damn contact, and I couldn't just use any ol' radio."

"So what did you do?" Marinette asked, genuinely curious. She'd now fully accepted the story as being true.

"I walked, of course."

"But… the channel-"

"I walked and hitched rides, and then I took a boat. Stowed away on a cargo ship, thank goodness, and ended up arriving while the bombs were falling. I walked all the way from Berlin, and the sky was already on fire."

"You did everything you could."

"I could have waited, like a goddamn intelligent person, until I'd got a hold of a secure line. I coulda found a radio instead of tryin' to get to headquarters myself. I coulda called in back in August. Maybe I'da died then, but if Churchill hadn'ta sent those stupid planes to Berlin, maybe we coulda avoided this whole mess."

Marinette gulped. She wasn't sure, but she would bet her salary that those were the very planes she'd discussed with Private Lahiffe—one of which, she was quite certain, contained the soldier who continued to consume her thoughts even to this day, Private Agreste.

Still, Private Agreste was not at fault for this. This girl was not at fault for this. Even the politicians and generals who had ordered the attack couldn't have expected this level of retaliation for what she assumed had been a fairly small number of bombers. Destruction aside, the whole thing just felt so inevitable. So childish. So… stupid, as the girl had said.

"Sometimes things just… happen," Marinette said in a way that was meant to be comforting, but felt more foreboding than anything else.

"It's just wretched. All over a steaming pile of crap... And now I've blown my cover at the Reichstag, so I can't even work there again. If Kim gets a punch in on ol' Adolph, I won't be around to see it."

Marinette let the comment pass. It was common to hear talk of personally assaulting the Füher, but something about the way the girl said it felt familiar. Perhaps Kim was a fellow spy. She wasn't sure.

"Let's talk about your wound."

"What's to talk about?" the girl asked.

"First of all, the bad news. The bullet's still in there, and I don't think it makes sense to take it out at this point. You said you got shot several days ago, right?"

"Yeah. I'm only here today because someone shoved me too hard in the panic. Made me black out, and next thing I know I'm in a damn hospital bed."

Marinette continued: "The good news, though, is that it's healing cleanly. You'll always have a scar, but you can cover it easily with clothes and it shouldn't cause you any pain. Everything on your arms and legs should heal too."

"Gee, thanks ma'am. I lost my job, but at least I'll always have my looks," she replied mockingly.

"Perhaps you could enlist, or work as a nurse?"

"Like you? No thank you," the girl snorted, "Not that I don't appreciate what you're doing, but I don't take orders so good. Thought about joinin' the army once I realized I could, but I wouldn'ta made it through training. Too spirited, my dad says. Too independent, I say. I think Kim liked to call me a brat for it, but he's dumb as a box of rocks anyways."

"Can I ask what your name is?" Marinette asked, suddenly realizing she'd never asked.

"It's Alix, ma'am. Alix Kubdell."

"You're joking," Marinette gawked.

"Yeah, that's the kinda thing I'd joke about," Alix said, wrinkling up her nose.

"I served with your brother back in France. Jalil, right?"

"No kidding?" This time it was Alix's turn to be shocked. "It's the smallest world, I swear. How's the idiot doing?"

"I'm not sure…" Marinette confessed, "I know his unit is in Narvik. My friend Alya sends me letters, and she says things are going well. I can give you the address if you want to write to him."

"Damn, maybe I'll go to Narvik. I bet they don't know me in… Sweden?"

"Norway."

"Nah, can't do Norway. Too cold. I'll find somethin' south-side to do once I'm all healed up. Italy, maybe. I really screwed this one up, but we still have a war to win. I've got money on it."

She gave a sudden start, as though she'd remembered something important.

"Actually, I've got money against it… but some bets you just gotta lose."

#miraculous ladybug #ml #miraculous ladybug fan fic #ml fanfic #marinette dupain-cheng #Hey Hachiko #Red Writing #Without Anesthesia #Okay to reblog