#there was no need to make blue spring even more gut wrenching than it already was. | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

quillquiver · 3 years

Text

and it’s good

DeanCas coda to 15x19: ‘Inherit the Hearth’

He hasn’t stopped praying.

From an empty world to one filled with people, Dean has gone to his knees every night—on the floor, the gravel, the dirt—and prayed. Head down. Face pressed to his knuckles. Dear Cas…

From each failed plan to their eventual, anti-climactic victory, Dean shares it all. And when it’s all over, when they wake up the morning after with no Jack, no Cas and no world to save, it’s bittersweet. Confusing. Like being released into the wild after living in a cage.

Where does he go from here? What does he do?

What does he want?

Sam doesn’t have a problem finding his own answers, but then again, he never has; he was the one with the life outside The Life: the college boy, the dreamer. Dean… Dean needs some time to adjust. Regroup. Grieve, maybe—whatever the hell that looks like. So, he serves himself a bottle of Jack, grabs a box of Pop Tarts, and makes his way to his recliner. First day of freedom? Dr. Sexy and sweet oblivion sound awesome.

“Hey, uh, what’re you—” Sam cuts himself off, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the Dean Cave. He’s got that pinched look on his face, the one that means: inevitable bitch face, concerned edition. Dean waves him off.

“Chilling out,” he mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Figure I deserve a vacation.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “A vacation.”

“Yeah, genius. A vacation. You know, a little me time?” Dean takes another pull. “You got a problem with that?”

Sam shifts his weight. Frowns at the floor. It’s weird to see him like this; he’s so big, now, but that move is straight out of his teen years—when he’d been gangly and awkward and angry and unsure. He looks up, resolved, and Dean heaves an internal sigh. Whatever the fuck Sam is trying to do, he doesn’t want any part in it.

“What if you come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Dean—”

“Look, Sammy, we fought the big fight, we won, there ain’t nothing left to do,” Dean says reasonably, bitterly, turning back to the DVD menu. “So I don’t wanna go into town, or to the store, or wherever else you’re planning on gallivanting to today. I’m gonna watch my show, drown myself in booze and pass the fuck out, because that is what I’m owed. Capiche?”

“Eileen texted. I’m… I’m going to go get her.”

It’s weird, Dean thinks, how many times a heart can break. He clenches his jaw and swallows the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. Allows himself a second—one second—of envy and jealousy before he slaps a smile on his face and nods. “Good,” he says. He means it. “You should.”

“So…” Sam trails off.

“So…” Dean echoes.

“…Come with.”

“Sam, I’m not gonna crash your romantic reunion okay? That’s weird.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” And there’s more that comes out in that word than he ever intended. It hangs heavy in the air between them before dropping to the ground like a stone. Loud. Shattering on impact. Dean thinks his voice might have cracked and his vision is blurring because this pity? This is fucking worse. Shoving a Pop Tart in his mouth, Dean chews with his mouth open in the vain hope that his table manners will prove an adequate distraction, but that shit hasn’t worked for a long time.

It tastes like sawdust.

“Just go,” he says. “You have to go, man.”

It’s as much a plea for his brother as it is for himself, and for one long, terrifying moment Dean thinks Sam’s going to refuse. That he’s gonna be dragged across the country to witness his brother find happiness in a way he will never be able to have.

…But Sam is kind, not cruel, and when those big eyes of his fill with tears, Dean has never been so happy to have given himself up. He watches as his little brother’s shoulders slump. As he readjusts his duffle.

“I’ll be home in two days,” Sam says. “If you’re dead, I’m gonna pissed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replies, forcing himself to tease. To be excited. He deserves this. “Go sing in the rain or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Sam volleys back, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He looks so happy, and Dean can’t stop himself from mirroring the expression. It hits him all at once, then—a sucker punch to the gut, the heart—that no matter what, he did right by his little brother. That he’s grown up to be smart, and kind and caring, and now he can be happy. And Dean—Dean’ll figure it out. But Sam’s taken care of and that’s… good. That’s a lot.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I love you,” Sam says. He’s seven and thirty-seven and Dean feels something inside himself ease and break all at once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

Sam grins.

***

There’s no more frozen pizza.

It’s already a fucking travesty that the pizza place doesn’t deliver to their secret underground bunker, but Jack polished off the last two pies—and while it’s a little bit hilarious to think of the ‘New God’ (his kid) scarfing down shitty plain cheese in his pjs, it’s also awful, and painful. So Dean slips on his shoes, grabs his keys, and shoulders on the jacket with Cas’s handprint over his hole-y sleep shirt.

It’s not like he’s sober, but he’s done worse.

It feels like a shitty pizza day, so Dean makes a beeline for the Wal-Mart and its frozen section, stocking up on two of every topping from the cheapest brand they’ve got. He grabs popcorn, chips, twizzlers and margarita mix, because fuck it, and smiles at the cashier. It’s not an epic romantic reunion, but this is what normal people do, right? They take an entire day and wallow without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Dean’s cradling his spoils, twizzler hanging out of his mouth, shuffling out of the garage when—

He freezes.

The kitchen. There’s someone banging around in the kitchen.

Not like aggressively banging—one quick sweep around the area confirms no signs of forced entry—but just like… moving shit. Washing the dishes from this morning, or getting ready to make something new. Dean’s heart is caught between hope and heartbreak and he forces himself towards the latter. It’s probably Charlie, or Bobby or Jody or Donna or, hell, even Jack or Claire. No one else can get in. And if it’s something dangerous… well, Dean doesn’t have a weapon on him, and his damn pizza’s thawing.

But it’s not Charlie or Bobby or Jody or Donna. It’s not Jack. It’s not Claire.

…It’s Cas; freshly showered, dressed in Dean’s fucking clothes, making himself a sandwich.

He’s beautiful. Dean’s shirt—AC/DC, the one with the mustard stain on the collar—is just a little small on him, and he’s humming, and Dean has to blink once twice three times to make sure he’s not a goddamn mirage but no he’s still there, still scooping grape jelly onto the good bread and then putting the dirty spoon on the counter like a friggin’ heathen and—

“Are you gonna wash that?”

It’s sure as fuck not what he’d meant to say, but it gets the job done. Cas drops the spoon—the spoon—and whirls around like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Dean,” he breathes, like Dean’s name is some kind of benediction. Like it’s important.

Dean clutches his groceries tighter to his chest. “A-Are you…?” he asks. Steps forward. Steps back. Stares because he can’t, he can’t— “Are you real?”

Cas is barefoot. He’s quiet when he steps across the linoleum. His hair is turning fluffy where it’s drying and his eyes are blue and bright and he’s a miracle. “I’m real,” he confirms quietly. His hand twitches by his side, and Dean thinks that’s fair. Thinks that he gets that Cas has reservations because of—because.

But they’re unfounded.

Dean drops his spoils because they’re an afterthought; nothing is more important than knowing, than reaching out to touch his fingertips to Cas’s shoulder. To his jaw. He can’t stop the tears from springing to his eyes like he can’t stop himself from laughing. Smiling. And suddenly he has Cas in his arms and he smells like Dean’s soap and Sam’s fancy shampoo, and they’re holding—clutching each other, and Dean turns his head because it has to be now he has to say it now: “Cas, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts. “You don’t have to—I know.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice high with something like hysteria. The whole thing is so absurd, so insane, so fucked, that it’s all he can do to bury his face in Cas’s neck. To squeeze his eyes shut. To talk. “Well, you’re a friggin’ moron,” he says. “And you got no goddamn idea what you’re talking about, because—because you changed me, too, you dick.” Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s waist and Dean’s heart pounds like it’s trying to escape and his throat is dry and he’s sweating and he’s gonna be sick, he’s gonna die— “A-And I love you.”

He wrenches himself away, then, glaring like he dares Cas to take the words away from him. “Okay?” he asks, rhetorically. Menacingly. It’s a declaration and a confession and a challenge. And Cas meets his stare unflinchingly. He reaches up to thumb at the wetness on the apple of Dean’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. He nods. Leans in. “Okay.” Their mouths brush. “Good.”

It’s not even a real kiss, so Dean can’t be blamed for how he chases; how he breathes good, in faint agreement like a lovesick fool, and moves until they’re kissing good and proper—slow and sweet and then deep and wet and it’s good, it’s so good, he’s so good.

Later, they’ll have to make every thawed pizza. They’ll drink the margarita mix and share the same popcorn bowl and pay no attention to Dr. Sexy playing in the background. They’ll talk about Chuck and Jack and Sam. They’ll stare. They’ll tease. They’ll flirt.

But for now, Cas twists his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean buries his hands in dark hair. They pause for breath only to come together, again and again and again.

And it’s good.

#destiel coda #coda fic #15x19 #spn 15x19 #s15 #spn spoilers #second to last coda ever folks #it's fucking emotional #adventures in fanfic

1K notes · View notes

asweetprologue · 3 years

Text

salt rain

@sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo

Prompt: Rainy day Relationships: Geralt/Jaskier Rating: T (for canon typical injury) Content Warnings: None Summary: Geralt is injured on a hunt and confesses to Jaskier, thinking that this is the end. Jaskier is pissed. ao3

The raindrops fell into his eyes, stinging as they mixed with the sweat on his brow. Geralt blinked them away, staring up at the gray sky above them.

“Bet this’ll make a good ballad,” he said, the lightness of his tone probably contradicted by the way his teeth were stained with blood. He let his head fall to the side so that he could better see Jaskier, who shot him an infuriated, terrified look.

“Don’t fucking say that,” he said, turning his gaze away as he pressed hard into Geralt’s side, where the archgriffon had torn him open with a well aimed swipe. Geralt had stabbed through its throat while it hovered above him, but the thing had fallen nearly on top of him. Most critically, directly on top of his bag of potions, which were now no more than a few shards of glass on the ground. He had more back at the campsite, with Roach, but she was too far. They’d never make it there in time.

Jaskier pressed against the wound with some kind of fabric. His doublet. He was stripped down to his shirtsleeves, the thin linen fabric clinging to him as the rain drenched it. Brown hair flopped down into his eyes, pushed flat by the downpour, and Jaskier pushed it out of the way impatiently. “You’re not going to die out here,” Jaskier muttered, almost more to himself than Geralt.

It was a nice sentiment, but a naïve one. He had no potions. The rain was soaking him and Jaskier both, ensuring that his wound continued to run bloody. Without Swallow or White Raffords, there was no way he could heal from such a large injury, not without serious medical intervention. “Jaskier,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Jaskier didn’t look up, his jaw clenched hard as he tried to put pressure on the hole in Geralt’s side. “You’re not,” he choked out through gritted teeth. “You can’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said, reaching a hand up to grasp the edge of Jaskier’s shirtsleeve. He felt weak already, the short distance to Jaskier’s wrist taking monumental effort to traverse. He opened his mouth, panting, and the rain fell on his tongue in splashes of clear, sweet spring. “Jaskier, please, look at me.”

This time Jaskier turned, his wide eyes clearly brimming with tears. He sucked in a breath when he saw Geralt’s face, his expression crumpling a bit. “I don’t know what to do,” he said, a choked admission of guilt. Geralt’s heart clenched in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to focus on the bard even as his vision swam. His hand fell to rest on top of Jaskier’s, where it was still pressed hard to his side. The skin there was warm and wet, though he didn’t know if it was blood or rainwater he found there. He was so tired. He wanted to close his eyes, but that would mean looking away from Jaskier’s beautiful, worried face, and he didn’t have the strength for that yet. “I’m glad you’re here, Jask.”

“Don’t,” Jaskier said, pleaded. Geralt couldn’t tell if he was crying, face too wet with rain to say. “Don’t do this, please.”

“Not much of a choice,” Geralt replied, feeling his eyelids growing heavier. The ground beneath him was warm, and that, he knew, was blood, mixing with the rain and turning the dirt to mud. It was over. “I’m sorry. Don’t wanna… leave you.”

“Then don’t,” Jaskier cried, one of his hands coming up to cradle Geralt’s cheek. He blinked his eyes open, not realizing that he’d closed them. Jaskier’s hand was so warm against his cold skin. His eyes were so blue. “Stay with me.”

He couldn’t, so instead he just said, “I love you. Jaskier. I love you.”

Jaskier made a sound like he was the one who’d been stabbed, a choked cry of pure misery that Geralt felt echoed in his own chest. “No,” he sobbed, “how can you say that? Not now, please-”

“Always,” Geralt sighed, feeling his eyes slipping closed again. “Always have. Sorry.”

“Geralt? Stay with me, please, darling, please stay with me. Geralt? Geralt!”

Geralt slipped into darkness.

It was a surprise that he woke.

He knew immediately that he was alive because of the pain. It was dulled from the sharp, twisting agony that he’d felt lying in the field, but it was still there. His side throbbed with the telltale itch of his too-quick healing.

Upon forcing his eyes open, Geralt found himself lying in a thin bed in what looked to be a room at an inn. It was familiar - not the room itself, but the woodworm eaten timbers of the ceiling looked just as they had three nights ago when he and Jaskier had passed through the last town. It was a small thing, truly only fit for one person, but Geralt could see both his own bags and Jaskier’s lute case leaning against the small fireplace. Geralt sat up slowly, feeling the newer skin on his side pull at the movement. Still not fully healed, but it must have been at least a day since he fell unconscious. How was he alive? He had been sure, so sure, that this had been the end, even told Jaskier-

Oh shit. Jaskier.

Geralt threw back the thin blanket covering the small bed and heaved himself out of it, wincing as his side screamed at him. He’d had worse, certainly, and he needed to find Jaskier. The only thing that put his mind even slightly at ease was the presence of the lute; no matter how angry Jaskier was at him, he would never leave his instrument behind. Geralt just had to find him, convince him that it was no big deal, that he didn’t mean it like that. That he knew Jaskier didn’t feel the same, and there was no reason things had to change between them. Panic made Geralt’s throat tighten, and it wasn’t just the strain of his recent injury making his heart pound double time in his chest. He had to find Jaskier.

He pulled open the door to the room, letting it slam into the wall behind him, and practically threw himself into the hallway. Only to run headfirst into Jaskier as he rounded the corner, their foreheads cracking together. Geralt felt something warm and wet coat his front as whatever was in the bowl Jaskier had been holding tumbled out of his hands.

Geralt stumbled backwards, cursing as he looked down at the stew now coating his bare chest and the bandages around his waist. He hadn’t even thought to put on a shirt. Jaskier scrambled up from where he’d fallen flat on his ass, one hand pressed to his forehead.

“What the fuck,” he hissed, “are you doing up?” Geralt looked up, startled by the vehemence in Jaskier’s tone. “Shit, look at you, now I don’t have any lunch! Fuck.” Jaskier stepped forward, bowl abandoned, and his fingertips touched the edge of the bandage around Geralt’s middle. His fingers skimmed over the skin just at the edge, and Geralt suppressed a shiver. “Look at this mess. You shouldn’t even be standing, are you alright? We need to change these, come on.”

Geralt allowed himself to be maneuvered, Jaskier herding him back into the room and pushing at him until he sat back on the rumpled bed sheets. The floor was chilly beneath his bare feet, and Geralt spared a moment to feel a bit foolish for rushing out of the room in not much more than his braies in his eagerness to confront the bard. Now that they were in the same room, he found himself unable to even speak as Jaskier fluttered about, griping to himself. He was clearly angry, though Geralt couldn’t tell if it went beyond irritation at being bumped into. After a few moments Jaskier threw down a handful of bandages and gauze that he’d pulled from a bag resting on the single trunk in the room, the closest thing to a table. Geralt didn’t recognize it; Jaskier must have purchased some supplies while he was out.

“I don’t know what you were thinking,” Jaskier muttered, brow furrowed as he knelt before Geralt, right in between his knees. Normally having Jaskier in such a position would be enough to make Geralt flustered, but now he just felt anxiety crawling up his neck. Jaskier began to pull off the soup-soaked bandages around his waist, fingers gentle even though his brow was still wrinkled with consternation. He fell silent, using the ruined fabric to wipe the rest of the stew from Geralt’s chest before reaching for the clean supplies next to him.

Geralt reached out and caught his wrist, his own grip tentative. Jaskier could have broken out of it if he’d wanted to, but instead he froze. “I don’t need them,” Geralt grunted softly, waving to his side with his other hand. He didn’t have to look to know that most of the healing was done. The wound might still be partially exposed, but it was no longer bleeding, and witchers couldn’t get infections like normal humans. There was no need for extra bandages that would only slow him down.

Jaskier wrenched his hand out of Geralt’s grasp, his jaw clenching. “I say you do,” he snapped. “How would you know, anyways? You’ve been asleep for the better part of two days, while I took care of… all this.” He gave a sharp nod towards Geralt’s injury, though he avoided looking at it.

“I’m… sorry.” Geralt shifted awkwardly as Jaskier unspooled a roll of gauze and began to gently wrap up his side once again. He didn’t fight it further, afraid to make Jaskier even angrier than he already was. This must be about something more, he thought with a sinking feeling in his gut. Jaskier had seen him injured plenty of times, and he’d never been so infuriated. It could only be about what Geralt had said to him, before.

I love you.

His own jaw tightened at the memory, the feeling of the rain on his face as he felt himself slowly bleeding out, just wanting Jaskier to know how he felt. He’d just wanted to say it. Just once.

And look where it landed him.

“How, uh.” He started and stopped, distracted by Jaskier’s hands as they hesitated over his wound, gently pressing the gauze down. “How am I…?”

“Alive?” Jaskier finished, voice still brittle. “Yeah, that is the question, hmm? It was Roach, really. I whistled to her - I’m quite good at that, did you know? Good lungs I guess. Anyways, she heard me and came. Brought all your potions, and I was able to get enough Swallow into you to slow the bleeding, enough to bandage you up and get back to town. It wasn’t easy, mind, you’re a heavy bastard and these arms are not meant for manual labor. Thank the gods Roach is used to taking care of your sorry arse, or I’d never have managed. You were bleeding all over the saddle, and I couldn’t remember which one was White Honey and which was White Raffords, and if I’d given you the Honey you’d have been bleeding out even more, so I just had to get into town and find a healer, which was a damn difficult thing to do in that storm-”

He was rambling, sharp, angry words carrying an undercurrent of anxiety. Geralt set a hand over Jaskier’s where they were tying off the bandage, just before he pulled away. “Jaskier,” he interrupted, as gently as he could. “Thank you.”

Jaskier blinked at him, seemingly startled. “Wh- For what?”

“You saved my life.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, “Roach did all the heavy lifting.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt said again, imploring. Jaskier pulled his hands away, blinking hard as he looked away from Geralt and towards the fire. He didn’t move out from between Geralt’s spread knees, but he was no longer touching either. His arms crossed defensively, his hands tucking under his armpits. “I’m sorry.” Geralt didn’t know what else to say.

“You should be!” Jaskier suddenly exploded, standing up and pacing across the room. Geralt reached for him, but he was already gone. He watched from the bed as Jaskier threw his hands up, turning back to point an accusatory finger at him. “You were bleeding out in my arms and you choose that moment to what, confess your- to confess to me? Then, Geralt? That’s not fair! You can’t just say something like that and then almost- and then-” He put a hand over his mouth, turning away. His shoulders were shaking slightly.

Geralt rose, horrified. He stepped up to Jaskier’s side, hand hovering over his shoulder but unsure if his touch would be welcome. “Jaskier, Jaskier, I’m sorry,” he said, panicked. “Please don’t be upset. I’m not- It doesn’t have to change anything. I know it was out of line, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier wasn’t listening, scrubbing hard at his watery eyes. He looked up at the ceiling, taking a shaky breath. “I mean, I understand you might have had your reservations before,” he said, voice strained, “but how was I supposed to get over that?” He lowered his gaze, meeting Geralt’s eyes. This time there was no rain to mix with his tears. “Knowing that you… that we could have been…”

Geralt was at a loss for words. “I didn’t think,” he stuttered, “I didn’t think you would feel the same. As me. I just wanted you to know.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, a wet, pained sound. “You meant it?” he asked.

Geralt nodded gravely.

Suddenly he had an armful of bard, Jaskier flinging his own arms around Geralt’s neck as he buried his face in his throat. A sob shuddered out of him, and Geralt brought his hands up to spread across Jaskier’s shoulders. His side twinged painfully, but he ignored it. “You almost died,” Jaskier gasped, one of his hands burying itself in Geralt’s hair and clutching almost painfully. “How could you tell me you love me and then leave me?”

“I didn’t want to,” Geralt murmured, pressing his cheek to Jaskier’s temple. “I just wanted you to know. That I… loved you. Love you.”

“I’ve loved you for twenty years,” Jaskier hiccupped, his forehead pressing against Geralt’s shoulder. “You could have said it any time.”

Geralt pulled back a bit, one of his hands coming up to cradle Jaskier’s face as he met his gaze. He felt breathless, something light stirring in his chest even as he mournfully took in the tear streaks on Jaskier’s cheeks. “You too?” he asked, heart in his throat.

Jaskier choked out a laugh, and turned to press a brief kiss to Geralt’s palm. Geralt couldn’t help the small gasp that escaped him. “You’re the stupidest man I know,” Jaskier said into his hand, before looking back up at him. “Of course me too.”

Geralt couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward, from letting Jaskier’s breath gust over his nose before he used the hand on his cheek to guide Jaskier’s mouth to his own. It was only a brief press, sweet like fresh rainwater and salty with Jaskier’s tears. He pulled away slowly, pressing his forehead to Jaskier’s. When his eyes fluttered open, he found Jaskier staring at him, blue eyes startlingly bright.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still mad at you,” Jaskier said. He didn’t sound angry, though. His voice was still shaky, but a small smile was spreading across his mouth. “Don’t do that to me again.”

“I don’t plan to,” Geralt agreed easily. His side still throbbed, but the pain felt far away, and Jaskier was warm and soft in his arms. “Even if you’re still mad, would you do something for me?”

Jaskier hummed. “Depends on the request.” His fingers had gentled in Geralt’s hair, petting across the base of his skull.

“Will you say it?” he asked, tracing a thumb under Jaskier’s eye. Wiping away the last of the dampness there.

Jaskier looked confused for a moment, and then his face brightened like a storm cloud had passed. “Oh,” he said, fondness saturating his voice. “Oh, Geralt. I love you. I always have.”

Relief, affection, joy. Geralt felt lighter than he had in years. “Me too,” he said, leaning in to speak the words against Jaskier’s lips. “I love you too.”

tag list: @llamasdumpsterfire, @theamazingbard

#geraskier #geralt/jaskier #geraltxjaskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #the witcher #witcher #tw: injury #fic #witcher fic #fanfiction #my work #sugar-and-spice-witcher-bingo #s&s #sorry the prompt was automatically kind of sappy so I made it angsty #>5k #hurt/comfort #sort of #forgot to put this under a cut initially oops

393 notes · View notes

miraculousluvbug · 3 years

Text

WINGLESS | Ch. 7

***New to Wingless? Start at Chapter 1!

CH. SUMMARY: After Chat learns Ladybug told Rena her identity, Plagg's solution is simple: tell someone he's Chat Noir so they're even! Duh.

Unbeknownst to the three wicked stooges, Paris’s favorite cat boy sat perched upon a rooftop adjacent to the mansion, ogling the interaction between his father, his trusted assistant, and his absolute least favorite person in the entire world.

Next to Hawk Moth, of course.

As they tittered and conspired in the darkness, Chat Noir narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t help but find the whole thing . . .

Shady.

“Claws in.”

Plagg whizzed out of the ring and looked up at his holder with sad kitten eyes. Adrien avoided making eye contact, practically drilling a hole into the ground with the intensity of his glare. He hugged his knees to his chest and picked at his shoelaces.

“That was pretty rough, kid.”

Adrien sniffled and roughly smeared away his tears with the back of his hand.

“I was hoping her explanation would make me feel better, Plagg.”

Adrien hugged his knees tighter.

“But it made me feel so much worse.”

“Oh, Adrien,” Plagg crooned, shoulders drooping. He hesitated for only a second before flying to Adrien’s shoulder and nuzzling his holder’s neck.

“She doesn’t want to know me, Plagg. Am I really that bad?”

“Not at all. I already told you that no other Chat Noir could be you. I meant it. You’re the best Chat Noir I’ve ever had.”

Adrien’s sniffles quieted, but the tears persisted. He had no idea how to stop them now that they had started. With gut-wrenching envy, Adrien watched the person he hated most engage in chit-chat with his father as if it was the most casual occurrence. The man even went as far as sharing whatever was on his tablet, a feat Adrien had been trying to accomplish since before he could remember. His father always claimed to be private, unwilling to share any kind of imperfect designs with his own son.

But there Lila was. Conversing with his father more than he himself had in the past week.

And Ladybug had given her most sacred secret to Rena Rouge.

Was he invisible?

He felt so small.

Lost at sea.

A blip in the turbulent waters that no one knew was missing.

He was a boy overboard with no life raft. And no one knew to look for him.

His soul was cold and his heart felt numb.

“You know what?” chirped Plagg suddenly, snapping Adrien out of his spiral. “Ladybug is the new Guardian, right?”

Adrien nodded hesitantly. Where was he going with this?

“What’s her only rule?”

“We can’t know each other’s identities.”

Plagg hovered in front of Adrien’s eyes and flipped onto his back, making a show of nonchalance. If this was gonna work, Plagg had to make the kid think it was kind of his own idea. “Who can’t know each other’s identities?”

Adrien was unamused. To him, Plagg was beating a dead horse.

“Ladybug and Chat Noir.”

Plagg popped open one eye. He didn’t need to open both for Adrien to see the blatant impishness in them.

“So Ladybug and Chat Noir can’t know each other’s identities. What about . . . other people?”

The blonde ball of despair perked up, hair bouncing into his eyes, though they immediately narrowed at his Kwami’s scheming.

“But Master Fu--”

Plagg interjected, “--who isn’t the guardian anymore.”

Adrien blinked.

Kwamis, Plagg was so close to convincing his kid to be selfish for once. He just needed a push! A hefty, premeditated shove off the Fu-forsaken cliff!

“It’s like I’ve always said. Beg for forgiveness, not for permission.” Plagg folded his little paws across his chest, floating right up to Adrien’s nose. Adrien went cross-eyed trying to maintain eye contact. “Ladybug told Rena. So the question is: who’s Chat Noir going to tell?”

“It’s--” Adrien spluttered. “It’s risky, Plagg!”

“And so is being depressed,” Plagg snarled back, surprising Adrien. “Any other person gets minorly inconvenienced and akumatized, who saves them? You--” the Kwami jabbed a paw into Adrien’s nose “--and the bug. But you or Ladybug get akumatized, who saves you?”

Plagg saw the cogs turning in Adrien’s head. He briefly speculated who his kid might choose. Nino would be the obvious choice. He wasn’t as close to Kagami any more, but telling her the secret that had broken them apart would certainly be one hell of an apology. It could even, say, potentially repair what the secret had fractured.

There was also the off chance Adrien might choose Pigtails, who coincidentally doubled as Ladybug. Plagg would have to raid the Agreste kitchen for popcorn if that happened.

“If . . .” Adrien began.

Yes? Plagg internally coaxed.

“If I were to choose someone . . .”

Come on, Adrien.

“I think it would be . . . Nino.”

Yahtzee.

Plagg clapped his paws together over and over, rousing Adrien from his feet like a drill sergeant. “All right, then! Let’s go, let’s go! Hustle, bell boy. We’ve got places to be!”

Adrien reached into his pocket and pulled out a squishy triangle, letting loose the most intoxicating aroma Plagg ever did smell. It circled the pair and made Plagg salivate. “Don’t you want this first?”

Did I really forget about camembert? Plagg wondered incredulously.

“I--” Plagg scrambled for an excuse to atone for the touchy-feelies interfering with his one true love, but he came up short. “Of course I want that!”

Adrien smiled fondly at his Kwami and threw the camembert into the air. Not one to miss a beat, Plagg zipped and caught the cheese in his mouth, devouring the thing in one fell swoop.

“Now we can go!” said Plagg, belching remorselessly. Naturally.

Adrien chuckled. When he opened his mouth to say the transformation phrase, however, he faltered. Was he really going to do this? It . . . It felt disobedient, like he was betraying Ladybug. But could she really hold it against him, if she had needed to do the same?

Would his partner reveal herself to be a hypocrite?

The budding consequences of revealing himself to Nino weighed so heavily on his shoulders that he wasn’t sure how he would manage batoning into the air once transformed. The aptitude for disappointment just felt so tangible to him, as if it were physically chaining him to the rooftop, a meaty claw so solidly wound ’round his ankles it threatened to pierce his skin.

The thought that Nino might hate him for keeping the secret in the first place made home in Adrien’s cerebral cortex, further immobilizing him. It pulled up a chair and opened the morning newspaper like it was meant to be there, meant to remind him that not everything was just simple. Straightforward. Without fallout.

A tender paw touched his cheek, wiping away a runaway tear.

“Kid,” whispered Plagg. His eyes were misty.

Is that . . . because of me? Because he cares about me?

Holding his gaze a moment longer, Adrien uttered the words that once changed his life forever and seemed to be forever following him with new and improved ways to spice up his routine.

“Claws out.”

The energy washed over him like a cold shower, springing him into action. The need to move, to run, to fly nipped at his heels and before he knew it, he was vaulting to his best buddy’s.

If Adrien was honest, telling Marinette, his dearest friend, was his first instinct. He gripped that realization like it would fly away at a moment’s notice, at the slightest spook (he was on the precipice of truly understanding what his good friend Marinette really meant to him). But he had heard from Nino that Alya and Marinette were holed in for a “girls’ night,” so . . . Nino was the next best thing.

Nino was far from second place, however. Sharing the burden of his greatest secret with the guy who got mad at Gabriel Agreste on Adrien’s behalf was like a breath of fresh air. More than that, it was like Adrien would finally be able to steady his head above the tide.

(Telling Marinette would have been like sprouting gills and uncovering the mystery of the sea up close and personal, but Adrien didn’t want to unpack that particular conclusion yet.)

Wasting no time, Chat Noir landed nimbly on Nino’s apartment balcony and tucked his baton back into place. Giving himself just one more moment before life as he knew it was spun upside down--for better or for worse was yet to be determined--he raised a gloved claw to the sliding glass door and timidly knocked.

Nino’s balcony wasn’t decorated like Marinette’s. A few bikes of various sizes loitered against the railing, collecting dust. A few helmets hung limply from their handlebars, occasionally shifting to and fro in the passive wind. Chat could discern by the light-up training wheels which bike belonged to Nino’s little brother, Chris. The bike--which Chat realized must be new since his last visit--sported black spots against its red frame.

Chat shook his head fondly.

Someone obviously developed an appreciation for the bug after their last akumatization. But as the evening breeze softly twisted the helmet, the vision before him melted him into a puddle of endearment. Nino’s kid brother apparently also had a thing for Chat Noir.

The evidence?

A black helmet topped with an acid green paw print and two plastic cat ears to boot.

Un-fur-tunately, as much as the sight was incredibly thera-paw-tic, it also made his heart throb. His body ached for a larger family, from head to toe and down to his bones.

Adrien didn’t dream often in his sleep, but when he did . . . Oh, when he did, he was blessed with visions of him entering a cozy one-story home (his) and immediately being greeted by giggling and the blinding smiles of three faceless children (also his).

While his hopelessly romantic heart yearned for Ladybug to be his other half in that tender fantasy, lately his subconscious had a habit of inserting a particular blue-haired classmate. It baffled him at first, but he figured seeing her family photo that one time during Animan in addition to experiencing the Dupain-Chengs’ bolstering hospitality personally as both Adrien and Chat Noir made Marinette a safe space for his lonely imagination.

Whoever she married would be one lucky bastard, that was for sure.

The curtains behind the glass door swept dramatically to the side, revealing a bewildered Nino in Rena Rouge-themed pajamas.

“Chat Noir?!” he exclaimed. The glass between them muffled his voice.

A quick scan beyond Nino told Chat that his friend was home alone, but he knew he needed to be certain. “Are you home alone?”

Nino paled before realizing that a superhero asking that question wasn’t as bad as some random adult looking for an easy target. He exhaled, chuckling nervously. “My family went to the ice rink, but skating’s so not my jam.”

So he stayed behind. Good. This was gonna be a piece of cake! Adrien pointed at the door handle and raised his eyebrows in question.

“Oh, right. Sorry, dude!”

Nino clambered to unlock the door and wrenched it open. The smell of broth and herbs hit Adrien square in the nose. His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten since lunch. “What brings you here? An akuma?”

Stepping over the threshold, Chat tried to make sense of Nino’s question. Why would he come to a civilian if there was an akuma? “No, no akuma, Nino.”

“Oh, good, ’cause I-- Dude, how did you know where my room is?”

If Chat weren’t there to reveal his identity, he might have had a heart attack over accidentally bee-lining to Nino’s room like he’d been there before. He probably would have said something fishy like “In a house like this, it’s a given!” But he didn’t have to make up some ridiculous excuse. He wouldn’t ever have to lie to his best friend.

Never again.

“Because . . .”

Nino eyed Chat expectantly. His room was a mess. He really wasn’t expecting any visitors and his laptop was still open, his music and film ideas scrawled onto random pieces of notebook paper and scattered across his desk like a madman. Or an artist. Was there really a difference?

“Because . . .” Chat began once more.

Oh, gosh. This was it. He was going to do it. He was going to do the thing! He was alone at sea and no one from the boat had noticed him falling overboard. But maybe, just maybe Nino was the Coast Guard. Maybe Nino would throw him a buoy.

“Because claws in.”

Nino’s entire body went rigid. Crap, crap, crap!

“No, wait--!” Nino shouted, closing his eyes instinctually and reaching for Chat Noir. He had to pull him away from his laptop’s camera field! Had to get him out of sight! Why did he choose now to share Paris’s most coveted secret?!

But . . . he was too late.

The light had already dimmed behind his eyelids by the time his hands were closed around--

“Adrien?” Nino whispered, peering up at his best friend. The duckling he had sworn to protect and teach the ways of life was standing where Chat Noir should be.

Adrien smiled and opened his mouth to respond, but a high-pitched laughter rang out and the joy he felt was quickly replaced with sheer terror.

Nino grinned sheepishly.

“Uh haha, you remember my girlfriend Alya who I sometimes Skype with while working on scripts?” Clumsily, Nino rubbed comforting circles into Adrien’s arms as if he could rub away the embarrassment.

“You said you were home alone.”

“Actually, I said my family went to the ice rink.”

Adrien’s eye twitched.

Plagg, who couldn’t have foreseen this turn of events, hovered off to the side and figured if he didn’t move, he could pretend he was invisible.

Sure enough, Adrien craned his head to find an unhinged Alya screeching like a fox (he had seen a video of them laughing once on YouTube; they were so adorable!) from Nino’s computer screen. Behind Alya was a familiar cork board of friends and, well, lots of himself. The walls were pink. She was at Marinette’s like Nino said she would be.

Adrien had expected gasps. Finger pointing. A million questions. What he hadn’t expected was Alya laughing like he was the butt of a joke.

After a good minute of cackling and awkward waiting from the boys, Alya sighed and wiped a tear from her eye. Then she spoke, a dazed smile on her lips.

“I cannot wait to strangle that Hawaiian-shirt-loving Master of Unnecessary Manipulation.” Her words were completely contrasted by the amusement in her voice.

Adrien tried not to faint.

-----

We're now caught up with AO3 here on Tumblr (AO3 is where I first started posting this). Yay! :D Also, was anyone expecting Rena to be there? 😌I wasn't. 😳 Follow me for updates and check out my Instagram where I post art!

(7/?) Previous | Next

42 notes · View notes

shikakunaras · 3 years

Note

#14 "You don’t know what you do to me, do you?" with Shikamaru/Naruto as a ship, by chance 👉🏻👈🏻

!!!! I love them sm. This one is a little long so it’ll be under a read more.

Here’s the Ao3 link

Shikamaru made a break for it. Kakashi invited everyone for a post-mission dinner and Shikamaru knew he’d hate being there. Lee was always too loud, Ino was always too nosy, and Kiba’s dog smell was too much.

He preferred silence after a tough mission. He would sit on a nice grassy hill and breathe in the spring air. Sometimes the leaves would rustle and lull him to sleep. He needed his brain to still, just for a few moments.

“Shika? Where are you going?” Naruto asked, his blue eyes full of hurt.

“I can’t stay sorry. I have to go.” The Nara smiled, albeit it was a forced smile, and then turned away to light his first cigarette of the day.

He heard footsteps behind him and he sighed.

“If you can’t eat then I won’t.” Naruto smiled. “It wouldn’t be fair.”

“Go and eat Naruto. I’ll be fine.”

“Where are you going?” Naruto’s inquiry sounded more like an interrogation. Shikamaru would never turn down time alone with the blonde, regardless of how annoyed he was. Another sigh escaped Shikamaru.

“I like to decompress after missions. Especially after the one we had.” The Akatsuki was no joke. It took every ounce of his brain power to come up with a solid plan against the zombie pair. Naruto’s arm was still in a cast and it had almost everyone’s name on it.

“Oh that’s cool.” Naruto’s smile was brighter than the sun. It made Shikamaru’s heart skip a beat. That smile was for him.

They walked to Shikamaru’s favorite spot and the Nara settled down next to a sturdy tree. Naruto followed suit. They sat in silence, watching the clouds move. It was peaceful, even if it looked like Naruto was vibrating from holding in whatever he wanted to say. The Nara chuckled.

“You can talk.”

“No it’s okay.” Naruto gave him another gut wrenching smile. The Nara had to take a deep breath. The blonde looked around and then down at his cast. “Oh! Before I forget, can you sign my cast?”

“Sure.” Shikamaru took the marker and put his name on the plaster. Ino had drawn on flowers, Shino put some kind of insect, and Sai added a smile. Everyone had embellished their name and Shikamaru’s was the only one in boring black ink. He felt bad.

“Thanks!” Naruto took the marker back and then settled back next to Shikamaru. Their shoulders touch slightly - sending electricity through the Nara’s veins. He’s had a crush on the blonde since they were kids. He’s already told his father he would die for the blonde if it meant he could see his dreams come true.

Shikaku would just laugh and nod, like he knew the same struggle.

The Nara could no longer smell the spring air, he just smelled Naruto’s shampoo. The leaves rustling turned into Naruto’s breathing. It made it impossible for him to stop thinking.

“I’m glad we were able to get the guys that killed Asuma-sensei. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“You helped a lot.”

Naruto’s laugh was light, full of hope. “Yeah, well if anything happened to you while you were out alone, I would never have forgiven you.”

“Even if it was for a good reason?” Shikamaru glanced at the blonde, watching the way his lips curled into a smile.

“They call me reckless.” Another laugh. There was no venom in Naruto’s words. There never will be. He was kind, despite what the world had thrown at him. Something the Nara admired.

Shikamaru took a deep breath and looked back up at the clouds. “You don’t know what you do to me, do you?” He whispered so quietly that he was sure Naruto would never hear him.

There was a beat of silence before he felt Naruto nudge him. “No, but you can always tell me.”

Shikamaru felt his face heat up, blue eyes focused on him. “Maybe someday.” The Nara shrugged, trying to play it off.

Naruto frowned. “Remember when we were kids and you, Choji, and I would play together?”

“Yeah?” Shikamaru didn’t like the frown that occupied the blonde’s face. It felt out of place.

“You were the only one to make sure I got home safe, that I ate, and that I was happy. No one else would go to the lengths you did.”

“My father taught me to be nice to everyone.”

“Oh. I thought it was love.” Naruto looked away, his eyes now focused on the signature Shikamaru placed on his cast.

The Nara blinked and tried to comprehend what Naruto was saying. His brain wasn’t processing fast enough so his heart took over. “What if it was?”

“Then I love you too.” Naruto shrugged and inched closer to the Nara.

“Maybe you do know what you’re doing to me.” Shikamaru smirked.

“I’m smarter than you think.”

They sat next to each other until Naruto’s stomach growled. Shikamaru stood up and held his hand out for Naruto to take. “Let’s eat. I’ll pay.”

The blonde frowned again and Shikamaru thought he made him sad. “Like a date?”

It took a second for Shikamaru to register the question. When he did he let out a laugh. “Sure. A date.”

The frown disappeared and Naruto’s blinding smile returned. “Thanks Shika.”

“Yeah yeah. Just let me tell my parents first before you let everyone else know. I don’t need my mom finding out through Ino’s mom.”

Shikamaru helped Naruto up but the blonde didn’t let go of his hand. Instead of shaking him off, they walked to Ichiraku’s hand in hand, both boys happier than they have been in a while.

#:)#shikamaru #naruto #shikanaru #ask games #answered #Anonymous #anon

71 notes · View notes

animebw · 4 years

Text

Binge-Watching: March Comes in Like a Lion S2, Episodes 21-22

Goodbye.

And thank you.

Time Goes On

Sangatsu no Lion is a show defined by loss.

Almost every single character in the show is coping with the loss of someone- or something- they cared about. Rei lost his parents and left his second family behind. The Kawamoto sisters are coping with the grief of their own parents’ death. Kyouko has become estranged from her family. Nikaido’s poor health has kept him from a “normal” childhood. Saku’s staring death in the face and starting to think about how close he and all of his friends are to finally slipping away. Death, estrangement, unfortunate circumstances, whatever the case may be, everyone has something they’ll never be able to get back. And times doesn’t wait around for them to linger in the moment. It marches steadily on, bringing with it countless changes, countless hellos, countless goodbyes. The world, as much as we might wish otherwise, never stops turning. And it’s up to us to figure out how to deal with that.

So you can imagine how gut-wrenching it is when Hina’s blindsided with the knowledge that Takahashi is going to a high school far away from her. Yes, it’s just a simple childhood crush, something that was probably destined to never be. But it’s those smallest moments that can truly make us comprehend how heavy that weight can be. Hina’s been scared of the future for so long, scared of what tomorrow might bring, scared of how many different ways she still has to say goodbye. Taking tomorrow for granted is a defense mechanism; as long as she keeps living in the moment, she can pretend that things will always stay this perfect. But with Takahashi moving away, she finally has to confront that fear. Her parents are dead, her good friend Chiho lives incredibly far off, and now her crush is moving away too. Soon enough, she’ll be in a new kind of school facing new kinds of challenges. Time is moving forward, falling like the beautiful, silent snowfall only to melt when the spring sun peeks over the horizon. And no matter how terrifying it is... she has to move forward with it.

Goodbye, Hello

But as terrifying as the prospect of moving forward can be, it’s also the most beautiful thing in the world. Winter gives way to spring, old life is replaced by new, moments fade into the past only for new ones to present themselves. To stay still and wallow in everything you’ve left behind is stagnation. It’s the image of Rei sinking beneath thick blue water that kicked off this show’s first OP. And look at how fucking far we’ve come since then. Look at how he’s gone from sinking under the waves to running on top of them. Look at how he’s gone from shrinking away from fostering connections to sticking with Hina through her fever and giving her quiet encouragement that she’ll come out the other side okay. God, not even ten minutes into this session and that already made me weepy. It’s the simplest, purest act of love imaginable, an extended hand from a boy who wants nothing more than to share the kindness they’ve fostered together. For once, he’s the one reassuring her that she doesn’t need to thank him in a special way for helping her out, taking the lessons she taught him and using them to pull her along right back. He even comes to pick her up and walk her to her entrance exam, for Christ’s sake. I don’t even really ship them, and it’s an open question whether or not the story’s even gonna go in that direction (although to be fair, all the adults thinking they’re gonna be an item is fucking hilarious), but it’s clear these two kids genuinely love each other, in whatever form that word may take.

It’s easy to despair when so much of life is saying goodbye. It’s easy to wish that you could hold onto the moment forever and never let it go. But even as the turning clock takes away, it also brings anew. Rei and Hina have both lost so much, but finding each other was the greatest gift they could ever ask for. Heck, that goes for all the Kawamoto sisters. And Shimada. And Mr. Hayashida. And pretty much everyone else who’s been wrapped up in this sprawling, tangled, interconnected mass of people and places. Yes, sometimes people leave, but as Hina realizes as Rei walks her down the slippery sidewalk, not everyone has gone away. She still has so many people in her life, old and new, who she can love unconditionally and love her back in turn. Just as she’s been there for Rei in his moment of need, giving him strength to reach out and move forward, now he can be there for her, giving her courage to follow him down the path she’s set him on. And Rei in turn is happy to be there, happy to share, happy to give back everything she’s given him ten times over. Not because he feels obligated, not because he feels guilty for hurting her (the repeated imagery of Rei seeing himself being someone who smashes eggs is not lost on me), but seeing her happy genuinely makes him happy in turn. Because as he so wonderfully puts it, in yet another moment that made me cry like a baby, “she made a part of me.” God, have I gushed enough about their relationship yet? About how they look out for each other? How they care about each other? How they keep each other in mind to make sure they’re okay? As long as they’ve got each other, they don’t need to worry about how much time passes them by.

But just because life moves forward doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to look back. After all, Chiho isn’t gone for good; she just takes a little longer to reach than usual. Shimada still goes back to his home town and celebrates with the people who inspired him to try so hard in the first place. Mr. Hayashida may not have had the life he dreamed of, but he’s able to guide the next generation down a better path with the knowledge he’s acquired. And in one of the most breathtaking moments of bliss this show’s given us yet, Rei runs into his stepfather one more time. The symbol of the family he left behind, all the fears and bad blood, all the poisonous lessons he was taught, all the chains he couldn’t help but hold onto even as they dragged him down. The first shogi match we ever saw Rei play back in the very first episode, when it was still a ball and chain around his neck. And he’s not a monster, not a pressure, not a source of fear an anxiety. He’s nothing more than a man, as good or bad as any other. And even though they’re in the same shogi class once more, Rei is no longer afraid of what will happen the next time they play. This time, he’s no longer scared of dragging his estranged family down with him. This time, he seems genuinely eager to pick up where they left off. This time, he’s willing to give them a second chance.

This time... he’s willing to try again.

And this leads me, at last, to the single greatest moment in the entirety of Sangatsu no Lion.

I’m Okay

The first half of the final episode sees Rei returning to his foster family’s house for the first time in years. Setting foot in the site of his greatest, most lasting trauma, the source of almost every black voice he’s struggled to shut out of his head. This house isn’t just one more dark memory for him; it’s the biggest, most enduring obstacle he’s been struggling with for the entire damn show. The concept of this family itself is the closest thing to an overarching antagonist that Sangatsu no Lion has. If Rei’s a video game character, this house is his final boss. It’s the culmination of all his hard-earned growth, all his experience, all his courage, all his sorrow, all he’s laughed and cried and lived for the past 44 episodes. Symbolically, this is the end of his journey. The choice to return here is a statement that says that at long last, Rei is able to face himself unflinchingly. He’s not afraid to examine himself in full, contending with every step of the journey that’s taken him all this way. He’s able to take his life, the good and bad alike, and really, truly live for himself.

But Rei isn’t the voice that guides us through this moment. No, that voice belongs to Rei’s step-mother. The last member of his former family, the one voice we almost never heard no matter how many times we peeked into Rei’s past. The woman in the background bearing witness to the tragedy unfolding in front of her, unable to muster up the strength to stop it. The final piece of the puzzle that was this family. The only voice that could possibly bear witness to Rei’s hopeful return, with no expectations, no bad blood, and no impossible anger to overcome. Nothing more than a woman who was once his mother. Someone he once left behind with everything else he couldn’t bear to face here.

Someone he’s finally ready to welcome back into his life.

And as this sequence plays out, as Rei’s step-mom talks about the suffering she bore witness to in the past, synthesizing everything we’ve come to know about how this family fell apart, as the snapshots of memory and present time pass by in still images, as these unmoving moments paint a full, flush picture of every single complicated, aching emotion going through her mind, as we bear witness to every dark thought and moment of despair she’s undergone, as we come to really, truly understand how ugly it must have been to live among this pain, as the warmth of the present day billows through the curtains in blinding light to contrast the despair of times long gone, as we dance around scattered shards and unspoken whispers and remnants of the darkness still between them they studiously leave unsaid, as she marvels at how mellow and adult Rei’s grown up to be, as she fantasizes about what it might have been like if they truly had let Rei be part of their family, knowing such golden dreams are no longer possible, as the still images fade in and out of watercolor live-action inserts, as every last barrier and fortress separating you from this show is tenderly lowered, as the rawest wound of this entire story is finally salved with a soothing balm, after so much laughter so many tears, so much hurting and helping and loving and living, the realization is only growing inside you, beating louder and louder, pressing further and further against the back of your throat. It speaks in a voice so quiet, so pure, you can’t help but strain to hear it.

And then, as Rei bids this house goodbye again, he turns back to his mother and offers one single phrase: “I’ll be back.”

And she offers one single phrase in response: “See you soon.”

And then, at long last, after seven minutes of still images, a montage of moments slowly building toward a crescendo, Rei finally breaks into full animation as he reaches down to embrace the friendly family dog he hasn’t said hello to in so long.

And he offers that symbol of his chance at re-connection the most powerful, most extraordinary piece of advice he’s learned to take to heart himself: “Live a long life, okay?”

And it’s here, finally, that the quiet voice inside you finally speaks one single, simple, unshakable face:

Rei Kiriyama is going to be okay.

Ladies, gentlemen, and everyone in between, I’m not ashamed to say that I utterly fucking lost it. Forget crying: the word “cry” isn’t strong enough to describe how completely I fell apart at this point. I don’t know if I’ve ever been made into such a complete sobbing mess before. I fell apart as hard as I fell apart for the finale of Angel Beats. I fell apart as hard as I fell apart for Shinji’s redemption in the End of Evangelion. I fell apart as hard as I fell apart for far too many Gintama-branded climaxes to count. This is, without question, one of the single biggest cry moments that anime has ever given me. It’s the culmination of Rei’s entire struggle, the apotheosis of all his greatest fears, the capstone on forty four episodes of the most riveting, rewarding journeys to self-acceptance I think this medium has ever given me. It’s an explosion of hope so pure and radiant it just about outshone the sun itself. This is the reason that Sangatsu no Lion is a masterpiece. This is the reason it’s been able to bowl me over too many times to count. This is the reason it’s able to make me break down crying on a nearly half-episodic basis at this point. Because nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing is as powerful as that simple realization that this lost kid we’ve been following for so long has finally found himself again. When life is the greatest adventure you could ask for, when simply going about your day is the most challenging quest you could undergo, there is no greater treasure at the end of that long road than those two simple words, never spoken allowed but humming in every single second of this outstanding, overwhelming coda: I’m okay.

There is no greater reward than life itself.

Children of March City

And at this point, I had just completely given up. I had given up on trying to stand against this show and its ability to drive me to my knees with joy. I simply sat and wept openly, as Rei and Hina closed out this show’s final stretch with their greatest happiness yet. Rei arranging lunch with Takahashi for one last goodbye in consideration of Hina’s feelings? Tears. Takahashi clanking their glasses together in an overly zealous toast to Rei’s achievements (and Hina only just realizing how far he’d made it)? Joy. Hina’s internal monologue as she bids farewell to Takahashi at last, finding the strength to move forward while always holding on to everything she wants to take with her? I’m pretty sure I outright ran out of moisture at some point. This time is precious, but it flows forever forward, and all good things must come to an end. But just as it hurts to say goodbye, there is still so much they all have left to say hello to. They all have such incredible paths ahead of them, such incredible dreams to follow, such incredible detours to take when they’re least expecting. And when all is said and done, Hina’s no longer scared of what lies ahead. For Takahashi, for Rei, for Akari, for everyone who’s given her the courage to stand at this point, but most of all for herself, Hinata Kawamoto is ready to try her best. She’s ready to live, ready to love, ready to face whatever challenges still lie in store alongside everyone she’s come to care for so dearly.

Because in the end, they will always be children of March City.

And no matter where life takes them next, they can always be thankful for the love they’ve shared along the way.

I’m not going to even bother trying to wrap things up in a prettier bow than that. At some point I just completely lost the ability to process what was happening on anything other than a gut level. No amount of words I could spill about themes, character arcs, subtext, animation, could match up to the simple fact that I fucking love this show. I love Sangatsu no Lion with all my heart and soul. I love Sangatsu no Lion like I never knew how to love before. So instead of trying to end this all fancy-like, I think it’s only right to bid farewell by gushing about Hinata’s final, most glorious mess-up: her post-crush haircut that, instead of symbolizing new beginnings like she likely hoped, just ends up making her look like an old lady. As much as she’s grown, she’s still the same utter disaster I fell head-over-heels in love with so many episodes ago.

The only thing that’s changed is that this time, she’s got an equally disastrous friend who embarrasses her by being the one person who genuinely, unironically, enthusiastically, repeatedly, awkwardly, wonderfully thinks it makes her look good.

Godspeed, Rei. Godspeed, Hina. May your lives be ever rewarding, wherever they take you next.

Odds and Ends

-Some overcoming his macho distaste for doctors to stay alive for his grandkids? You love to see it.

-”I’m sorry, I can’t take care of you that long!” sdskjfhskdfh rip

-”The anxiety is spreading” Poor kitties.

-OH AND FUCK YOUR BEAUTIFUL SYMBOLIC STARRY SNOWFALL TOO

-”Rei, you’re like a mom.” skdjskdjskdjskdj CUTIES

-”For tonight, fried chicken is our beverage!” Akari is a fucking madwoman and I love her.

-”Akari, no mom talk! You’re only 23!” skdjhsdkfhdskfh

-”Come on, eat up!” They’re all so smothering toward him and I love it

-OH MY FUCKING GOSH THE CATS LET HIM PET THEM AAAAAAAA

-”Akari, please don’t say any of that to her face. She’ll faint from embarrassment.” HAPPY AKARI GIVES ME LIFE

-”Momo, you traitor!” HELP

-”I’LL BECOME A SHUT-IN!” fuck me this is the best show ever

And with Akari humming along to the show’s theme to send us out, we are finally done. Holy. Fucking. Shit. Expect my final reflection later tonight, whenever I’m able to stop bursting into tears at the mere thought of these last couple episodes. Thank you for joining me on this incredible journey, and I hope you’re looking forward to what comes next.

#anime #the anime binge-watcher #tabw #march comes in like a lion #sangatsu no lion #3-gatsu no lion

35 notes · View notes

poorlytunedukulele · 3 years

Text

Day 12 - Roses and Thorns

The Black Garden is stunning in more ways than one. It’s gorgeous, if just slightly alien. It makes sense, Azra supposes. This place was not crafted with an eye for Human ideals of beauty. Or perhaps Humans were not properly raised to enjoy this place.

In any case, it is still beautiful. There is greenery everywhere. The fertile plains of flowers give way in the distance to untamed crags. The air is clean and sweet, with hardly a breeze to rustle the plants.

The plants rustle anyway. Azra stares down at the rolling hills and watches. The ripples in the flowers form patterns, ones that she recognizes. She’s seen those same patterns time and again on the trembling surface of Radiolaria. They echo and split and combine with themselves in an eternal dance.

If that weren’t odd enough, the sky isn’t the right color. It’s not quite a color at all. Instead of Rayleigh-scattered blues and purples, it’s the rainbow-edged gray of sun refracted through water.

And the light is weird. Spark takes a spectral analysis and finds not only that it’s not from Sol, but the wavelengths present couldn’t be produced by the simple blackbody radiation of any star. It lends itself to the otherworldliness of this place. Azra can’t tell if anything is the actual color it is, or if the light casts different hues. Her green gear should blend in with the plants, but it doesn’t.

The ground follows the worrying trend. Though Azra knows it should be rich, full of Carbon and Nitrogen and Phosphorus, the scans Spark takes are all contradictory. She can smell the decaying organics, feel the loam between her fingers, but when viewed with a cold, hard eye, the illusion falls apart. There are things that are not beetles and ants crawling through the dirt.

Azra dusts the soil from her fingers and turns her attention to the flowers. They’re absolutely everywhere. They’re unlike quite any she’s seen on Earth (or Venus or Io, for that matter). But they’re not some alien plant, spawned for different conditions, they’re flowers. Red-petaled, black-throated, with stems and leaves-

And thorns, Azra learns. She draws her hand back and watches in fascination as a drop of blood wells from the thick pad of her thumb. She sticks the offended finger in her mouth, but the wound is already closed. The pain fades quickly, but the iron tang on her tongue persists.

With a shrug, Guardian and Ghost leave behind the intensive scanning. All it will tell them is that this place is not what it seems, and they already know that. It’s the Black Garden. Besides, for all the Warlocks back in the City would kill for data, Azra is not here to study this place; she’s here to scout it.

She stows her helmet and gloves, picks a mountain peak on the horizon, and sets off.

She’s not stupid. She leaves a trail of beacons behind her. Spark hovers high above, keeping watch for any wandering Vex. He takes video of the flowers rippling in the nonexistent breeze, noting how the patterns change in the wake of his Guardian’s passage. He charts the imperceptibly slow movements of the unfamiliar planets in the sky.

They make their way through the flower-fields, across straight pathways of Vex bronze (unpowered, disconnected), over a few small canals and down into and across some larger ones. The fields quickly become monotonous. The mountains in the distance don’t appear to be getting any closer.

Then they come to someplace interesting.

Azra skirts a stone ridge and comes across a cavern in the rock face- more like a crevice. It seems out-of-place, too real. Like a broken bit of scenery, a tear in the curtain. She takes a few steps inside and finds the space lit by an odd fungus that glows like foxfire.

Spark had pinged radar, giving them a vague map of the terrain for miles. But outside of the Vex-heavy areas, away from the center where the Heart had been killed, the Garden is incredibly boring. Rolling hill after rolling hill, canal after canal. This is something new, something worthy of exploration.

She is prepared to mark the walls and make cave-maps to keep track of the branching pathways, but the tunnel only has one channel. It twists, dips, and climbs, but offers no alternate avenues to choose from. The walls are the same whitish granite-looking stone, but in the dark and illuminated by the eerie light of the fungus, they look green and slick.

She’s lost track of how long it’s been-

No.

Azra stops dead in her tracks. Some part of her urges her to brush off the creeping discomfort and keep going, but she knows that part isn’t real. She has spent far too long wandering Vex installations, fell too far in the Vault, suffered too much in her climb back out to not know her own thoughts. Azra Jax does not lose track of time easily.

Or rather, she has, so deeply and keenly, that she holds on with an iron grip.

But she’s lost it now. Though she can start counting seconds and stringing together her thoughts like a chain of daisies, it won’t matter. The difference between zero times and one time is infinite- the needle has already skipped the track. Azra feels a very familiar nausea roiling in her stomach.

Let’s go, Spark thinks, and Azra turns to- only to realize she has no idea which direction she’d come from. It’s as if all of her object permanence has been stripped away- both tunnels (or the same tunnel from different directions) look equally unfamiliar. She is struck with the odd terror that nothing exists outside of her gaze, that the world is in some superposition, collapsing into reality only when she observes it. That she’ll turn away from one pathway only for it to be replaced by another when she’s not looking.

You’re having a panic attack, Spark says.

She is. Her hands are shaking and her heart pounds loud in her ears. It’s so loud it drowns out everything else- or perhaps there is simply nothing left in the universe that makes sound.

Breathe, her Ghost commands. Focus on that and it will get better.

Even though she knows with absolute certainty that it won’t work (that’s how it always is, panic trumps logic every time), she breathes. She closes her eyes and focuses on how her Light echoes off of the walls.

Then-

You are lost. For a brief infinity, you know nothing but this fact. This is not where you belong.

Eventually knowledge drips down to you and you drink it like sweet fructose- you are here, in the vascular tissue of some giant plant. The plant is the universe, or perhaps just the City. You’ve gone adrift from your place and it is vital you find your way back to it. The knowledge that you belong somewhere, that there is a hole tailor-made for your soul, is comforting. It makes it all the more urgent that you find your home.

You wander with a restless, frantic energy. This would be so much easier if you knew where you should go but you’ve forgotten what you are. Are you a petal, bright and alluring, communicating with minds unlike your own through scent and color and shape? Or a piece of the stem, maybe, straining in tension to keep the plant vertical? Perhaps you are a seed, ungrown potential waiting to spring forth.

No, you are the thorn. Hadn’t people always called you sharp? And that is your purpose- to cause harm. Deal damage to any that seek to affect what you guard. You kill Fallen and Vex and Hive and Cabal alike. That is all you do, kill in the sake of preservation.

Azra stops, tasting the old doubts on her tongue like cloying corn syrup. It would be very easy to agree. Some part of her wants to (and this part is her, she knows).

But Spark touches her thoughts, worried, and she knows better. She knows herself. She has been shaken to her core many times, stripped bare from all of her comforts, broken down and down until the universe found something unbreakable in her. She knows this self-defeating worry, she has traced it back to its roots and torn it out.

She knows that things are not so simple. She does kill, and not just to protect, but she does so much more than that. She dances and laughs and learns. She not here in the Garden to kill every threat, but to scout, take the shape of the land and listen to its sounds and know it. If she is indeed a thorn, then she is also the phloem that delivers nutrients and information. She is the roots that test the ground below, the leaves that spread in search of sunlight.

And she knows this, deep down in her core: she is more than the sum of her parts. She is more than what she has done and what has been done to her.

You are dead, a voice whispers. A dead thing walking through a place of life. A migraine is building behind her eyes. The sweet scent on the air has turned into the rich tang of rotting fruit. And still she has no idea which way is out. Her feet have carried her even further, but the walls remain unremarkable. Perhaps there is no ‘out’ anymore.

No. This is not like Earth or Venus or Mars. This is like the Vault of Glass. To adapt to this place is to be lost to it. Azra has to subvert herself, gather her willpower and demand the world change to suit her needs instead of the other way around.

She turns back and forces the word backwards to have meaning. Simple directions will be her way out of this. Her Light burns like a star.

Suddenly, the mouth of the cave yawns before her. She steps out, squinting as her eyes adjust. The not-sunlight is very bright in comparison to the fungus glow. The air is just as stagnant, however. The flowers glitter with a recent rainfall.

She notices immediately that her beacons are gone. Maybe she’ll find a few broken shells on her way back, but their radio signals have fallen silent, leaving her adrift with no GPS. For a gut-wrenching moment, the scenery is unfamiliar.

Then Azra laughs, loud and long. The sound echoes and echoes and echoes until the air rings with it and the flowers ripple to its pattern. It’s going to take a lot more than that to get her lost now that she’s learned. She turns in the direction she instinctually knows the gate is in and fixes a feature on the horizon in her head.

Listen. I know logically that Day 8 was prompting for Black Garden stuff and today really suits Shin Malphur/Jaren Ward/Dredgen Yor's story. But listen. I do what I want. You can't stop me.

AO3 Link

#destcember #destcember2020 #destiny #destiny the game #shhhh #it's still the twelfth somewhere #also #do you think ghosts make good trip sitters?#these are important questions

6 notes · View notes

timeaftertime-chriscornellfanfic · 4 years

Photo

Chapter 22 - It Pulls You Back

Seattle Washington, April 4 1990

(Andi is 20, Chris is 25)

ANDI: "This is the last box right?" I ask as I pick up a small cardboard box from the floor of our bedroom. I glance down at the contents of the box, making sure I wasn't forgetting anything as Chris comes back into the bedroom from loading up the rented U-Haul van.

"Yea babe," He exhales, flipping his dark curls out of his face.

After Andy had passed away, Chris had the idea for us to just get a place of our own. I think he just couldn't bare the thought of living here now that Andy's gone, and to be honest, I can't either.

I miss him every day and no matter what I try to do to take my mind off of it, all I can think about is how I wish I could've saved him. It kills me inside knowing that I couldn't. I've been time slipping more often over the last week because of the pain and grief I am holding inside and pretending that I'm ok when I'm not. Every time I slip, I always end up in that same spot, trying to get to him from the park and seeing him being wheeled away into the ambulance. Other times I end up in this apartment but still only after he had left for the hospital, but never in time to actually save him. I hate it. It's like re-living the same memory over and over again without anyway of changing it.

It didn't take Chris and I long to find a house that we both loved. It's a small 2 bedroom 2 story home, with a small basement for Chris and I to set up a practice/rehearsal space. It's not much but we love it and that's all that matters. The closing date was yesterday and so we immediately packed up as fast as we could to move into our new home. We honestly didn't have much furniture other than just a couch, a T.V and all of our bedroom stuff so the house is still pretty empty for now but we're working on it.

"You think maybe I should call Xana...? Maybe try and talk to her...?" I ask as Chris takes the box from me and places a quick kiss on my lips.

"No," He says shortly, walking out of the bedroom with the box in his arms. "After the things she said, I don't give a fuck about her right now,"

Like I mentioned the last time, Xana hasn't been exactly on the best terms with us after that little blow up last week. A few days ago she decided to come back later at night, completely fucked up out of her mind on who knows what - coke, heroin and probably some whiskey mixed in there too I suspect - and attempted to take the last of Andy's things but all the while screaming at Chris about how he changed and how much of a 'fucking chode' Chris had turned into. I had never seen her act that way. It was completely uncalled for. Needless to say her and Chris had an exchange of nasty words with each other and he was about to call the cops before she finally took the hint to leave.

Why does this always happen when someone dies? Why does everyone pick sides and end up fighting and hating each other. Same thing happened with my mother.

I know I haven't really touched on the subject of my mother since the incident between her and my father, when I heard them fighting that night but I guess I should bring it up now.

Watching your mother die is a strange thing to go through at any age, especially when you're young. The summer I turned 16, my mother had become very sick really quickly. At first she thought it was the flu. She felt weak, feverish and would barely eat anything at all, always wanting to sleep and pretty much left me to take care of her and myself. This went on for weeks, much longer than a normal flu would last. I finally convinced her that I would take her to the doctor to see just what was wrong. After a few tests she was diagnosed with Cancer - leukemia to be exact. The type where you start to fade really quickly. If I hadn't convinced her to go, the doctor said she would've been dead within a week.

I had no idea what to think or what to feel at that point. It was like I was suddenly in a dream I couldn't wake up from. But I didn't have time to feel sorry for myself, I had to be there for my mother. So that same week they started her with a blood transfusion and chemo-therapy.

At first she seemed to take to it really well. She wasn't as run down as before and was almost back to herself. Then as the second round of treatments started, that's when the chemo sickness began to take over and it was almost just as bad, if not worse than if she hadn't started any treatment at all. In the midst of all this, I was also time slipping. Sometimes I'd slip for a few minutes and other times a few hours - you know the usual. But I'd always make it back in time for my mother.

Then after a horrible incident where my mother had to be rushed to the hospital because she was in so much pain she couldn't walk, she had told the doctors that she'd had enough. She didn't want to go through treatment any longer and that she would rather live out her last few weeks or months feeling normal again, than to prolong the inevitable. I tried to change her mind, that she had to keep fighting but in reality she had already come to peace with the fact that she had lived as long as she could.

I was angry at first. How dare she give up and basically leave me. I was 16 years old and I had no idea how to make it without her. Again, I was being a selfish teenager not really thinking about how much she was in pain. The chemo was only to give her more time anyways, it wasn't a cure for the type of leukemia she had.

It was the Spring after I turned 17 when she passed away. I'll never forget the day. It was a strange feeling being with her until the end, saying all the things that needed to be said so that she knew how much I loved her. I also did my best to not slip in the middle of it given the fact that it was the most gut wrenching thing I have ever gone through in my life. But something was keeping me there with her, not letting me slip and miss the last moments I had with her.

Making the final arrangements with my dad was weird. They hadn't talked to each other since their divorce but I couldn't do everything myself, I was just a kid. My mother's side of the family basically got pissed and fought over everything and I was left to live with my dad, who I hadn't lived with since I was 15. It was fine though and you know we're still close now but it was a huge adjustment for him since he was used to playing clubs and bars, travelling and hadn't really had the responsibility of raising me since I was 15 - well really since I was a little girl. Eventually he got used to me again, and it was like the bond between us never broke. I finally told him all the things I held inside since he moved out and left me with my mother. I became daddy's little girl again, though I was always his little girl, we just needed to make amends. When I threw myself into my schooling and playing so that I could graduate early, it was hard for him but I had to do it. As much as I loved the bond that me and my father had rekindled, you could say I still have unresolved feelings about my mother's death, since I basically have been pretty much numb from it since it happened. That's why I wanted to run as far from it as possible. So Seattle was perfect.

I still see my mom sometimes when I slip. It's usually only for a few minutes at a time, but I'll see her in the kitchen of our old house, or when my father is just walking in the door from a gig and she greets him with the love she had for him before everything fell apart. It's comforting to know that I can still visit her, even if she doesn't know I'm there.

"Babe...? You alright?" Chris asks me, breaking me out of my reverie as he appears at the front doorway.

"Yea... yea, I was just..." I exhale as I grab my bag from the floor of the now completely empty living room. I sling my bag over my shoulder and un-tuck my curls, then glance up into Chris's blue eyes that gleam.

"C'mon, let's go home," He says sweetly reaching out for my hand. I look around the apartment one last time, quietly saying goodbye to Andy, then I take Chris's hand and lock the door one last time.

*******************************************************************************************

#Time After Time #time travel #chris cornell #chris cornell fanfiction #soundgarden #soundgarden fanfiction #grunge fanfiction #fantasy #alternate universe #also on wattpad #also on ao3 #My Story

24 notes · View notes

drumboydowoon · 4 years

Text

Crescent | ATEEZ Fantasy Au |

Chapter 1 | Winter

Next / Masterlist

WARNING | fire mention, death mention

Summary | Have a happy birthday full of unexplainable nightmares, flower stalls, and strangers.

Word Count | 5,507

Lost, stuck, frozen, trapped. There was no right word for this situation. You stood in place, anchored in by time and unable to move. A bystander, a watcher, or a participant, you’re not sure which one best defines your role at the moment.

The setting that surrounds you is depressing. The town is covered in some kind of hazy fog. Was it a fog though? You couldn’t be sure since it invaded your lungs and made you want to gag. There wasn’t a sign of life in sight. The buildings sat in the distance, lonely and untouched by life. The fog grew thicker the more you looked on. It was beginning to suffocate you, but there wasn’t a thing you could do about it.

Soon, you heard footsteps. They echoed throughout the ghost town. Someone’s here. Should you be worried, or relieved that someone else is finally made themselves known? Many thoughts ran through your mind and each one made your stress go up.

One moment, your eyes blinked. When you opened them again, the world became something different. That’s when you realized it’s a horrifying nightmare. Your breathing became more ragged as you saw the mob of people circled around a gruesome sight. They all held torches that were burning, but they were brightly lit green. Such an odd color, but it made the scene all the more horrible.

The mob surrounded a pillar, no not a pillar, it’s a cross. There’s a man hanging on the front of it. He doesn’t seem to be awake, or aware of what’s happening to him. You wanted nothing more than to scream, to warn the man of his oncoming doom. However, nothing came out. Your mouth felt like it was stitched together without the stitches. You couldn’t utter a sound. The only available option was to stand and watch.

The second time your eyes blinked, everything was much louder. The green flames climbed the cross with ferocious haste. Each second they became closer and closer to the man that hung from the wood. The mob was rioting now.

“Burn the witch!”

“Kill him!”

“Let the Devil spawn burn!”

If your body allowed you to, you would’ve sobbed at the horrible shouts from the villagers. Instead, your breathing became heavier and your eyes rapidly shifted amongst the crowd. The flames inched closer to the man.

Your eyes scanned the crowd as a new insults were being shouted. Soon your eyes met someone else’s. Across from you stood a woman, who wore all red. It contrasted nicely with her deep black hair and her raven like eyes. A chill was sent down your body as her gaze stared deeply into your own. There was some kind of presence in those raven eyes of hers. You couldn’t quite describe the feeling, but you knew it was nothing good.

The woman’s lips curved up as she whispered, “Happy birthday my lily.” And though she stood so far away from you, her gentle menacing whisper was heard from everywhere. It felt as if it was an intimate moment meant for only the two of you, and you alone.

In another blink of the eye, the green flames reached the man’s body and consumed him whole. His agonizing screeches reached your ears, and then you tore your stare away from the woman to gaze upon the murderous spectacle. The last thing you experience is the smell of burning flesh in the air. You now know that it was never fog in the air, but rather a deadly smoke.

Jerking up from your bed, you inhaled a deep breath as you came out from underneath the harsh sea of sleep. Breaths came out ragged and quick. The cold sweat dripped down from your brow and raced down your cheek as your mind raced with thoughts of what you’ve conjured up in your dreams in the night. It was difficult trying to get your thoughts in order. Out of all the things your mind has to offer, why did it have to be the image of what you’ve been taught to fear most.

A witch burning.

The man on the cross that died in agony as the hot embers licked up his body in one fell swoop, made your gut wrench in pain. And the woman in red, the woman whose eyes stared into your own, sent a shiver down your spine. Her fiery gaze and the devilish smirk that plagued her lips--nothing made you feel such unease before. She wished you a happy birthday. You didn’t know who they were. You’ve never seen them in your life.

Just when you began thinking of different explanations, a rhythmic knock at your door catches your attention. Who’s there? You wanted to speak out, but your dry throat had other plans. Another knock sounded, and before you could get up and see who it is, it creaked open on its own.

“Sooyun, are you up yet?” a voice whispered, afraid that he if he was any louder, he would disrupt something. And soon the door widened to reveal Kihyun, the man you’ve felt so relieved to see.

You stared up at him from your bed with a happy smile, but unfortunately, the smile didn’t quite reach your blank watery eyes. A worried frown immediately formed on his features once he caught sight of you, “Hey, what’s wrong?” He strode across the room and to you, who hasn’t even lifted the covers off yourself yet. Each step he took, the wooden floorboards creaked.

Kihyun sat at the edge of your bed. He looked into your hazed over eyes with concern. The bright morning sunshine showed itself through the window, kissing each surface with its illuminating glow. What a beautiful morning. It would be shameful if you ruined it with tales of the dark.

"I'm fine. I just startled myself is all. I wasn’t expecting you to knock so early,” you lied. Your eyes didn’t even meet his own when you said it. And the distant look in your eyes has yet to fade, so Kihyun know that something wasn’t right.

He raised a brow at you, not believing a single word. After a few years of living with you, he knew almost everything about you. Whenever you were happy, there’s a bright smile that graces your lips, it’s one that can make any man fall to his knees. Or when you’re concentrating, he notices how your brow furrows and creates a crease in between, all while you chew at you lip with tremendous focus. And whenever you’re sad, though you refuse to show it, there’s this tensity around you. One that makes the flowers seem gloomier in a bright day or the sky cloudier than usual.

He’ll always know when there’s something bothering you, and it’s his job to comfort you. Besides, you’re not a very good liar.

“I can’t help but think that, that’s a lie,” he bluntly pointed out. Of course he would see through your act. You’re a terrible liar.

A heavy sigh escaped you as you prepared yourself to tell him about your gruesome dream. So you told him all about it while he sat there hanging on to each and every word that left your lips. An ache began in his heart when he listened to you. He could feel how scared you must’ve been. And all he could do is wish he could erase that memory from you since it sounded so painful. Though, he didn’t have that kind of power like old man downstairs.

Once you finished, Kihyun took in a deep breath. There was a heavy weight on him that you didn’t notice at first, but from how tense he looked, it didn’t take long to figure out. Guilt started to eat at you. Perhaps you should’ve kept your mouth shut--you didn’t want him to worry about you more than he already does. Though, he shouldn’t have to worry about you so much in the first place. But he’s persistent as ever.

He gives you a sympathetic turn up of his lips. It’s meant to bring you comfort, but all you can manage is worry. But the more you thought about it, the more it became, not just because you made Kihyun concerned, but because you had no idea what that dream meant. Is it a fortune? A bad omen that Uncle always told you about? Or was it just simply a random, out of the blue, nightmare? This is something you’ll have to discuss with the wiser man later. And in private.

Things like this shouldn’t be Kihyun’s concern. It was terrible to not include him, however he wasn’t like her and Uncle, so he wouldn’t understand so easily.

Kihyun makes a face like he’s trying to think of something, but nothing ever comes to his mind. Instead of trying to use words of comfort, he tried to get your mind off the whole thing instead. And with what? Food of course. The one thing that can bring people together and make the happiest memories, “Try not to think about it too much, okay? I don’t want it to ruin your appetite,” he consoled, then he replaced his worry with a charming smile to cheer you up. He didn’t want your birthday to start off worse than it already has.

The promise of food does work a little bit. You can feel yourself thinking of all the possible delicious dishes Kihyun has whipped up this time. Mouthwatering and vary in all sorts of tastes. It was a wonder how a woman hasn’t snatached him up and married him yet.

Kihyun’s smile becomes genuine once he sees that your face brightens up just a little more. He gently rubs your shoulder, “Hurry up and get dressed. I’ll be waiting downstairs,” he orders you. He then stands up from your bed and walks to the door, he reminds you to hurry with a teasing voice, “I understand that women take their time, but don’t take too long.” Nevermind, you understand why he hasn’t married yet.

“Happy birthday, by the way!” he shouted from the hallway.

After the door clicks shut and his footsteps begin to disappear down the stairs, you’re left alone in your room again. Thoughts of the dream threatened to creep into your mind once again, but your quick to snap yourself out of it. Listen to Kihyun, you reminded yourself. It was best to think about it later when you would have to with Uncle. For now, just enjoy the morning.

So you went to your closet and pulled out one of your few dresses. You looked at yourself in the mirror, thinking about how cold it is and how you needed thicker clothing for the winter. A measly simple dress won’t do. By the time Spring rolls around again, you’ll be thawing out from being frozen. Perhaps this is another issue you should bring up with Uncle.

It takes a while for you to finish getting ready for the day. You didn’t hurry exactly like Kihyun warned you, but then again, you didn’t care. Eventually you walked down the stairs, looking more proper than you first did this morning--wearing actual clothes instead of undergarments.

The upstairs portion of the house wasn’t anything too fancy to gawk at. Most of it was aged wood and dusty windows that can never be cleaned to perfection no matter how many times you’ve tried. Then there was the red carpet that hugged the floor tightly like it hadn't been touched in years. Kihyun’s room sat diagonally from yours. It was the last room in the hallway besides the bathroom that was across his room. The two of you shared it, he took baths in the morning, while you took them in the evening.

But downstairs was another story. It was beautifully crafted, almost like the gods themselves made it just for Uncle. Though, you know that isn’t true. It’s just Uncle having expensive taste in decoration and furniture. Luckily, this hobby of his started long before you or Kihyun had met him, so you didn’t have to experience his past debts.

The first thing that catches one’s eye when someone enters is the peacock like chandelier dangling from the ceiling. Its blue, pink and green stained glass looked out of place from the crimson walls and dark oak floorboards, but it managed to look in place as well with all the other strange decorations. The light that bounced off it resembled peacock feathers that spread out, wrapping the ceiling above it in a feathery hug. It’s one of your favorite pieces in the house.

The next thing that would catch people’s attention is the walls lined with bookshelves. You would never be able to tell the color of the wallpaper unless you paid close attention to the cracks in between shelves. There were hundreds upon hundreds of books stored in them, all of them having years of knowledge crammed into them. Everything ranging from basic mathematics all the way to how to escape a giant attack. Uncle knew much because of his decades of being alive. But there was only so much he could teach you since you’re somewhat like him, yet you weren’t at the same time.

Since you can remember, and because of stories Uncle’s told you, you’re the black sheep of the witch community.

It was an odd occurrence. According to Uncle, your parents had been highly respected witches within the community, though that changed when they died in a fire. But they were both witches. So why weren’t you like them? That’s a question that often lingered on your mind, digging deep into your skin sometimes. Perhaps some things weren’t meant to be passed down.

You could remember it like it was yesterday. Uncle sitting you down on the soft velvet couches after finding you passed out at his doorstep. He explained what he knew about you, and how he was close friends with your parents, or a close relative to your parents. It was different each time he would explain it.

You remember how he told you there was nothing special about you except for your high intuition (though, even that was questionable at times). Your genes just didn’t happen to match your parents so closely like most witches do. It became clear when Uncle tried to teach you simple spells and you couldn’t perform a single one. For a while you were devastated and confused, but you slowly learned to make peace with it. Uncle still taught you about the witch world (much to your liking) since the curiosity of your family’s history could never be satisfied.

You read the enchanting book titles with a melancholy feeling deep in your gut. Passing the rest of the library, you went straight to the kitchen, where you could smell the amazing aroma of what you can only describe as, home. The scent led you straight to where Kihyun stood, hovering over multiple plates of food. One for him, one for you, and one for Uncle. But Uncle was nowhere in sight, and your certain you didn’t pass him on your way.

Kihyun interrupts your thoughts with a disappointed tap of his shoe, “Well you took your time,” he commented, not pleased with how you kept him waiting.

“Never rush a woman. That’s very important for you to learn if you ever want to be with a woman,” A sheepish smile makes its way to your face seeing the blush take over the entirety of his.

“What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous,” he rushed out, clearly trying to play it cool and it obviously not working. The way he gets so flustered whenever you tease him brings you much joy. That’s why you’ll never stop it for as long as you live. A smile breaks out on your lips and Kihyun swears he can feel his heart stop.

He finally manages to calm himself down moments later after he realized that you were only messing with him. He shoves a plate of food and a cup of Wilhelm's famous blend of tea down on the table towards you, and then demands that you eat at the table. The red on his cheeks was still evident--feeling embarrassed for different reasons now. You giggled at his awkward state and happily took the plate from him, ready to taste the wonderful meal he made this time.

He watched you skip over to the dining table in the room next to the kitchen with fondness. How he wishes he could be as carefree as you are. But more pressing matters pestered the back of his mind. The dream you mentioned earlier still bothered him. He hasn’t known you to have nightmares like that before, and though he isn’t a witch like Wilhelm, your “Uncle”, he couldn’t help but feel like the dream was something more. Hopefully Wilhelm would be able to provide some insight for you and ease both your nerves.

Kihyun followed you to the table while holding two plates in his hands. He sat one plate down at the head of the gothic table, and then he placed his own plate across from you. He took a seat and began digging in. You did the same, but your eyes kept glancing over to the empty seat where Uncle usually sat. It’s no surprise that he hasn’t joined the two of you yet. Kihyun always made him a meal, but he never was around to eat with you. Instead Uncle would take the meal with him into study and eat alone while he read his textbooks are performed new experiments with spells and potions.

After finishing a bite of your food, you glance from the empty seat to Kihyun, “Where is he this time?” There was a hidden annoyance in your voice, just barely peeking out, but it was enough for him to understand.

“He’s out setting up the stall for the day,” he simply replied, then taking another bite. A frown makes its way to you. Why was he setting up shop this early? The day has hardly begun and no one wants to walk in the snow this early to buy some flowers.

As if sensing your confusion, Kihyun swallowed what was left in his mouth and explained himself, “I tried to stop him, but he doesn’t listen to me. He kept saying that he can feel that something’s going to happen today, and that he wants to get a head start so he can see it.” He also looked annoyed, but he was just better at showing it than you.

“He’s old. He’s going to freeze to death out there,” you scraped your fork against the plate, beginning to feel worried about him, “Or fall over,” you finished. You blinked up innocently at Kihyun, hoping that he would get the hint that he didn’t try hard enough.

He stared down into your eyes with a blank look, one that made it difficult for you to guess what could possibly be going through his mind. Then again, he was always a hard one to read. Even with how close the both of you are, you can’t always understand him. That’s just how he is.

But then a pout that makes itself present on him, surprises you, “I already tried to convince him multiple times to come inside. Do you think he would listen to me?” he waited for you to answer with what he knew you would, “No, of course not. He’s a very stubborn old man.” He said everything like it was a fact, and you couldn’t help but agree with him. Uncle is a man who needs to do everything on his own. He doesn’t need help unless he specifically asks for it.

A heavy sigh escapes from you after you finished the last bite off your plate. Without warning, you stand up so quick that your chair sliding backwards and nearly tipping over. Kihyun jumps at the suddenness of it and gives you a look of astonishment.

“Where are you going?” he calls out as you begin to walk away from him and the dining table. Confusion was clearly evident on his features.

Without even looking back, you replied, “I’m going to tie him up and drag him back in here by force obviously,” the teasing tone was evident in your voice, and the giggle that followed after didn’t help your case. Kihyun knew you were joking from the very second you told him that you were planning on tying up an 80 year-old man. In fact, he could always tell when your joking. Your not very good at hiding it, just like most things.

Kihyun sat back in his chair, less tense than before, “Good luck with that.” You couldn’t have said it any more encouraging.

By the time you reached the front entrance, you could feel the chilly air from the outside slither its way inside from the crack underneath the door. A chilly shiver traveled up your spine. It’s freezing outside. You eye the coat rack next to the door and spot Kihyun’s spare coat. It’s worn out and has a few holes in it from the many years that he was alone, but it’s still somewhat useful still. You grab it and wrap it around yourself, hoping that it will provide you some protection against the harsh nature.

Stepping outside for the first time today, you forgot how much snow there was covering the ground. With each step, your boots sunk in slightly as the white speckled ground ate you up. You took a look at the town around you. It wasn’t anything special or spectacular, in fact, it’s probably the last place that one would take a second look at.

Faracre is just the town one passes through maybe once in their lives, or maybe never. There’s far better places to be rather than here, the ghost town forgotten by the kingdom. Houses and buildings were caked with white snow. Not many people were out walking on this day. They wouldn’t want the cold to take them this early in their lives.

Uncle’s house wasn’t anything special either, just like the rest of the town forgotten by time. It was small on the outside, but on the inside everything seemed to grow twice as much. You never asked, but you just assumed Uncle put a spell on the house to make it fit as much as needed.

Speaking of the devil, right next door to the house sat the flower stall, the one the three of you took turns running. Uncle paced back and forth around the stall, moving beds and pots of plants. Many were exotic, and some were the everyday flowers you can pick right out of the woods outside of town. These beauties always gained attention and managed to keep Uncle in business.

You stopped right in front of the stall with your arms crossed. The tap of your shoes is what alerted him first. He turned to face you with a cheerful smile since he sensed that it may be you. There’s only one person who could emit such an agitated aura towards an old man, which is you, his wonderful adopted niece.

“And how can I help you today, Sooyun?” the old man was cheeky, he clearly already knew what’s gotten you so tensed, yet he continues to play coy.

A huff leaves you as you pout at him, “What are you doing out here, Wilhelm? It’s far too early and far too cold for you to be out here…” you pointed out. A chill runs through your body, like the air is aware that you’re talking about its chill.

He laughs, “Oh? Using my name now? I must be in trouble then.” Your pout seems to grow, and if it were anyone else, they may have found it cute, but to Uncle it was quite amusing.

“Because you are!” you exploded, which in turn caused an early morning walker to be scared. After apologizing to the townswoman for ruining her quiet morning, you focused on Uncle again with a glare.

“That’s adorable.”

“It’s not adorable. It’s supposed to be intimidating.”

“Oh no, I’m shaking in my 80 year-old boots. It’s your birthday, you shouldn’t be nagging me on your birthday”

“That doesn��t even make any sense!” A frustrated groan resounds. How can someone who’s nearing death act like a child? Uncle snickered at you, clearly enjoying the effects of his teasing. He was too carefree and childish for an elderly man. But you supposed that’s what made his character so charming.

“Sooyun,” he said it in a way that told you that he was beginning a lecture, which you weren’t mentally prepared to listen to. “I understand yours and young Kihyun’s concerns, but they’re not needed, nor desired. I’d prefer to spend my final days in peace while I take care of my plants. I don’t need your constant nagging. I’ve survived plenty through my life. I survived a dragon’s attack as well! Do you know how?”

Sighing, you gave him the answer you’ve heard too many times, “By turning it into a dog.”

“By turning it into a dog,” he repeated, but he continued, jumping into a long rant about his dangerous encounter with the great dragon that was over a thousands of years old.

“Hey don’t change the subject!”

“And there I stood upon its lair unknowingly. It wasn’t long before I realized where I was- And oh boy, did I find out that I was in some trouble-”

He isn’t even listening! Leaning against the flower stall, you silently scream into your arm at Uncle’s personality. He continued on like you weren’t there crying to him to stop, but rather that you were there listening closely to his fascinating tale. Such an imagination he has.

You’re not sure if his tale was true or not since dragons weren’t real, but the possibility exists that he just stumble upon some bear in the woods and turned the poor thing into a dog. With Uncle, there’s no telling which of his stories are fake and somewhat real.

Now there was no chance you would ever be able to convince him to come inside. And you certainly wouldn’t be able to bring up the topic of your nightmares to him now. He wouldn’t let you interrupt his tale so easily. As you mentally cried to yourself for being stuck into an hour long story, you didn’t even notice someone walk up to the stall.

“The dragon was standing right behind me too! His foul breath went down my back, and in that moment I thought I was done for-”

The stranger cleared his throat, “Excuse me.”

Uncle’s rant stops abruptly, and your head perks up at the new voice. Before the both of you stood a young man that resembled Kihyun’s age more than yours. He was very handsome, and very unfamiliar. You haven’t seen his face around before, and you’re certain you would’ve remembered someone as handsome as him walking around town.

A smile graced Uncle’s lips as he stood a little straighter to greet the man, “Hello and welcome to Blumen Heller. What can I interest you in?”

There was a skittishness to him. He played with his fingers as he responded, “Uhm hello. I was looking for something for my mother. She’s terribly ill, so I thought buying her some flowers would cheer her up. Is there anything you recommend?” There was a certain boyish charm in the way he talked. It was a combination of shyness and politeness, it was cute.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he sent his condolences to the young man, “Are you looking for something more natural or exotic?” he asked.

“Oh, uhm… natural?” the young man said, not sure if that was the right answer, though there weren’t supposed to be any right answers. It was only what you, and you alone, felt was like the right answer.

Uncle nodded in understanding, “I can offer you a look at our assortment of Daisies or Peonies. Personally, I think you should see the Hydrangeas. They’re my favorite,” he began pulling out different arrangements of flower already put together. The Stranger raised a brow at this, seeing that they seemingly came from nowhere, or did he perhaps not notice the older man taking them out from somewhere such as chest, or secret drawer?

You studied the exchange. Noticing how the Stranger’s eyes wandered and wondered, your focus darted to Uncle, who was retrieving bouquets of various colors out of his sleeves. Luckily it was behind the safety of the stall and far from eyes to pry, but that didn’t stop the Stranger’s curious thoughts.

“So did you just move here?” you blurted out, “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.” This was a question, not only to cover up for your caretaker’s carelessness, but because you were a curious creature.

The Stranger wasn’t expecting this and looked at her with wide eyes, “T-that?” he stammered. It took him a moment to regain his composure, “Well, that’s because I’m not from here. I’m from a town that’s about a day and a half away from here by horse,” he answered.

Uncle perked at this with a mischievous smile, “So you must be from Dewhurst? Hmm what brings you all the way here then?” This made you perk up as well, the curiosity only grew.

The Stranger shyed, “I heard from a friend that there was someone here who sold medicine that could help my mom,” he rubbed a hand down the nape of his neck, “But I’m not sure if that’s actually true or another rumor he made up. Honestly I would do anything to find something to help my mom, so it would be better to see if it’s real or not.”

Listening closely, Uncle gave him a look of understanding. The Stranger saw an array of beautiful and vibrant Hydrangeas. They were a mix of purples, pinks, and blues. He picked these out and Uncle started wrapping them up for him.

“I’m sure your mother must be proud of such a brave son. Wandering to a distant town in hopes of looking for a cure for his mother…” Uncle mumbled the last part to himself and just the Stranger, “What a lucky woman.” Uncle finished the bouquet and the Stranger pulled out a pouch full of coins. Your eyes shined when you saw how heavy his pouch was, it must’ve been filled to capacity.

“That’s very kind of you sir. How much do I owe you?” and Uncle gave him the price and they exchanged their items. “It was very nice meeting you, and your lovely daughter....” he trailed off trying to think of some names, but none came to mind.

“I’m Wilhelm, and this is my niece Sooyun,” Uncle filled in the blanks for him.

The Stranger smiled, his previous skittishness and stuttering gone, “Thank you, Wilhelm.” Then he turned to you, “Sooyun… Such a pretty name for a pretty girl. Have a nice day you two,” he kindly said. There was a glint in his eye as he looked at you, one that made your cheeks grow warmer than before.

“Have a nice day,” you repeated back to him.

Soon he was gone, just like every other customer your dainty flower stall has seen. Both you and Uncle watched as the Stranger left. Did he ever give you his name? Or were you too focused on his gaze to notice if a name left his lips? These thoughts lingered in your mind, even as Kihyun stepped next to you with his arms crossed.

He apparently walked out of the house after the Stranger arrived. Kihyun just stood there and listened instead of making himself known sooner.

“Who was that?” he spoke up with a raised brow. He watched the Stranger leave, just like you and Uncle. All three of you had different reasons to stare at his longing figure, but none of you would speak about it.

Uncle quickly dismissed him, “Just someone passing by.” It only took half a second for him to change the topic. Uncle worked like clock. Every time the second hand ticked by was another moment of life that’s being wasted. If he wasn’t doing something every second of the day, then he was not doing his job.

“Anyways, I think Mr. Yoo has something he needs to do today,” he glanced to Kihyun with a mischievous smile, then went back to work tending his magical plants.

“You do?” you asked. You weren’t aware of any plans he made.

He stared off in the distance for a moment longer before he became livelier. His eyes met your with a bright smile, “Yes, we do. I believe we’re going out on a date. It’s your birthday after all.”

A last minute after thought blurted out of Uncle’s mouth, “Chores first!”

44 notes · View notes

dopescotlandwarrior · 4 years

Text

A Hero Among Us-Chapter 13

Previous Chapters on AO3 A special thanks to @statell for all the help

Chapter Thirteen

Warning: Explicit sex

Jamie ordered the entire compound locked down for three days of rest. Every man was torn back with dark hollow eyes. Even Misses Crook looked exhausted and walked to her rooms like a zombie. The rain had stopped for now and Jaime bravely pulled his shirt off and jumped into the frigid lake running the soap over him In haste and jumping out quickly. Claire brought towels to her husband and appreciated his gesture knowing they would be chasing their own piece of heaven and the smell of a clean Jamie was a fast track for her.

The men had moved all of their personal belongings to the new house and there was no reason to ever go back unless they wanted to retrieve the moldy dishes left in the kitchen sink. Jamie watched the men joke their way to the cabins, always lighthearted and too tough to be daunted by any task. He felt immense pride in his kinsmen and vowed to do right by them financially. He felt his wife pulling him to the house where he would show her no mercy taking what he needed from her. He felt a shiver of anticipation race down his spine and sting his balls.

There was something magical about their new bed. The mattress was firm and supportive making him forget his own name at times. The sheets were made from the highest cotton fiber count making them soft and cool to bare flesh. He kissed Claire from her knee to her core, very slowly making her back arch and spread her legs wantonly. Claire dug her fingers into Jamie’s hair and wondered why he was taking so much time.

“Jamie darling, I need you now, please don’t make me wait.”

Jamie was wedged between her thighs an inch from her core snoring loudly.

Claire pressed her hand to her lips to keep the sound of her laughter from waking him. She pulled her legs away from his head and covered him with a sheet before opening the french doors to the gorgeous spring day. She knew he would sleep better if the air was cool in the room. She felt powerful arms reach for her pulling her to his chest, still sound asleep, the man knew he wanted her close to him, conscious or not. Jamie would wake after sleeping through the day and half the night with a hunger for his bride. He worshiped her body for hours sending her on multiple trips into the erotic wind. With the dawn, he growled her name before collapsing into another day-long sleep.

Fortunately Misses Crook was up to receive the fresh fish and turkeys brought by the industrious men who needed meat, and a lot of it. She had three turkeys roasting outside and the fish frying in the kitchen by mid-afternoon.

Cho staked out his enormous garden and was turning the rich black soil to make ready for the seed that was donated by the nearby farms. The owners would have blushed with pride at their own generosity if they knew anything about it. He chose a spot that got full morning sun and he anticipated a huge bounty of tomatoes, corn, squash, lettuce, cauliflower, peppers, and more. Cho was happier than he could ever remember being. He understood the weight of his position here and was grateful for the trust placed on him.

Claire slipped quietly to the nursery and held the stuffed bear to her chest feeling the tears and the pain of her heartbreak. She curled up in the corner surrounded by all the discarded toys and cried her eyes out. The blood this morning was proof of what she already knew. No baby grew deep within her. It was the only thing that would heal this orphan, a family or her own, a child she would never leave, a completion to her own story.

Jamie woke to a gut-wrenching hunger and followed the aroma to the kitchen looking for Claire. He filled his plate and checked in with the men while he ate, still looking for his wife. Returning to the kitchen he looked at Claire’s false smile and swollen eyes and his heart broke. He would never reveal his disappointment to her because she was already so sad with the confirmation she was not pregnant, again. He tried to pull her out for a walk around the property but she returned to their bed to grieve in private.

Jamie walked in the fields that surrounded their property for hours. Just before he stepped on their land again he felt something poke him in the back. He was so lost in his thoughts it caught him off guard and he froze, lifting his arms in surrender. The bloke was taking his time and Jamie felt his anger rise over the assault. He twisted and viciously struck out at the man hearing the scared scream of a horse right before he was launched off his feet by a swift kick to his chest. He watched a white stallion gallop away, swinging its head in anger and kicking into the air. “That is one beautiful horse.”

Jamie held his wife through the night hoping she would find her joy again. Just as he did every month as they lived their heartbreak separately, alone.

For the next two weeks, Jamie brought fresh hay out to where he was accosted by the horse and replenished what had been eaten the night before. He suspected the horse belonged to the previous owners and wanted his comfy stall and daily feed again. Jamie kicked himself for scaring the beast half to death and hoped he could lure it back to the life it was meant to have.

The soft April breeze was warm and scented against Jamie’s face. He sat on the porch off their bedroom and looked at the vineyard below. The first thing he did every morning and the last thing every night was to check the vines. He never considered they wouldn’t grow, it never occurred to him. Now it was all he thought about because the new growth was three weeks late. Ben was away seeing friends and Jamie needed him back before he lost his mind.

The month of May arrived to double Jamie's anxiety over the vines. He stroked Donus and gave both horses a morning apple suddenly feeling his skin start to crawl and his back muscles tense like someone was there and watching him. He could feel this presence, above him, in the hayloft, but continued about his chores. Another five minutes and he definitely saw something move through the cutout above the stalls for hay distribution. Grabbing a rake he brought the claw end down on the edge of the hayloft making a terrible sound. He heard a squeak and dropped the rake to climb into the loft and kill the varmint. Seeing the shadow of something under a pile of hay he viciously grabbed at it shocked to feel a shoe and pulled it away from the hay.

“What are ye doing in my hayloft?”

Long soft curls covered a cowering head. The shirt was torn and the pants were filthy. The shoes had a large hole in the top.

“I asked ye a question, what are ye doing in my hayloft?” Realizing it was just a child he toned his voice down and spoke quietly. When the child raised his head, large blue eyes looked at him from a heavy fringe of lashes. The fear in his eyes seemed to disappear as the boy sat up and started yelling in French. Jamie laughed at the youth.

“So, ye say this is yer land and I am the trespasser? Why think such a thing, ye’re a child. Where are your parents?”

The boy knew he was risking being turned over to the authorities who would lock him into an orphanage which to him was more like a prison. He switched to his broken English and endeavored to look angelic to the man.

“I live here and work for the lady until they left. She told me to go home and I came to the barn after she let the horses go. I have been here ever since but you did not see me, milord, because I am too fast.” The child laughed at that and Jamie bristled at the thought of being observed covertly.

“How do you eat?”

“I steal food and have done so from you milord but I can work for meals and I am very hungry right now.”

The aroma of food cooking filled the air and Jamie was not surprised it made the child’s stomach growl. There was more to learn from this boy but seeing his flesh on bones he decided to feed him before turning him over to the Sheriff.

“C’mon let’s get ye fed. Ye mind yer manners and don’t steal anything or I’ll tan yer hide before givin ye to the law.”

The boy had to strain his neck to see Jamie’s face and he realized he was seeing his first giant which was almost as thrilling as eating. Jamie kept the child away from the Highlanders so he could learn more about how a tiny French boy ended up in America, alone. The kid explained he stowed away on the first ship available when he was running away from an angry merchant. He ate the apples in his pockets and fell asleep until nightfall when he planned to escape but the ship was already moving toward the open sea. He stole food and picked up a bit of English watching the passengers from his hiding place below deck.

“I stayed in the dark for a year, milord and when I could stand it no more I snuck out in daylight because I had to see the sun. A girl saw me just as I was running back to hide. She did not tell but brought me food each day after that.” The boy smiled while stuffing food in his mouth, “she had love for me,” and then he laughed almost choking in the process. Jaime slapped him on the back until he calmed down and started eating again.

“Ye werna on the ship for a year, maybe it felt that long but it wasna.”

“Yes, it was a year.”

“The captain would have to miss America and sail all the way around the world for it to take a year.” Jamie was not used to someone questioning his word and it was making him angry.

Claire saw Jamie sitting in the kitchen and went to him smiling, “Jamie darling, I have been looking for …” She looked at the child who had a drumstick hanging out of his mouth and a spoonful of beans ready to shovel in. His round face and pale blue eyes seemed to enchant her until she found her voice.

“And who is our visitor?”

“What’s yer name kid?” Jamie’s voice was gruff and impatient earning him a cold look from Claire.

“Claudel, milord.”

“Did yer mother give ye that name?”

“I suppose, I did not know which one she was so I could not ask her. The madam allowed me to sleep under the stairs and the ladies all treated me the same, so I never knew. One of the girls died of fever and I cried, just in case it was my mother.”

Claire was horrified at what she heard. This poor child brought up in a brothel without the care of a mother. She looked at the angelic child and wanted to cry for him.

“You need more food young man. Which is your favorite? I swear you are skin on bones.”

“I like all of it, milady, thank you.” The boy looked into the angry eyes of the giant and tried to redeem himself.

“Six carriages have arrived at the other home milord.”

“How would you know anything about our other home, boy?”

“I see everything milord.”

“Do ye now? Are the vines at the old house growing new shoots yet?”

The boy laughed and pointed at Jamie. “This can never be milord they look normal now but they are dead.”

Jamie’s heart rate shot up as he realized this child had seen them steal the vines and replace them. He now had a keen interest in making him an ally.

“So, ye say ye work for food, how would you like to work here and we keep ye fed?”

“Thank you, milord, you are a savior to me!”

Claire completely missed the hidden threat of their exposure as she was contemplating what to do with the child. “Well, Mister Claudel, you are too young to be outside. Misses Crook will find you a suitable room in the house and you will start your lessons tomorrow.” She looked at Jamie nod his agreement. “Starting with a bath and clean clothes, let’s go.” She motioned for him to follow her and before they were out of sight, the boy turned to Jamie.

“I have watched long enough to see you are good people, I would not have told what I know.”

Jamie just stared at him feeling very manipulated by the little genius. He felt angry and called after the boy, “ye have the name of a lass and I willna use it. From now on yer name is Fergus and ye better jump when ye called.”

“Yes, milord,” was heard from down the hall.

Misses Crook took over scrubbing the child and locked him in the bathroom while she altered some clothing found in the attic. When Fergus emerged for dinner he looked like a respectable boy except for the intelligent gleam in his eye. After supper, Fergus was sent to bed and was out the window and running before the bedroom door clicked closed. He ran into the fields that surrounded the property and whistled a couple of times before a beautiful white horse came out of the brush and stopped in front of him. He stroked its neck and the horse looked behind him and whinnied. Jamie watched the boy from the shadows and gasped as another horse approached Fergus with a very young filly. All three were the same color white and breathtaking. Fergus gave each adult an apple he had stolen from the kitchen and the baby allowed him to stroke her. Jamie watched with interest and followed but once the sunset, he lost him in the dark and gave up. He would say nothing about this until he learned more about the little thief.

The moon rose in the sky providing enough light for Jamie to see the outline of the boy coming back. He held one large, moving sack and a smaller one in the other hand. He set the big sack down every ten or so steps like it was too heavy to carry. Jamie watched him disappear into the barn and when he came out he secured the door behind him. Fergus looked up at the second floor until he spotted one curtain closed, the other open, and knew which room was his.

“Gettin back up isna so easy. Maybe we plant a sturdy ladder to ease yer nightly shenanigans, aye?”

Fergus spun toward Jamie, wide-eyed and terrified. “I’m sorry milord. I had a dark job to do for Misses Crook. She misses her chickens and is sad without them, so I got them for her, they are in the barn.”

The boy talked so fast Jamie could barely understand him. He walked to the barn and there were five chickens pecking at scratch, also brought by Fergus, he assumed.

“Goodnight Fergus. I’m sure ye’ll find a way back up there by morning.”

Jamie was exhausted and couldn’t wait to see his wife. He felt the heavy weight of his responsibilities every day and he didn’t like the complication of the little thief under their roof. He prayed for tolerance, patience, and a means to ingratiate the lad before he figured out how to blackmail them. He rubbed his forehead and counted the stairs left to climb.

Head back, eyes closed he let his thoughts drift in and out, seeing memories of Claire bundled up on the swing kissing his cheek because she could not speak. He smiled, and suddenly his eyes slammed open with a gasp shooting him to his feet so fast he felt dizzy. How could they leave it behind! The swing was still at the old property. He needed to get it back, right away and hoped it had not been noticed by the Randalls. He crept out the backdoor to retrieve the raft holding the lamp up trying to find the rope.

“What are ye doin?”

Jamie nearly shot right out of his skin and almost dropped the lamp. “Christ, Angus, I think yer tryin to kill me sneakin up like that.” Jamie tried to control his ramming heart. “ Since yer here, yer comin with me.”

“Can I come too?”

Jamie whirled on a black figure hunkered down about twenty paces away. He saw the red cheeks first as Rupert stood up and walked toward them. He tipped his bucket of crayfish at the other two men and chuckled. “Where might ye be goin?”

Jamie rolled his eyes and told them about getting the swing for Claire as he pulled the rafts out of the water grass and to the shore. Jamie held his heart and the other two men talked like friends, or maybe enemies, Fergus couldn’t be sure. Crouched low to the ground he peered around the corner of the house and watched them. The men made enough noise to wake the dead, he decided, and when they faced forward to row he snuck quietly onto the third raft and laid down very still.

Fergus was thrilled with his trip across the water. The dark shoreline could barely be seen and the houses stood as black squares in the distance. He felt very lucky these men did fun things like this.

At the opposite shore, Jaime turned around to tie the raft and the sight of Fergus smiling and waving filled him with rage. Fergus jumped from raft to raft until he stood in front of Jamie looking up and smiling. Jamie glared angrily and wondered what kind of message was in the boy’s smiling eyes and face. He had no idea but decided to surrender and stop trying to control the lad. “Keep quiet or ye swim back.”

The white swing was clearly visible in the moonlight and Jamie felt relief it was still there. They worked fast and when the chains came down Jamie caught them quietly. They placed the swing on the raft without taking it apart. They all felt a bit nervous and decided to get away from this shore as quickly as possible.

Jamie pushed his oar deep into the water and felt his beefy back muscles pull it through. He looked back at Fergus holding the swing like it might fall off the raft. Jamie smiled at him and kept rowing. Back at their own shore, he found a perfect secluded yard to hang the swing and hoped Claire would be happy to have it back. Three men and a boy disbanded to their beds happy with the night’s work.

The next morning the butler walked toward the house and noticed the big swing was gone. He pointed to it but none of the servants could remember it being there. Just before noon, Frank senior stood up and stretched asking his wife if she was going to pull her worthless ass out of bed today. She didn’t answer him causing his blood to boil. In a rage, he pushed her from behind and her body was lifeless, literally, she was dead.

Jamie’s eyes opened to a room full of sunshine, one of the rare days his exhaustion won the battle with his eyelids. He wandered outside to check the vines and saw a dozen men throughout vines looking closely at the arms of the plant. Jamie started running feeling a huge relief. The men were smiling as Jamie reached a vine and dropped to his knees to scrutinize the tiny bumps that had grown overnight. A heavy hand came down on his shoulder snapping him back.

“Looks like I got here just in time.”

Jamie looked up at Ben and shook his head no. It was indeed a miracle to know the vines were alive but the budding was a month late. The grapes would never be ready in time. “They are growin too late in the spring Ben.”

“Nonsense! I’ve seen this before after a transplant and mother nature will… ah heck, I don’t want to spoil it for ya!”

“Wait…Ben, it’s alright, I dinna mind if ye spoil it for me.”

Ben smiled indulgently at Jamie. “It will take about a month for the new growth to catch up to vines that started in April. It’s one of nature's miracles, she does not like waste. Speaking of waste, I purchased ten acres of two-year-old vines from the natives on my way back. The vines are already out of the ground and will arrive later today. It’s a long time to be away from the earth but hopefully, we can save some of them and add to the vineyard.”

Jamie’s head was spinning from all he heard in the last ten minutes and Ben saw the vacant expression on his young face.

“These vines are Cabernet Sauvignon and I have a hunch this variety will be very popular. We need to augar at least ten acres on the hills. You might want to ring the bell and get us moving!”

Jamie looked at Ben and suddenly understood. His eyes got huge and he ran for the bell ringing it for all he was worth. As the men gulped porridge and grabbed toast they ran for the equipment barn finding ten augars. Other men were splitting wood for stabilizing poles. Jamie saddled Brimstone to ride into town for supplies.

The same symptoms gripped him with each trip to town. The darkness that invaded his mind laying waste to any joy that had been there, a pounding head, itching hands, and a locked site-Line to the bank where his enemy still drew a salary and a breath. He felt his feet moving and tried to stop himself but this was long overdue. It was time to settle a score and he felt giddy relief it would be over soon. He took a seat and waited, allowing gruesome fantasies about the killing fill his head. He finally asked the manager where Rodney Benson was. The manager lowered his voice saying he was found dead behind the bank four months prior. The killer was never caught. Jamie thanked him and left, passing Frank Randall senior, unbeknownst, on his way out.

Through the summer, the vines grew, the berry clusters were thinned, mother nature was cooperative with healthy amounts of rain, no droughts, and no floods. Misses Randall was buried next to her son. Randall senior and his servants gave up when the vines did not grow and returned to England.

Ned formalized the deed from Romania and filed a new deed in Claire’s name for the old property. She was free to inhabit the house and land, grow and sell her crop, and would hand it over if her husband's surviving family came to claim it. She and Jamie owned both shores and would make the most of them in the coming years.

When Ned returned to the vineyard in late July he requested Jamie and Claire accompany him into town in their best clothes. Misses Crook made a masterpiece of Claire’s hair in the current style and pinned a fancy hat with a large feather to her hair. The dress she wore was one of her best from London. Jamie helped his wife into the carriage to sit with Ned while he and Fergus drove the horses to town.

Thinking their surprise would be dinner at the best restaurant in the region the moods were happy and celebratory. Ned pounded on the roof of the carriage and guided Jamie down a side road. Jamie brought the horses to a stop and looked at the commercial photographer’s building. His heart squeezed so hard he clutched his chest and looked down at Ned helping Claire out of the carriage. When he jumped down the men exchanged a knowing look and Jamie clutched Ned’s hand as if to stop him from leaving.

“Jamie, I came to San Francisco two years ago to find you, or find out what happened to you. It is time for me to return to Scotland and I will make your sister a very happy lady.” Ned looked down and struggled with his emotions. “I am rather invested in your lives now so promise you will write to me. Tears are not good in pictures but I see your love and it is returned. Your father would be so proud of the man you’ve become, you are the best man I’ve known besides Brian, and I hope you never change.”

Jamie was fighting weird and sad emotions that were very foreign to him, or so he thought. Sorrow, abandonment, a final goodbye, a loss in his soul he could drive a train through. He could barely remember a time when Ned was not standing next to his father. It was like having his father back when Ned was there and he didn’t want it to end.

As memories of the past year filled his head he realized that Ned was the driving force to leave their vineyard and move the plants, Ned pushed them to find a new property, Ned found the Romanians, Ned filed the legal papers to secure their claim. Ned came halfway around the world to find him and now it was time to go back.

“Thank ye, Ned. Ye saved us and gave us the best advice. I am grateful and sad to see ye leave. Please tell Jenny I love her and we will visit in three years' time.” Jamie hugged Ned and hoped it would last a lifetime.

For the next hour, they were blinded by flashes of exploding chemicals as the photographer took multiple pictures, including one with Fergus between them.

When Claire finally let go of Ned, Fergus helped her into the carriage. The two men exchanged a long look and a handshake and Ned watched the carriage roll toward their home. The angle of the sun bounced off Jamie’s copper hair until the horizon swallowed them.

Claire cried as she bathed alone. She would miss Ned more deeply than the others knew because he had become like a father in her mind. She imagined her father was just like him; smart, loving, funny, and intensely protective. Realizing Jamie’s heartache would be far greater she ran her special soap over her skin. The scent made Jamie putty in her hands and she would love the sadness from him. She pulled her special robe around her body and combed through her long coils fluffing it around her face.

The bedroom door opened and Jamie looked at his gorgeous wife as she walked toward him. She sat facing him across his lap and prayed he would let her love him. Jamie held her tentatively.

“I need ye lass,” he whispered.

His eyes flicked up to hers and he twisted, lowering her to the bed. Pulling the ties of her robe he let his eyes see every inch of her. He noticed her chest rise and fall with arousal and he knew a kernel of thought planted in her fertile mind would grow without tending. She has been thinking about loving me and her body is ready to chase her release, he thought. He brought his nose to her skin, between her breasts and filled his lungs with her scent feeling his erection snap to attention. He gently pressed her hands to her side when she tried to take control. “Please give me your body, Sassenach, I need ye, my heart hurts as if my own da was leavin me again. He caressed her from neck to core and watched the movement of her ample breasts as his fingers drew closer to her trigger.

“I’m sorry Sassenach,” he whispered. “To relieve my heartache, you must suffer.”

His hot mouth covered her nipple and his tongue danced lazily across it. For the next hour, he held her hands above her head as he touched, tapped, and sucked every inch of her. Claire felt her orgasm was close, brought on by flexing her thighs together. She started to close her eyes and felt it suck her in until Jamie pushed her legs apart with a deep kiss that said: “not yet,there is more I want to touch.” He lifted her body and turned her over, running his hand over her beautiful butt. Pressing his hand under her he gave a stimulating rub that made her moan and move her hips toward him.

“Open yer legs, lass, let me in.”

Jamie grabbed a fist full of hair and thrust into her body, holding her against him. Claire gasped loudly and waited, hoping he would release the pent up arousal caused by his slow loving. He pushed into her several times and wrapped his arm across her chest lifting her to him, back to chest, pushing her legs open with his knees. It was a slave position where he could hold her down and thrust up into her reaching depths that threatened her sanity and his. He pulled out of her abruptly and was under her before she cleared the lust haze that was holding down her brain. He looked up at her smooth flat stomach, the swell of her breasts, hard nipples, head thrown back in ecstasy.

The Sassenach had many sides to her. With Fergus, the men, the horses, or Ben, there was a little shift in her personality to best embrace that moment in time. Throughout, her impeccable manners and grace defined her. Not here. When he pushed her sexually she became a polar opposite of his refined wife. She was a sensual being, needy, greedy, taking what she wanted to feed a hunger only he could satisfy. The contrasting personalities were an endless source of fascination to him.

“Look at me Sassenach. Watch me lick you and hold back as long as you can. If you look away I will stop, love. Tell me yer ready.”

“Ready, yes ready!” She panted and watched Jamie’s tongue claim her inside and out. She was losing her grip and dropped her head back and closed her eyes ready for the release and then nothing. “No!” She moaned “Pleeease Jamie.” She opened her legs even more and looked down at her protruding bud hovering right above his lips. “Open your mouth,” it sounded like an order and Jamie smiled, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue against her core. “Suck it,” was a harsh whisper. His lips closed around it and she felt the brain spinning sensation of his expert attention. When she had completely lost her mind he flipped her and invaded her body with fingers and tongue until she screamed his name for a solid minute. Before she landed back on earth he was able to spin her again and her pussy was stuffed with an over-aroused cock and a voice was telling her to make him come. “Now Sassenach, grind on me, slam yer pussy down on me. Do it. Make me come.” Claire was still half out of her mind and Jamie’s demands fueled her arousal again. Claire leaned far back and brought her feet forward. She touched him where they joined and Jamie pressed into her making her gasp. He looked down and almost lost it, seeing an erotic image he would never forget. Claire was chasing another orgasm and seemed to know exactly what she needed. “Touch it!” Jamie set his fingers on either side of her clit so the harder she rocked him the closer she came to the promised land. He watched her beautiful face and bouncing breasts until he felt the sting of his ejaculation start. He grabbed her hips and forced himself into her body feeling the velvety muscle constrict around him like a strong hand. He moaned into the intense orgasm as her body finished him.

Claire felt him pulse inside of her as he panted for his life. Her body felt like jello and the room spun as he pulled her down next to him. Still panting he looked at her closely and pushed the hair out of her face. He was terrified he had gone too far and he called to her.

“I’m sorry sweetheart, did I hurt ye? Are ye alright Sassenach? To say anything more would incriminate himself for being a brute and he felt wretched inside. He watched closely as she opened her eyes. She smiled at him like they just discovered the lost treasures of King Solomon. An erotic secret between the two of them. She purred, pushing him to his back on the bed and closing her eyes to the exhaustion. Jamie felt overwhelming relief and a new level of trust from his wife. As always, he had a deep desire to dance a jig but she was already in her dreams so he closed his eyes to oblivion.

When Jamie’s eyes opened a few hours later they felt like sandpaper. He dragged himself to the barn to feed the horses, including the beautiful pair of white Arabians and the baby that Fergus lured back into their protection. Fergus fell in beside Jamie as he always did, noticing the giant was quiet and sleepy today. They walked to the flat acreage where the white grapes were nearly bursting. Jamie held his hand out and Fergus pushed the hydrometer into it. Jamie’s eyes had closed, a trick Fergus had seen more than a few times. Milord could remain standing yet fully asleep including body twitching and dreaming. Fergus guided his hand to a cluster where he plucked a grape and started snoring. Fergus continued the test as they had done every morning for a month and his young eyes went wide at the Brix rating. He ran to the bell and yanked it over and over again snapping Jamie’s head up, suddenly wide awake. “Christ, why today?”

Jamie ran into the whites taking multiple Brix readings and agreed with Fergus, it was time.

The cabin doors flew open and the men poured out into the vineyard like a practiced fire drill. Jamie was running for the holding containers and pulling them into the vineyard three at a time. Cho led his Chinese pickers with a quiet dignity until they could no longer stand it and they broke away and started filling their bags.

Claire was aware of the shouts and happy whoops outside and quickly surmised the harvest had begun. She was numb to it and pressed herself deeper into the corner of the nursery. Hot fat tears shimmered in her eyes until they spilled over, one after the other. Tucking her thighs up close to her chest she laid her head on her knees and gave into the sobs as she grieved her empty womb. When she could cry no more the nursery door would be closed for another month and someday, many months, she hoped.

By mid-morning, she felt strong enough to join Jamie and offer her help. With a fresh rag in hand she Pulled the used rag away she saw several drops of blood on an otherwise clean rag. She stared at it wondering what to make of it. Normally, her first day was a heavy flow. She counted on her fingers and stood stunned realizing her courses should have started a week ago. Stabbing her legs into breeches she bound her painful breasts, shoved her hair into her hat and lifted her leg to slide down the banister. Opting instead to walk down the stairs, she wondered if this was her first time descending to the first floor on her feet.

Claire waited as long as she could before walking into the vineyard to request time with Cho. He looked up from his vine and dropped his bag to rise and bow. Through crimson cheeks from embarrassment, Claire told Cho exactly what was happening. She laid on the mats in his home and nodded her head at the packet of needles he held up. She squeezed her eyes shut and was surprised when Cho asked her to sit up. She felt nothing and wondered if he decided not to do the treatment. It took little time for Cho to see the direction of her Chi.

Claire stared at Cho with wide eyes that started to tear up. She was afraid to ask but could not stop the tears. Cho took her hands, “there is life in your womb Mistress, your Chi flows through it. Congratulations.” He helped Claire to her feet and saw the light shining in her eyes. This child would be blessed with the love of a strong mother, he thought. He smiled to himself and returned to the vineyard.

Misses Crook watched the mayhem from the window, still a bit heartbroken by Ned’s departure. She watched Claire walk slowly toward Jamie and rolled her eyes sternly at her breeches and hair piled under a hat. Lost in her own thoughts, she watched Claire whisper in Jamie’s ear and he dropped to his knees hugging her. Misses Crook’s hand flew to her mouth as her eyes went wide. “Sweet Jesus, there’s a bairn comin!”

Jamie held his beautiful wife in the middle of the chaos and felt his tears of joy coming. He led Claire to their rooms and stripped her before pressing his head to her abdomen. He was flushed and starry-eyed, suddenly pulling her to the bed and tucking her in protectively. Claire was giggling so hard she could hardly speak. When she would try to climb out from the quilts he would pull her back with a determined, happy face.

“Jamie darling, I will not take to my bed, there is too much to do and I am very healthy. Please don’t worry or it will be a very long year, my love.” She kissed her hero with all of her heart and they locked eyes for a long minute. “Now, get back to work before all the men decide to abandon the grapes as you just did.” He hugged her once more and ran from the room.

Fergus had a hooked tool and his canvas bag was a bit longer than he was, so he dragged it from one plant to the other. When he saw Jamie he reached clear to the bottom and pulled out a cluster triumphantly. Jamie looked at the sun bouncing off the sharp edge of the hook and wondered if this was a good idea, and then laughed at his ignorance. How could he ever assume control over this weird and wonderful little kid. Fergus laughed and pointed at Jamie, “milord was sleeping and I read the number and pulled the bell. It is lucky I am here!”

“Aye, very lucky. Now get back to work.”

#outlander fanfiction outlander fanfic jamie and claire

73 notes · View notes

fic-for-fic-sake · 4 years

Text

Lay Me Down

Pairing: Ex Bucky x reader

A/N: I was listening to Sam Smith’s “Lay Me Down” on the metro the other day and legit cried because that song is so sad and the way he sings it is just so gut wrenching. So I decided I would hurt myself and make this fic about it. So like prepare for angst.

Yes, I do. I believe. That one day I will be, where I was. Right there, right next to you.

Anguish. Complete and utterly wrecked. Torn apart and left to bleed. This is how you felt when Bucky Barnes left you. What happened between you two couldn’t be qualified as a break-up because that meant that both parties had to be present. No. Instead you came in one morning to find Bucky gone and a note was all he had left you. Saying he couldn’t be with you because he couldn’t put you through it. Couldn’t bare to destroy you the way he had been destroyed by Hydra.

His note had said that you were too good for him, and that he had to leave. He said he was being selfish by being with you. That was the last time you heard from him. In the two months since, it had been absolute radio silence and you had been an inconsolable mess. After he left you hardly did anything anymore. Feeling like he took a rather large piece of your heart with him when he left.

And it’s hard. These days just seem so dark. The moon and the stars are nothing without you.

Wanda had tried to work her magic on you but you didn’t want it. You wanted to feel all of the pain. That was all you had left of Bucky anyway. You punched, kicked, scratched, clawed, ran, screamed, and bled your way back to some sense of normalcy. Two months of ‘emotional leave’ as Tony had so aptly called it. Today was the day you were going back into the field. You were seated on the Quinjet, somewhere over Central Europe, almost at the drop zone. Tony had said you were supposed to meet your contact, some random SHIELD agent, and you two were headed to a charity gala to collect intel.

Well, the contact was late and Vienna was already abuzz with too many glamorous people to count. With an exasperated sigh you looked at the looming Staatsoper opera house in front of you and took the plunge to head inside. As you walked past dignitaries and the upper echelon of society you couldn’t help but be proud of the few envious gazes that landed on you. The silver gown you were wearing clung to you like a second skin. Sequins shone brilliantly in the light and the way the fabric parted like water to reveal a teasing leg slit had your body feeling more alive than it had in awhile.

Trying not to catch too many eyes you headed straight for the bar. Your contact had your information and knew what you looked like, they could find you. All that mattered right now was downing at least two glasses of liquid courage to make it through the night. Then you could get to your hotel room for the night and try not to think about the emptiness in your chest.

Catching the bartenders eye you gestured for a glass of champagne and he was more than happy to oblige. You went to take the glass with an outstretched hand when you felt a cool palm press against your back. A beautifully sculpted hand reached for your glass instead and took a sip of the amber liquid.

“Allow me.” Said a voice you hadn’t heard in two months, Bucky. His touch sent a jolt of electricity through your body and you could feel your skin react in a way it only ever did with him.

Your touch, your skin, where do I begin?

Gasps, paints, moans. Beautiful sacred sounds decorate the otherwise desolate room that you and Bucky are in. Some shitty motel in Chile but neither of you care. Too caught up in seeking out the pleasures only the other can provide to think much of the dilapidated furniture that surrounds you. The rickety bed springs only add to the cacophony of sounds that you and Bucky make. He manages to draw yet another orgasm out of you and your skin is on fire the way he’s touching you. You swear you could orgasm off of his touch alone and he knows as much.

No words can explain the way I’m missing you.

Just like that, all the resolve you had built in those two months comes crashing down around you. A small whimper escapes your lips as you look at him for the first time. His beard is long gone and his hair is cut short. Your hands twitch by your sides as you resist the urge to run your fingers through it, as you resist the urge to do a lot of things. His ice blue eyes search yours, trying to gauge your reaction. It’s not hard to see your resolve breaking behind your eyes, you never were good at hiding your emotions, especially with him.

Without saying a word he leads you to where everyone has gathered to dance. A waltz, how fitting. The close proximity dance required trust in your partner, it was emphasized that you needed to have the /perfect/ partner. You bristled at the thought.

“What are you doing here?” You choked out in a whisper as Bucky wrapped a delicate arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him.

“Stark sent me. Said I’d know my contact when I saw them.” He replied into your ear. His hot breath causing goosebumps to appear.

Horse hair violin bows striked the strings as the intricate dance began. Every second that passed the more you felt like you were suffocating. All the air escaped your lungs and you gasped for breath. Your heart felt like it was being ripped out all over again. Like you had finally managed to sew it back together with some rough sutures and Bucky came in and tore them apart again.

The empty cavern in your chest that once housed your heart caved in on itself and sent a wave of anguish through you. After your dance you made your way around talking to this person or that, getting as much information as you could. But it was all hard to retain with Bucky always lingering a little too close for comfort. The scent of autumn air and woodsmoke was choking you.

Eventually, and not breathing so much as a word to one another, you made it to the hotel and thankfully there were two beds. You hightailed it towards the bathroom and shut the door behind you. You turned on the shower and waited for it to become as loud as possible before you let yourself become overwhelmed by sorrow.

Deny this emptiness, this hole that I’m inside. These tears, they tell their own story

Your lungs burned from the oxygen they were being deprived of. Your head was pounding from the force of your crying. Your eyes felt weak and bloodshot and your throat seared from the screams you let out. With leadened limbs, you peeled yourself off of the cool tile floor and turned off the shower. You changed and by the time you came back into the main room the light was off and Bucky was in his bed, back to you. Fitting.

You awoke a little while later to the sound of panicked screaming to your left. You turned around and saw Bucky’s body thrashing at the covers, trying to fight the manifestations of his nightmares. You felt your heart sink in on itself for the second time that night. Even though Bucky left you, and even though he hadn’t bothered to speak to you in two months. You still loved him. Just the thought of him facing his night terrors alone absolutely wrecked you. All you wanted to do was crawl into bed with him and tell him you were here, that you would always be here.

Can I lay by your side? Next to you. And make sure you’re alright. I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight.

You felt hot tears prick at the corner of your eyes. The agony of watching him suffer was too much to bare. To hell with radio silence. Fuck not seeing him for two months. Screw your battered heart, Bucky was in pain and all that mattered to you was helping him.

You threw off your bedsheets and walked over to his bed. You reached out a shaky hand and tentatively ghosted your fingers along his bicep, feeling the sweat underneath. He seemed to calm down if only marginally. You used that to your advantage and got up on the bed.

I’m reaching out to you, can you hear my call?

“Shhh, baby, baby I’m here.” You cajoled in a soft voice, hand more confident on his arm now. With languid strokes you tried to soothe him. When his thrashing ceased you fully laid down next to him and brought his body close to yours. Enveloping him in your warmth.

Harsh pants turned into labored breathing as Bucky calmed down in your arms. You smoothed his cropped hair with your fingers, feeling your own heart break further in the process. You knew you couldn’t hold him forever. Knew that tomorrow would eventually come and he wouldn’t remember this. You weren’t even sure you wanted him to. You just wanted him to be okay, that’s all you ever wanted.

Ever so slowly, you untwined yourself from Bucky and began to leave the warmth that his bed and body provided. You had one foot on the floor when you felt his hand tighten its grip on yours. You turned around and his blue eyes bored into your own. Such an intense burning gaze, glassy eyes showed tears that had shed, you gasped.

“Please, stay.” He rasped, voice hoarse from screams and sleep. Maybe it was because your body was just so spent, from the last two hours or the last two months you didn’t know. Or maybe it was because this was James Buchanan Barnes, the love of your life, you obliged his request. You let yourself be enveloped by his warmth and let yourself pretend that the two of you were still together, if only for tonight.

Can I lay by your side? Next to you. And make sure you’re alright? I’ll take care of you. I don’t want to be here if I can’t be with you tonight.

#Bucky x reader #angsty fic #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #song fic #wow two fics in one day #also damn this one hurt

44 notes · View notes

insomniac-dot-ink · 4 years

Text

Scratch Marks

Genre: supernatural

Words: 4.3k

Summary: a mail carrier finds an unusual house on her route with junk out front and strange creatures scavenging through the trash.

------------

I was on my third cup of coffee that morning and kept readjusting my crooked rear view mirror with a jittery buzz. My daughter's new baby had been keeping the whole house awake for a week with his crying and sleep had not been much of an option. Julie and her husband were staying with me while they got back on their feet, but little baby Timone had teething pains.

They were taking him to the doctor for a checkup that day while I did my normal route. I had been a mail carrier for almost twenty-three years at that point and I was also the only one making an income after my son-in-law lost his job.

I made it a point of pride to be timely and friendly as I went, because really there wasn’t anything else for it. My mom always said I had a sense of time like an atomic clock while my older brother’s said I was like a tiny bossy CEO of the household with that clock.

I was good at chatting and keeping a schedule, but that also sometimes meant a second or even third cup of coffee before the morning was through to keep up the same smile. I liked the drink strong and with extra shots if I could get away with it or simply black as sin and an added small dollop of cream.

I was enjoying a third black coffee my daughter made and put in a canister as I got the Westchester neighborhood. It was a semi-rural area with houses that barely touched one another for miles and long stretches of road where only yellow grasses and trees grew.

I wouldn’t call it poor, but maybe compact, subdued, weathered. People along the route were mechanics and waitresses and owned packs of duct tape to do repairs with instead of wrenches.

There were only five houses along the whole street and I knew every single one of them by name. I talked to Mrs. Thomas about her garden and delivered two separate envelopes to the pretty yellow house with both of their sons out on active duty.

It got to the middle of the stretch when I noticed that there was a new address on one of the letters: 1134 Westchester Road. I looked up to see that there were boxes out front one of the houses. That gave me pause to think, for as long as I had been delivering to the area there hadn’t been anyone living in the middle house with the weeds growing up and dusty blue sidings.

I hadn’t seen a for-sale sign in front either, but something must have happened as I now had a plain white letter addressed to it and heaps of rubbish stacked out by the curb. Good for them, I thought rather airily about the clean-up job and went up toward the mailbox by the road.

It was a one story house that was closer to the road than the others and had a short driveway and rocky garden out front. I noticed that the new owners had already bought frilly white curtains for the windows and cleaned up some of the plastic bags and metal cans left in the front yard.

I approached the grey tin mailbox and was going to be quick about the delivery. I had spent a little too much time talking to Mrs. Thomas earlier and I knew when I needed to keep myself on track.

As I rounded the house I noticed more and more garbage piled up: an old wooden dresser covered in scrapes, a squeaky metal chair, and boxes stuffed full left and right. There was junk wrapping all the way around the house and out back.

Moving into a new place is always tricky so I figured they must have made quick work of the clean-up job. It was all stacked high and had an abandoned feel to it, but I didn’t have time to really think too deeply about it.

I only stopped when I saw movement among the piles just besides the house. I was still slightly jittery from all the caffeine and the thing caught my eye as if my gaze was summoned to it.

It was furry, low to the ground, jet-black, and when I squinted ahead I saw a head with two pointed ears. I always had been an animal person, I enjoyed all the dogs and cats and even a parrot that I passed by on the regular. This one was standing on top of a box next to a spotted old mattress leaning against the side of the house with a spring sticking through the fabric.

The creature turned and it was as black as ink and almost wet looking. I only slowly recognized it as something like a cat. I say “something” because it waved it’s long elegant tail in the air and there were two of them.

Two twin tails that waved back and forth together. My eyebrows rose and the cat blinked back at me with jet black eyes that would have had me praying to God or the devil if I was the religious type. I shivered from the sight of the completely dark eyes and the two tails and took a staggering step back. I rubbed my eyes for a moment to get the image out of my head and luckily when I looked up again the cat was gone and there was nothing but a sunny home with new owners inside. I placed the letter quickly in their mailbox and hurried back to my van and was on my way. I limited myself to two cups of coffee a morning after that.

------------------------

I only mentioned the weird cat once to my family, but my daughter told me to get my eyes checked out and my son-in-law asked me if I was feeling alright. They were always worried about my health after I took a tumble a few years earlier and banged my head on a banister.

I reminded them that I wasn’t old enough to go senile just yet and then changed the subject to the baby and whether we needed to invest in earplugs already. I put thoughts of the house out of my head.

It was a week later when I got a second letter for 1134 Westchester Road. I couldn’t exactly place why my stomach dropped so thoroughly at the sight of it, but it did. The letter itself was a normal envelope with a classic American flag as the stamp and no return address in the corner.

I shook it, once, next to my ear and found nothing unusual about that either. Don’t be daft, I told myself and brushed off any odd feeling in my gut and drove up to Westchester Road determined to think about anything else.

I chatted with Mrs. Thomas about the birds returning, delivered the letters from the boys stationed in Germany and South Korea respectfully, and then went toward 1134. It was a dull blue color and just as quiet as the time before.

There were no cars in the driveway and no lights on inside, which made sense since it was a sunny day in early spring. I was out of my van and couldn’t help but stare when I saw the piles and piles of junk out front. Maybe they hadn’t gotten the trash collectors to to do a big pick-up yet or maybe they were setting up a yard sale.

Explanations raced through my thoughts, but I couldn’t shake the fact that as far as I could tell this was an all new set of junk. Instead of a wardrobe there was a busted brown couch and old blankets stacked high and a bruised stool and several old stained pillows. Every last piece of it looked different and when I examined them I could see scratch marks and indents in all of the furniture and boxes.

I quickly went to the mailbox and forced myself to not look at the mini-junkyard forming in the front yard of the otherwise tidy looking house. I turned to leave and there was a shuffling.

I couldn’t stop myself and turned to where there were two of them this time. Two jet-black cats with twin-tails and black velvet eyes. I almost swallowed my tongue though when both cats tilted their heads up and they didn’t just blink two eyes.

A third, completely charcoal dark eye was in the center of each of their foreheads and I was transfixed. I had heard of six-toed cats that lived in Florida and different mutations like extra heads and legs, but there was something about these strange sure-footed creatures that turned my blood cold.

They gave me a passing glance and then turned back to the junk and started hopping among it. I didn’t stick around to see what they did next as I turned and bolted for my car and kept my eyes on the road as I drove away.

I went back and forth on whether I should call animal control or a priest or something, but I looked back in my mirror and I couldn’t justify it. It was just another rural home with too much stuff out front, could I really report it? Would anyone care? I kept driving.

---------------------------

I think the houses I delivered to could tell I was distracted. It had been two weeks since I delivered the letter to the house with the cats and I just received another letter for them. I noted the name at the top this time: Simon Wallis.

It wasn’t strange and I was starting to think maybe I should get my head checked out again for some sort of latent concussion symptoms. But I wasn’t there quite yet, and all I knew was that I was going back there that day and that made dread prickle across my skin.

I drank an extra coffee beforehand for the boost and called my daughter once on the phone as I started that day. “What’s up mom?” She asked before audibly yawning.

“Just wanted to hear your voice.” I knew it was an ominous thing to say and maybe even overreacting, but I the cold knot in my gut was hard to ignore. Everyone that day including Mrs. Sanchez and Mr. Harris asked me if something was wrong and I had to tell them it was nothing. Nothing at all.

I told myself to do my job and get it over with.

The house approached as it always did with square windows holding delicate white curtains and no sign of any people rummaging around outside. Mrs. Thomas wasn’t outside that day to talk to and there weren’t any letters from the brothers so I went straight to 1134.

It was like before: plastic bins and coffee tables and a broken lamp and armchair and even a dented old refrigerator out front. But it was all different and worn and nothing I recognized from before.

I took a deep breath in through my mouth and exited my vehicle to deliver the faceless white letter. I was quick on my feet and didn’t stop for a second until I reached the mailbox. There was something already inside when I opened the mailbox when I opened it and that made me wrinkle my brow.

I resisted the urge to open the folded piece of paper and look at it. There were rules and matters of privacy that you didn’t want to breach. I stood there deciding whether or not to give in and open it up when I heard a noise: skrtch, skrtch, skrtch.

I froze. A sound was coming from within the house. It was like something dragging across tiles or the long scraping of a knife against a pan.

Skrtch, skrtch, skrthch.

It wasn’t particularly loud or abrasive, but it was incredibly clear and unmistakable. I stood there, numbed by it, and my eyes were drawn to the garden level windows, the place where the basement would be.

Skrtch, sktch, skrch.

Some part of me knew this was the sort of thing you should run from or report or at the very least scream about. But I only stood and watched that garden level window as the scratching went on and on. Long and dragging with a dull force about it.

Something was down there.

I jumped violently when a sudden hiss came from an old tv box and I looked over to see one of the inky black cats hissing at the window. That broke me out of my revery enough to hustle back to my car and climb in.

I turned the engine on and it was only when I was miles away did I notice that my apparent internal clock had failed me. Almost an hour had passed with me not moving or thinking very straight.

I decided not to mention the incident to my daughter and apologized profusely to work and all my next deliveries for being later.

After that I asked for another route away from Westchester Road.

------------

It was about two weeks later when I first noticed the significant rise in the number of “Missing Cat” posters around town. A certain number of them were to be expected because of coyotes in the area and cars and general bad luck.

But there were posters up at the grocery store plastering the community board and littering the local poles and little girls sitting on the side of the road asking if they had seen Sasha. Sasha was an indoor cat she said and had never been outside a day in her life. And now she was gone.

This unnerved me deeply, but I had to admit I was also distracted by personal matters as Julie and Richard were fighting often now and the baby was still not getting a restful night's sleep. I kept having to intervene and watch the bills keep piling up for diapers and doctors visits.

It wasn’t until April that the house returned to the forefront of my mind and I was completely undone. There were a group of four mail carriers congregated outside the post office. We often stopped and exchanged stories before being on our way, but the group had their heads together were all whispering and exchanging swift glances.

“What’s going on?” I asked slowly and looked to one of the newer and more talkative members of the group.

“Well,” Tim swallowed visibly. “Have you heard about Bao?” He asked quickly and my eyebrows rose.

“Yes, I know Bao. Good guy, has two kids.” Bao was somewhat new to the area, a Chinese immigrant, and a fellow mail carrier that always had a joke or two about heavy packages and people with tiny yappy dogs.

He was older than me and while I didn’t know him well I was always happy to see him.

“He hasn’t been into work for a couple of days.” Whispered Kim as if speaking any louder might hurt their ears. “I heard his wife is thinking of filing a missing persons report.” I stopped and stared out into nothing. “Is.” My face went blank, “does anyone know if he took over the Westchester Route?” Someone confirmed that he had, but I already knew that. I already knew that he had taken my old route and how that now meant something.

I thought about Bao and the terrible scratching house for the rest of the day, but when I went to the police station I ended up leaving rather quickly. I didn’t have anything suspicious to report except for a bad feeling and they reassured me they were looking for Bao Wu everywhere.

But I realized as I walked out that they weren’t going to the house.

I went home that night and helped entertain the baby with nonsense sounds, made a Hamburger helper meal, and watched my son-in-laws favorite Law and Order episode before climbing into bed. I didn’t sleep though.

I stared at the ceiling and stared and counted my breaths and the thoughts churned and churned inside me like an upset ocean. Bao had a family. He had two young kids and a wife he said snored so loudly it woke the dead.

And I let him take my route.

I threw the blankets off and went to my drawer. My husband had been an avid hunter before passing away in early 2013 from a sudden heart attack. He left me everything in the will, but I ended up selling the house anyway and only keeping a handful of things we owned together.

I opened the drawer and took out one of the few presents from him I still kept. It was a switch army knife with a silver cross on it and insignia on it: For my Mountain Lion Warrior.

When I was a kid me and my dad and brothers had scared away a mountain lion from our house by beating pots and pans together and standing in each other’s shoulders. That was the first story that made Michael hoot and slap his knee and ask if I was seeing anyone.

I said no and I wasn’t about to start. That made him laugh too.

That had been decades ago and as I was looking at my pocket knife I knew what I was going to do. I got dressed, left a note on the table, and slipped into my tiny neeson explorer.The silver of the moon as bright as daylight that night and hung shimmery and bright above the stars.

I texted my daughter at a red light and it wasn’t anything important, I knew she didn’t need anything more to worry about. I wasn’t one to let things go though.

I was still the bossy CEO as far as I was concerned and I was going to do what I needed to do. I slowly crept up toward the house on Westchester Road.

It was dull and quiet and the only sounds were crickets in the distance and lonely coyotes out on the plains. Every house I passed had its lights off and there were no street lamps out this far.

I parked across the street from 1134 and stared at the piles of junk: the office chairs missing wheels, and large vanity with a broken mirror, and an umbrella with holes in the fabric. All scratched and marked-up.

I slowly, painstakingly made my way toward the yard. The second I stepped past the first chair I saw two cat-creatures jump down from perches up high and stare at me. Their eyes were missing iris’s looked off past me and then leisurely darted back among the trash.

I had to pick my way through the boxes and piles of stuff to try to get to the front door, but I stopped when I was almost half-way there. The door was quiet and unassuming, but something deep in my chest told me not to knock. Not to go there and confirm my worst suspicions.

Instead, I watched as several of the cats flicked their double-tails back and forth and then rounded the house. I frowned for a moment before deciding to follow them. I tried not to disturb any piles of stuff and passed chipped plates in boxes and a large oven giving off a greasy burnt smell.

I wove my way back and as I walked I noticed more and more cats along the way. They were all the same with damp looking black fur and two tails, but only a few of them had the third eye in the center of their head.

I tried not to look at that eye.

There must have been two dozen cats I passed and as the yard opened up I only saw more and more of them crouching on the ground and hiding behind chipped pots and all glancing in my direction. Their ears twitched and their tails swept back and forth, but besides that they just seemed to be loitering.

Some of them gave out soft meows that were slightly off, a cat’s mew but deeper and fringed with something like clanging metal rods being hit together. I went around the house and faced the back of the house.

The back was demure and had the same white curtains in the windows and blank blue wall, but there was a garden window at the base of the house that was propped open. It was a long window that was about as tall as one of the cat’s themselves and dark inside.

Just outside the window were torn scraps. I circled the scraps and tried to get a better look at them. They were brown and frayed and as far as I could tell were just pieces of discarded cloth cut into squares.

None of the cats went near the long dark window, but I watched as several of them darted forward, picked up a scrap, ran away with it, and then settled in to gobble it down. The cats hunched low and ate piece after piece of the cloth squares.

I frowned at this deeply for a long minute and then a noise erupted from the window.

Scrtch, scrtch, scrtch.

The scraping returned, heavy and tangible as something you could hold in your hands. The sound drew closer.

Scrtch, scrtch, scrtch.

I turned just in time to hear a chorus of hissing cats and a long tendril thin arm slowly emerged from the darkness of the window. My mouth fell open as the it extended outward.

It was too thin and too long and too perfectly white and almost soft looking and with delicate thin skin- like flower petals. Blue rope-like veins that popped out of the skin itself as it moved.

At the very end of the long grotesque white arm was a hand with at least seven fingers and long, ugly nails at the end. They were yellowing at the ended and sharpened into gnarled ends. I gaped at the display as it held a handful of those loose scraps of brown fabric that dropped freely to the ground.

The cats circled the squares with interest, but none of them dared to go any closer to the clawed thing. My mouth was dry and entire body empty of any thoughts as blood drained from my face.

I couldn’t just leave there though. “Bao.” I called out weakly. “I’m looking for Bao Wu.”

I peered into the dark window and could make out nothing but the long arm that gently shook the pieces of fabric in the air as if offering it up. I shook slightly and all thoughts of heroics or investigation were draining away.

This was far above my pay grade.

I turned and started to edge back toward the edge of the yard and hopefully freedom. I was about to bolt away when the hand extended and shook the scraps more insistently. And there was an outline of a face in the dark. And eyes. At least four eyes with a milky-white gleam to them and piercing through me.

The feeling that gripped me from those ivory eyes was indescribable, hot and loose and terrible. I opened my mouth to scream. Then the hand wrapped around my ankle with the force of a snapping turtle’s jaw and yanked.

“Ah!” I fell to the ground and disturbed a box of pots and pans that toppled to the ground and I was being dragged and dragged toward that open gaping window and strange horrible pale face. The nearest cats hissed violently and tore me out of my terror. I took out my pocket knife from pants pocket and twisted in place to hack wildly at the fingers latched around my ankle.

I ended up clipping myself and feeling the sting of my own blood dribble down, but I hacked at two of the fingers and they fell bloodlessly away with only dark holes in left in the place. The hand gripped harder, but made no sound. I cut faster and just as my toes dipped into the darkness I dislodged the last one and kicked and kicked until I was away from the hole in the wall.

I crawl and ran and screeched and pushed boxes down and ran into the side of the old fridge and blindly crashed into my car. I’m not sure if the thing tried to pursue me or not, but it didn’t matter. I was away.

I went to the police the night, hysterical, and while they didn’t believe me about the hand and the cats, they did go to the house.

I warned them over and over to get the military or a psychic or priest, but it didn’t matter. It was empty.

I didn’t go in with them, but according to reports and rumors they went inside and the house was packed wall to wall with junk. Old car bumpers and chairs and soiled mattresses and ovens that shouldn’t have been in the living room and piles of jeans and t-shirts that shouldn’t have been in the dishwasher.

I wasn’t proved to be completely crazy though, they went to the basement and it was the only place that was completely bare except for one sleeping middle-aged man. He was hog-tied in the corner and apparently drowsing in some deep slumber when they found him.

Bao Wu was rescued from the empty basement and reported that he was delivering the mail to 1134 one moment and then was waking up at the police station the next. The cats however were gone and so were the terrible brown pieces of cloth on the ground.

But I had to keep asking myself once Bao came back whether he always had six fingers on each hand.

---------------

If you enjoyed the story I have a patreon for long term support and exclusive bonus content and a ko-fi for one-time tipping and $3 coffee trips, please consider giving to the artist if you can! Even a little helps 🤗

#writing #supernatural #horror story #original writing #monster #my work #creepy/

54 notes · View notes

tiny-smallest · 4 years

Text

what wars steal

Rating: G Characters: Greg, Steven Warnings: none Description: That time the gem war stole a father from his son, and that time the gem war stole a son from his father.

There are so, so many scars left behind.

A look at the consequences of the Zoo arc and the Wanted arc.

Also on AO3!

---

He's gone.

There's a toneless buzz behind his eyes, in his ears, in his head.

He's gone.

The world falls away and he is falling and he doesn't consider for a second to catch himself, the wind a roar in his ears as gravity claims him. His tears fly upwards.

He's gone.

He remembers him, trembling harder than he'd ever imagined a father could shake before, an adult shake before, face white and eyes too wide and face twisted in some grimace of what was supposed to be a smile as he assured him he was very proud of him, that he supported him, before he fled as far as he could, only able to get as far as the van. Remembers him tearing through his cds, seeking the one that would calm him down, succumbing to the panic attack after loading the wrong one in. Remembers his father's gasping breaths as the man who had held him and comforted him through countless silly childhood nightmares and insecurities tried to breathe.

All over him, over what they tried to do to him.

He's not the one they were supposed to come for.

Garnet catches him, frightened, firing off explanations, knowing something happened from the look on his face but unaware what it was. He spills the story to her, every fiber of his being screaming.

He's gone. He's gone. This wasn't supposed to happen to him, this kind of stuff wasn't ever supposed to touch Dad.

Pearl accidentally stumbles across why Blue Diamond may have wanted Dad, and Steven's stomach drops miles. A zoo. His dad. In a zoo. An image springs to mind unbidden, his father in a cage, gems gawking at him. That one horrifying documentary about abusive circuses that Connie once showed him to explain why she didn't go to circuses without extensive research about the circus first flits across his memory, about whips and chains and tricks for peanuts, and he pictures his father in the place of the animals, and he wants to vomit.

They leave in a blur, Steven taking only minutes to call Connie, rushing Peridot through her explanations about the ship. He misses the importance in some of her words, irritated by her momentary hangup over something silly, the rest lost to him.

He regrets that not even an hour later when his attempt to fix the gems' forms results in sending the whole ship on a collision course with the Zoo. He cries in the empty craft, cries for his father, for the person so cruelly ripped away from his life on earth that he just screwed over a second time by screwing up this mission, and at the same time, crying for his father to come hug him, because all he wants right now is those safe, warm arms.

That need to save him, that want to cling to him, that powers him through the unbelievable pressure trying to glue him to his seat. He reaches forward and just barely manages to save their lives-- the lives he endangered twice over, by requiring them to need to save Dad in the first place, and by rushing the mission and making dumb choices.

The rescue goes a little sideways. He's separated from the gems, staring in numb fear at their looks of constipated horror as they try very, very hard to pretend they're not scared to death in front of Holly Blue.

Steven is terrified when the gems drag him over to the chute, terrified when his struggles do nothing despite all the strength he's gained, terrified when they put him inside. He sits there in grim silence as the conveyor belt carries him to the inner sanctum.

The tiny cylinder robots are a surprise. They don't really hurt him, but Steven can't shake the slime clinging to his soul as they poke and prod at him and take his picture and peer into his eye and then strip him of his clothes. It feels yucky and confusing and gross in a way he's never felt before and has no name for, and the realization it did this to his dad too makes his stomach twist into knots.

That was before the clothes press that he thought for one terrifying second was a crusher and maybe they'd decided not to keep him alive after all.

That was before the earrings that the tiny robots pierced his ears with, the quick, fiery prick of the needle sliding in nothing compared to the gut-wrenching understanding that they just tagged him like cattle.

He was expecting something more expressedly violent, something in line with the cold, dehumanizing process of adding him to the zoo. He screamed just seconds ago at the ceiling that if they wanted to come at him with cattle prods or human horseshoes then come and get some.

Instead, after being flushed down a drain, he finds his father, calm and even jovial, sitting with some other humans braiding his hair, another weaving a flower crown for him, both things a staple of Steven's childhood, something he'd done a million times with his dad.

The adrenaline isn't so easily ignored. He's ready to fight these people. But Dad calms him down, soothes him, promises him that the humans mean no harm, and it's then that he understands these really are just... humans.

But far from ordinary, as he finds out a few minutes later when the earrings start talking to him like a devil on his shoulder as seen in so many cartoons. He didn't think his gut had any more room to twist itself into knots but with each hour and each command, each growing understanding how thoroughly controlled these humans were and how they liked it, another knot is added to his gut.

He eats only to keep up his strength. If the crystal fruit tasted like anything good, he didn't know, because to him it was sawdust. His dad stays by his side, oddly at ease with the casual horror around him.

Dad's gentle attempt at explaining why the humans aren't upset at being controlled really just makes it all worse.

He expected to find his father beaten and scared and chained up somewhere. It's not what he found, but he thinks of his father being brainwashed into forgetting all about home and feels sick, sick, sick.

Two days. They get him back, they arrive home safely, and Steven spends almost every waking minute of the next week at his dad's side.

He smiles, he jokes, he laughs; he praises him for his bravery and ingenuity and gives him so many hugs. Thanks him for coming to save him.

Doesn't mention it's Steven's fault to begin with, because Dad has always been way too nice to him.

He watches his dad carefully in the coming days, a little confused at how okay he seems to be with the whole thing. He remembers the process of being put into the Zoo, feels the slime on his soul and the disinfectant on his skin that won't seem to go away no matter how many times he showers or how hard he scrubs, remembers the earrings he didn't wait until garbage day to dispose of at the garbage can beyond his mailbox at the edge of the boardwalk where the wood, sand and grass meet, and he can't imagine his father is as all right as he seems, so he watches.

He watches Dad stare out into the ocean sometimes with a blank stare until gently prodded, watches the way his father jolts at being touched or grabbed without warning, watches him strum his guitar, quietly noting the way his hands tremble a little on the instrument, watches how he sometimes feels the little holes where the earrings were with a little shake in his fingers, and sets his jaw.

Never again.

Gem stuff won't ever touch his dad again.

He's gone.

Greg sits in the back of his van, numb, numb, numb as the gems haltingly explain what happened. The June breeze feels so cold.

He's gone.

He knew this was possible. From the day the freaky green hand landed and he learned what the people aboard wanted with his child, he knew this was possible.

He's gone.

He's gone and it already feels like the world has ended, because his has ended.

Steven had gotten so strong since then. The gems had too. It hadn't been enough. I should have been there.

He doesn't eat. How does he breathe? He watches the gems try to figure something out and the hole in his chest just gets bigger and bigger.

A rage wakes. His baby. They took his baby. He's not a violent man but if he had strength comparable to a gem and that Aquamarine was in front of him right now he's not sure the gems would have been able to stop him from smashing that tiny cockroach into pieces. He's not sure he would be able to stop himself from trying even without gem strength.

The rage vanishes. He clings to vestiges of it, but it won't stay, not without an outlet. And there is none. They have no ship, or he would be going with them. I'm going. To protect. My son.

But he can't, because there is no ship and there is no rescue they can mount. They try to fix the warp and he can't even help with that much. All he can do is watch them.

He doesn't sleep. He watches Pearl desperately try to fix the broken pieces of the warp and remembers Steven in his car, the sickly glow of a green ship lighting his face, posing the possibility to Greg and maybe the universe that Peridot will see this world and its beauty and decide to stay, to not hurt anybody.

His son is so sweet. Sometimes it nearly suffocates him, how kind Steven is. Those dark, hopeful eyes haunt the snatches of dozing he gets when his body tries to quit on him, and inevitably, they startle him fully awake, ripping open the wound of reality once again as he returns to a world where he's gone.

Why Steven? What did he do to deserve this?

I love you. His final words. I love you. He wasn't even there to hear the last words his baby told his family. I love you.

He calls Steven's phone to listen to his voicemail to listen to the much more cheerful I love you on it, weeps, and slides the phone away to encourage himself to stop torturing himself like that.

It doesn't work.

They were looking for 'Mydad.'

They were looking for him.

Steven, I'd have let them take me a million times more if it meant you stayed home.

Hollow eyes watch the Barrigas in their living room, the other family whose boy is missing, and he can offer no comfort, because there is none.

Seven whole days. A week. He doesn't eat unless Connie comes by to help the gems and shares a sandwich with him. Every once in awhile Pearl quietly passes him water or something from the boardwalk.

If there was anything left in him besides the hollow emptiness of everything missing Greg would be impressed and kind of flattered Pearl remembered his favorite pizza. He eats as much as he can and Amethyst eats the rest and he can tell by the look in her eye it's more for comfort than for pleasure.

He still doesn't sleep. The big dark eyes burned into his mind won't let him.

On the night of day seven suddenly Steven is back. He's back and Greg has never cried so hard in his life. He covers his son's forehead with kisses and clings to him until his arms ache and they weep helplessly into each other's arms, soon joined by Connie and the gems, and Greg swears on every star in the sky that he won't ever let Steven out of his sight again.

Steven explains in low, halting, stumbling words what happened. Why Lars isn't with him. How he escaped. What he did.

He weeps more and all Greg can do is hold him and fight off the waves of horror so like the ones he felt on the beach all those months ago, the ruins of a ship shaped like a hand littering the sand around then.

They tell the Barrigas. The pale, wan faces nod when Steven promises that they'll find a way to retrieve Lars. They don't believe him. Steven can tell, and Greg catches him blaming himself when they leave, and Greg catches him in another deep squeeze of a hug.

He has to get them out of here. Somewhere new. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere the slimy fingers of magical fate can't touch his child for at least a weekend.

He feels so small. So little, so lost, so swept up in the tides of a war that has been going on thousands of years before he existed, before they existed. A war so vast it reached across the galaxy and plucked two boys off a boardwalk and then fucked back across the stars to punish them for things they didn't even fully understand.

A war that provoked a fourteen year old into giving himself up to be murdered. A war that killed a child and provoked the other into resurrecting him from the dead.

He pulls up vacation houses on his phone, and sets his jaw, and promises that even if he can't keep the hands of the diamonds out of his boy's life, he is going to be there to protect him no matter what he has to do to make it so, no matter how many emotions he has to shove and bottle away.

#steven universe #steven quartz universe #greg universe #su greg #su steven #su #my writing #steven universe spoilers

12 notes · View notes

dropsofletters · 5 years

Text

the bad list

title: the bad list pairing: song minho/reader genre: best friend!au/artist!au/unrequited love!au summary: the bad list—that’s how minho’s best friend calls his list of ex-girlfriends. he doesn’t know why or how, but suddenly he feels the need to add something good to that list, but when he tries to reach out for her, it’s too late. type: angst/fluff.

Not only is the freezing wind enough to bite and go through her cardigan, but it turns her heart into a pile of absolute ice immediately, as well. The peach-colored fabric of clothing that is draped over her shoulders is nothing to battle the coldness of Minho’s air conditioner, and even though the gray curtains are pulled to the side to showcase the faint light of the spring day, and the door of his room is opened to welcome the warmth of the rest of the tiny apartment, it is still not enough for her. She tries to use Minho’s pillow to cover her body, but there is an insatiable coldness seeping through every fiber of her skin.

Minho changed the sofa his ex-girlfriend bought for him when he moved to his apartment for a desk he used for his art. The room was painted in a faint color of baby blue, with a fluffy bed and a closet, but what is more outstanding is the palpable feeling of him in the room. It’s not in the smell of his bed, musky and lingering, it’s not in the painting that he insisted on getting in the small room, it’s actually in the small corner that he uses for drawing. He has pens, brushes, charcoal paint, markers, pencils of any kid and a lot of sheets of paper—it’s the only part in his entire apartment that looks organized, and even his cat knows not to get close to it. His seat is comfortable, gray with packed cushions, ready to be his home for hours to no end as he works in whatever it is that he is working on.

Sometimes, it is a drawing of a woman he wants to enamor with such a meaning behind the strokes of the pencil that indicate attraction. He always says his drawings are better when there are feelings involved.

Other times, people ask him to make drawings for books. Those are his most well-known projects, but he complains the most when he is doing them. His eyes lose their light, his hands get cramped continuously and he snaps easily.

There are the littlest moments in which Minho draws comics or Webtoons, but that is very rare. She has always wanted to be drawn by him, but she has never served him as inspiration. Her best friend he is, but she is not his muse.

Talking to Minho for the past year has been a bit of a hassle. She’s always working, but her social life has turned into a puddle of memories of what she used to be. She’s also getting older, meaning that she craves that eye-catching, air-stealing, mellow and soft love that everyone talks about, while Minho recommends to her to simply forget about it (“It’s not as pretty as people say it is.”, he comments, but that comes from a place of heartbreak). On the other hand, Minho is trying so desperately to be the image of perfection in his eyes—he wants to try it all, grow as an artist, but he gets frustrated whenever he is met by the acrimonious reality that artists do not have it easy.

His way of solving her problem is easy, though. Minho says he has this friend: Jaekwang, with nice tattoos and the softest speaking voice she has ever heard. He’s also an artist but not the type that paints or draws, his skill is photography and most of his shoots end up at the very front of a magazine. The best thing about him is his simplicity, the way he held her hand after their date at some museum she has visited with Minho before, the feeling of his dancing across hers—teasingly, tasting her lip-gloss before diving in. He takes his time, he is patient—sweet, even, never too little, never too much and while he is exactly what she wanted, she still feels iffy.

And her phone beeps at every given moment, just like it does as it rests over her thigh while Minho enters the room, his cat in between his spread big hands, his index and middle finger reaching to scratch the kitten’s fur by its neck. She knows it Jaekwang, always one to ask how she is doing, text her in between breaks at work, but she can’t help but feel wronged about being with Jaekwang.

She fidgets in her own spot on Minho’s bed, watching as Minho’s cat slips away from his hands to play with her new kitten, who patiently looks at the bigger cat before leaning over to lick its paw. “Jhonny hasn’t had cat friends in a while.” He starts a conversation before crossing his arms over his chest. Minho’s hair is bleached blonde, a mess over his head that matches his all-gray attire of sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. “Look, she’s so happy—” A smile creeps up his face and she nods her head with a beam of her own.

“I thought she needed the company.” She replies as she looks over to the cats playing by the floor and without any other word, Minho moves towards his desk. Acting upon routine, she stands up from her seat on his bed and walks over to him, her hands interlocked behind her back as she looks over his shoulders. The screen of Minho’s device for drawing shows what she believes is another book cover, all drawn by him with precision and a lot of colors. “That looks so good. I like how you painted the sky in the background. So pretty.”

But she feels a thick line dividing the two, as if there is something bothering him but she can’t ask him. Minho pushes the strands of his blonde hair to keep them away from his face with one swipe of his hand and then, he releases a big sigh. “Yeah…” His voice trails. Thoughtful, but never one to keep a secret. “How are things going with Jae?”

“Jae?” She asks, voice soft like satin caressing his eardrums. Minho nods absentmindedly, continuing with his work with a straight face. “Good…why? Did he say something?” Taking one glance at the drawing, then she concentrates on Minho’s profile. Her soft intakes of breath are released against his skin and with the closeness, Minho doesn’t seem to be bothered.

“What hasn’t he said?” Minho adds in between a short chuckle and soon after, he looks over his shoulder to talk to her. “He’s all up on you. He’s been smiling all week.” She wants to smile at that, but she puckers up her lips, humming at Minho’s words to quickly dismiss them. Yet, they have been friends for years—the type of friends that can’t spend more than a day without talking to one another, he can feel her uncertainty. “…Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“I said it’s going good.” She shrugs her shoulders and Minho leans back on his seat, hands on his thighs, extended and creating triangles by his sides.

“…Good.” He replies and then, she squints her eyes.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” She pries and Minho chuckles.

“I’m not you.” She knows where that comment is coming from. It is usual for her to get into Minho’s business, sure, sometimes she thinks he is more of a man-child than the supposed badass he makes himself to be, but it comes from a place deep in her heart that wants the best for him. Minho makes bad choices on the regular, like slurping on his ramen when it’s recently done and burning his lips, like buying shoes that bring him blisters on the soles of his feet, like dating women that she specifically tells him not to date. He’s reckless, giving it his all in burning passion but ending up burned. He says he likes playing with fire but blows on his wounds with a hiss before putting them inside water. Minho is not as cold as he deems himself to be.

“…Okay, right, yeah, maybe I get into your business a lot.” She confesses with an eye-roll, releasing her hold on her bottom lip and she hears the joyous sound of Minho laughing.

Her phone rings once again, indicating a text has arrived, and both their gazes end up on the cellphone over his bed. Minho immediately know it’s Jaekwang and for some reason, the smile on his face falters. He doesn’t know the reason behind such absurd reactions to an event as his best-friend finally going out on a date with a person he thinks is fitting for her, but there is a gut-wrenching feeling deep in his stomach that he can’t quite pinpoint. He steals a long look at her, watching her puzzled look while her phone sounds two more times before stopping. The blush she opted to apply that morning makes her cheeks be the main point of her face and it matches the peach-colored cardigan over her white t-shirt. “He says he’s excited for you date on Saturday.”

She had not planned on telling Minho she is going out on Saturday, but it seems like he already knows. She looks into his brown eyes before sighing. “He’s excited about this new movie…”

“He’s very into you.”

“I’m glad.” Though she doesn’t know how she feels about him. Is she so swept off her feet that she can’t describe him or is she just so uninterested in him that she can’t even think of his good traits?

Minho knows exactly what is bothering him and he moves his seat so he is once again working when he says. “Just be careful. He’s a bit possessive…and the least I want is to lose you because he goes…you know, crazy.”

She shakes her head, crouching down beside Minho’s seat and resting her cheek at the edge of his desk before replying. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Minho extends his hand to grip her cheeks in between his index and thumb, pulling it quite harshly as he mumbles with a smile. “…I know.”

There is no lovelier day than the Thirtieth of March.

It has been years of spent birthdays with Minho and while he adores dancing in a club, or nodding his head to the newest hip-hop track he can get his hands on, she always tries to keep the childish side of him away. Normally, she reunites with Minho’s mom to prepare a tray full of pastries with him, as well as a big cake that he normally shares with people, but he always leaves four to five slices to have for himself at home. This time around, however, in the very end of March, Minho’s mother tells her that she is really sick with the flu and as sweet as the woman is, she says that she can’t meet up with her son’s nicest friend. She swats the comment off when she asks if she needs someone to take care of her, for she would go to Yongin just to make sure she was alright, but she says Danah has it under control and she believes her.

That leaves her with flour stains on her kitchen’s island and a recipe to follow for Minho’s favorite pastries, as well as the sweetest and tastiest chocolate and strawberry cake she can muster.

This year, however, there is a huge difference and it is the fact that there are a manly pair of hands helping her the night before Minho’s birthday to prepare everything. The faint sound of music is playing in the background and she keeps her windows closed because even though spring is getting close, it is far too cold to open the windows yet. Her sock-cladded feet move around the kitchen as she checks on the cookies and leaves Jaekwang to mix the egg whites for another mixture, fluffy and soft just like she asked him to. His sweet features twist in concentration and in need of helping his girlfriend, because it’s been six months since they gave a name to what they had, and all he wants to do is make her happy.

And sure, she is happy. Jaekwang is sweet and caring, a little bit possessive with one arm wrapped around her waist at every given time, but she doesn’t feel like her heart is about to burst with happiness. Sometimes he stays over at her place, but it feels like he is just warming up her bed. Jaekwang takes pictures of her and there are plenty of her pictures posted in his social media accounts pointing out how much he loves her, how she is his entire world, counting the days that they have spent together, but at what cost?

Because Minho’s smile is huge when she goes to visit him with his cake inside a box over her hands and the bag of pastries hanging from her arm. He opens the door with sulkily, a little bit sleepy as he whispers under his breath what she recognizes as curse words but once he sees his best friend, standing outside of his door at six in the morning with his promised cake and pastries, he almost bursts in excitement. “Dude, you remembered!”

That is what has been bothering her. Jaekwang is all she ever wanted but he takes time away from her, the type of time she used to spend with Minho. The man’s hair is a darker shade of blonde now and she doesn’t know if his life has changed all that much. She knows hers did, but she hasn’t been able to ask him. “How could I forget?”

Minho doesn’t reply to that, but he does open the door wider before taking the box from her hands with a big grin on his face. “My mom said she was sick, so I thought you weren’t going to do anything.”

“Impossible.” She replies as she turns around after taking off her shoes, the door behind her closed and her arm still holding onto the bag of pastries. She tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, looking into his eyes before sighing. “Since I needed an extra pair of hands and your mom could not catch the train here…I asked Jaekwang for help.”

If he is bothered, he doesn’t show it, but it is clear in his face that he suddenly finds his gifts a bit complicated to accept. He nods his head curtly, still. “Oh, does he know how to bake?”

“Not really. He mixes well, though.”

“…That’s an innuendo right there.” Minho tries to break the ice but they are standing right in front of one another, near but far away at the same time. She rolls her eyes at his words, a small grin appearing on her face.

“How can that be an innuendo?”

“Means he knows how to use his hands—”

She clears her throat, looking over to the side with slight embarrassment on her features before recomposing herself. “Stop, just…happy birthday. Yeah, I forgot to say that.” She replies easily and Minho raises his eyebrows, placing the box with his cake inside down on his coffee table before wrapping one arm snugly around her shoulders. Minho rests his chin on top of her head, breathing in her scent happily as he closes his eyes, shaking them from side to side quite harshly, still playfully.

“Thank you!” He drags the words before pulling away and scratching his cheek. “Uh…” He runs his fingers through his dyed hair before raising an eyebrow. “How about we slice this cake and we eat it?”

“You need to save some for Seungyoon, remember.”

“I’m gonna think about it.” Minho adds joyfully, thoroughly enjoying his birthday. He opens the lid of the box and he coos at the sight of the chocolate cake. She had coated the entire cake in the dark treat, leaving some strawberries at the top, bathed in white and dark chocolate. “Those strawberries are huge!”

“Innuendo.” She points out and Minho rolls his eyes, taking the small candle that the box had inside before putting it on top of the cake. “Oh, by the way, do you have plans for the afternoon?”

He tosses one glance at her over his shoulder, puckering up his lips and looking up before shaking his head. “No. I do plan on going to the club at night…because you know…birthday boy and all.” She nods her head. “Why?”

“We’re going ice skating, that’s why.” She adds after patting his thigh and Minho chuckles.

“What a birthday surprise.” He replies and she shushes him.

“Just—Let me sing the birthday song, don’t question your birthday gifts.”

She should have known that his birthday gift would be ruined the moment his happiness-coated eyes met the figure of Jaekwang just right behind her when entering the ice-skating spot. Minho’s nose is reddened because of the cold, his hands fiddling with his shoes and getting ready to skate. He greets Jaekwang, throat bitter for some reason—he does not know what is going on with him or why he suddenly disliked the friend he used to share one or two beers with every once in a while, but it is difficult to take in all the information that had happened in the past few months.

How is Minho supposed to feel when she would get angered, mad and anything in between when he spent time with his ex-girlfriends? Heck, she had even gone as far as making a list of them. She always says she dates bad people, but he always managed to have time for her whenever he was dating. Perhaps, he is bitter because he hasn’t dated in a while and suddenly the idea of monogamy sounds thrilling, somehow.

She is holding onto Jaekwang’s arm and Minho is far away, skating on his own because that’s all he manages to do. Sometimes he spares a few glances at the couple, and he notices how in love Jaekwang is with her. His tattooed fingers move strands of her hair back, his smile is bashful and sweet whenever she smiles back and he feels the need to show everyone the love he had for her through short pecks and lingering hands on her waist.

Disgusting.

Minho doesn’t realize when he slips to his feet, his arms coming for leverage but reaching nothing as he falls to his knees. Some kids playing by his side turn to look at him but sooner than later they return to their game, it’s usual to see someone falling there. The sound of ice being skated on was all he heard until he felt a pair of hands lifting him up—

“Thank you,” He mutters and when he looks up, he hears her say something.

“Always here to pick you up.” She replies and Minho realizes then that it is his best friend he is talking about. Of course, he should be happy that she is dating and a good person at that, but his chest falls, his heart is caged and all he can seem to think about was the gut-wrenching feeling that is abandonment. That is what it was: Minho wants attention. She wraps her arm around his to guide him, helping him continue with his movement as she whispers. “I’m sorry for bringing Jaekwang here.”

Minho frowns because, seriously, he does not think he was that obvious on the first place! And instead of speaking his truth, Minho denies it quickly. “What are you saying?!” Minho asks with a dumbfounded look. “He’s my friend.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, now, I know you don’t like him that much.”

“I like him.”

“You do?”

He just doesn’t like the idea of his best friend forgetting about him. “Yep.”

“Then, let’s go skate with him!”

And Minho does what he has never done before: pretend. He is pretty honest with himself, but he can’t bring himself to ruin her fun, not that night, not in a million years.

It’s only three months later that Minho finally gets to spend time with his best friend.

Those three months had been his fault, truthfully, he is too busy with this new animation he is working in for some known company in Japan and he is constantly sending emails that quickly receive suggestions and changes that he needs to make. Now that he has some time to finally breathe, he decides to pick up his phone and text his friend to ask her to have some dinner—nothing too fancy, just their favorite pizza place in which they can dive their faces in the greasy, yet delicious, treats. She is more than eager to finally be able to look at him and he can’t say he did not feel his breath being knocked away from his lungs when he looked at her.

Surely, he is not one for scarves and gloves, but she makes it worth so efficiently and effortlessly that he can’t help but smile as they get out of the restaurant. She speaks with such emotion, snowflakes falling over her eyelashes, her gloves, her coat, her hands move in motions as she points out about this one coworker that she pretends she likes, when in reality she doesn’t. She skims around the subject of her relationship and Minho is unable to ask her—he doesn’t want to hear about Jaekwang, about how good of a boyfriend he is, and he continues to blame it on the fact that he has been single for quite a while.

Davichi’s songs play in the background as they continue walking, opting to go there by foot instead of taking their cars. He hears the soft, crispy tone of the singer’s voice, the lightweight feeling of his heart, the compass of a piano that entices him to dance. Minho is ridiculous, he doesn’t think about things before acting upon them and it shows when he grabs her wrists, pulling her flush against his chest before wrapping an arm around her waist and interlocking their fingers together.

Confused she is, staring into his brown eyes and his tinted tanned cheeks before listening closely to the ballad behind them. She realizes then that Minho wants to dance, but she still speaks against it. “What do you think you’re doing?” Minho had never been so warm, so close, so much like the perfect type of man. Her teasing, funny and sometimes dumb friend was lost gone to the sight of a man.

“Dancing.” Minho mumbles, one step to right given when her hand rests over his shoulder. “Do you know what this song is called? I feel like I’ve heard it before.”

She looks around, worried that someone will see them dance in a sidewalk and someone does, honking by the time they pass by and that leads her to hide her face on Minho’s chest, cursing breathily and earning a smile from Minho. Had she ever said his scent was her favorite from the moment they met? “This Love.”

“Davichi, right?”

“Yeah.” She whispers, finally pulling her face away from his chest to look into his eyes. Brown, sacred parts of his soul that show his mischievous self and he continues to smile, as if there was something there. “I would love to talk about the song if only you told me: why the fuck do you want to dance right now?”

Minho hums. “I guess I really missed you.”

She knows what he is talking about. The lack of conversations, even through texting. The never-ending questions about what the other is doing. The presence of Jaekwang whenever they do so much as go out…and really, she should be happy that she is in a nice relationship, but there is something so bitter about losing him. “Oh, that’s a first.” She tries to ease the conversation. “Remember that one fight we had once?”

He rolls his eyes. “When you argued with my then girlfriend and I was stupid enough to side with her.” She chuckles heatedly at that.

“I loved fighting with her, to be honest.”

“…Sure.” Minho indicates and then, he drops her slightly, earning a laugh from her as she clings to his shoulder. “Funny. You used to be the one that was always single and now we changed spots.”

“…It’s…good.” Once again, she doesn’t know how to describe her relationship. “Thank you, for introducing me to Jaekwang.”

That is all he needs to know to feel like he did something great, to feel like the snowflakes seep through his clothes and turn him into a mess of frozen limbs that doesn’t know what to do. He is glad for her happiness, but something within him stirs—he is willing to let go of their friendship, only to see her smile to gleefully as she does right now. This love, that will never happen, that means nothing, that is just an idea of Minho’s that fleets through his brain. His silence is enough of an answer, dancing through the song with a faint smile on his face.

Despite Minho being a party-goer ever since he became an adult, if not earlier, he was still a little bit reckless when alcohol entered his body, intoxicating him harder at times but softer in other occasions. Minho would say that he does not have any habits or quirks whenever he gets drunk, but his best friend could confirm otherwise—Minho is a watcher.

His eyes settle on anything, stares for a few seconds and he has two reactions, he laughs or he simply shakes his head in hunt of another thing to look at. The fact that he had called her at eleven at night simply to go pick him up was not a bother to her, but she knew he was drunk the moment she smelled beer exuding from his clothes. He clings to her body, enters her car and doesn’t say a single word, but he continues to stare at her. Maybe, it is how messy her hair looked, it was late and she had to get up early the next morning, but she knows it’s something else.

Minho’s cheek rests against the seat and he doesn’t say much, apart from singing to the lyrics of a Lil Uzi Vert song that he had put on himself. He looks peaceful, in his zone, looking at her as if she had something on her face. Three heads, maybe, that’s also a possibility why he is looking at her. Minho could look at the road, seeing the city lights illuminating a well-crowded Seoul on a Sunday night, he could look at his phone or at his clothes, he could do anything but look at her and still, his eyes fluttered ever so slowly just to concentrate on her again.

And she would be lying if she said she did not feel her heart racing—heck, she might even get a heart attack with how she feels when Minho is looking at her. It reminds her of something, of how they used to laugh to the sight of dawn in front of them, how he would always joke around with her and after everything, he would steal one glance at her. Sometimes, her friends told her that they exchanged the most meaningful of stares, not the type that were meant to be romantic but they surely felt like it, but the type of glance that was a mere whisper of ‘never leave me, I will always be here for you.’

She lives up to those words, for she will always be there for Minho.

When she is looking for Minho’s keys around the pockets of his coat, his hands too fidgety to even pick them up properly, her phone rings and she already knows who it is. She responds with her free hand, taking the keys out of Minho’s deep pockets as she hears the sound of her boyfriend’s voice. “What are you doing out?” His voice is sleepy, groggy and then she remembers that it was Sunday and she was sleeping at Jaekwang’s apartment, like they always did. It’s still too early in the relationship to live together, she says, because she knows she doesn’t want to ruin whatever good the relationship has. “I woke up and you were out. Are you okay? Did something happen?”

And then, she realizes that opening the door to Minho’s apartment is hard with one hand so she presses her phone in between her shoulder and her ear before sighing. “Sorry, babe, Minho got drunk and I…I had to pick him up. For his sake.”

Jaekwang hums. “Someone else could have gone pick him up.”

Minho is aware of who she is talking to, she realizes, much more when he pushes the door open and gets inside with wobbly legs. She rubs her eyes at the action, two males tearing her apartment for two different titles. His best friend was as important as her boyfriend. “Yeah, I know…but it’s Minho. He’s my best friend.”

“And I’m your boyfriend.” Jaekwang comments. “Is it so bad of me to get mad that you give Minho more importance than me—?”

“I don’t.” She mumbles, entering Minho’s apartment and closing the door behind her to watch Minho’s shirt disregarded by the couch. She takes off her shoes, walking when she knows fully well Minho is in his room. “He’s drunk. If he took a cab, he could have ended anywhere.”

“Yeah, but it’s eleven-something at night and you have work tomorrow.” Her boyfriend says with all the rationality in the world. “Put him to sleep. Get back here.”

“Jae,” She adds sweetly. “I can’t just leave him. What if he throws up in his sleep—?”

“Oh my God—” Jaekwang mumbles and then, he clears his throat. “You know what? Do whatever you want. Really. I trust you.”

Although, she knows Jaekwang is not as okay as his voice gives out, so she stops right by Minho’s door and she speaks. “Jae, I’m so sorry. I promise to make it up to you.” But there is nothing on the other line, the sound of the call ending making her pull her phone away. “Hello?”

With her phone in her hand and a confused mind, she opened Minho’s door only to see him sprawled on the bed. Her feet bring her closer to him, pulling the thin blanket he had to sleep up his naked chest before taking a seat beside him. She pats his chest once and Minho groggily opens his eyes. Staring, as always. “Do you have to leave?” He asks and she feels her heart beating at her throat.

All she knows is that she feels bad, of losing the sight of those brown eyes that looked at her with such respect that she felt the need to keep him by her side forever. It feels like the moment will dissipate into nothingness, so she wants to freeze it. She’s not bold, she doesn’t say anything, all she does is brush Minho’s long hair away from his face, the blonde strands in between her finger rough after so much coloring and bleaching. “No.” She replies, running her fingers down to his nose before smiling softly. “I’m not leaving you here, drunk and smelly.”

Minho closes his eyes, finally stopping his stare-off before sighing. “Good.” He says. “I don’t want you to leave.”

“Why’s that?” She questions, standing up to turn off his lights and Minho breathes out softly, cuddling closer to his pillow. She knows she will take a spot on his couch, praying that she gets some sleep and her phone does not go off on her before she has to get to work.

“Because I miss you.” Minho’s deep voice brings a shiver to go down her spine and she looks to the side, nodding her head slowly as if to stop her tears. When had they pulled apart?

“…I miss you, too.”

The ache of her back was insufferable when she woke up a little bit earlier than her alarm was set to, picking up Minho’s keys only to go to the bakery nearby to get him his favorite dessert—hazelnut and chocolate cake. She remembered the times she would pick some pastries up on the way to Minho’s tiny apartment, how she always compares the beige walls and flavorful pastries to her best friend. It is too cold to go to work and she can’t help but want to take the longest nap in between fluffy blankets and pillows. However, reality calls and with that, comes saying goodbye to Minho.

When exactly had her friendship turned into a set of rules in which she meets Minho every few months before returning to reality? When did their friendship become a memory? The laughter shared in between the two is now a faint reminder of who they used to bit. Even when she holds his keys in her hands, she wonders what their future would be.

She knows what will happen—Minho’s patience had never been his best forte, so it is only a matter of time before he gets tired of her.

For now, however, the smell of hazelnut fills the air as she enters Minho’s apartment, tiny and secluded. She releases a big sigh, walking over to Minho’s room only to hear the pitter-patter of steps coming from the kitchen. Before she could react, she hears the sound of Minho’s deep voice calling out her name.

“Oh, so you stayed?”

She looked at him, giving him the container that had his slice of cake inside before shrugging. “You called me when drunk. I was afraid you’d throw up in your sleep.”

Seeing her face made his heart want to explode. All he wants to do is ask her to stay, to be as close as they used to be in the past, to forget there was ever anyone else but them in this world…but that is not possible. Minho nods his head, thanking her in a small whisper for the food. “…You didn’t have to. Let me pay you for it—”

Before Minho could look for his wallet, however, she stops him with a hand over his forearm. “Consider it a gift.”

Minho chuckles. “…What for? It’s not my birthday.”

“For leaving again, because I kinda have to go to work and fix my relationship.” She tells him and Minho gives a bitter smile. Of course, he is not the only person in her world, there is her boyfriend and her coworkers, and it is so stupid of him to think that she was to stay. After releasing her bitten lip, she says: “Sorry.”

“No, no, no.” Minho shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

“Alright, cool.” She says and then, she gives him his keys. “I am leaving for work. Text me after you eat and take a shower and all, okay?”

“Yep. Promise.”

“Okay, remember. You promised!”

Only that Minho did not text her at all, he did not even answer her calls.

Glasses clinked with one another, indicating the cheering of a moment as various people put their glasses down to grab bites of food, but her hands immediately rest over her lap, fiddling with the edge of her dress as she wonders (ponders, actually) what she has to do when all she has in sight is Song Minho in all his glory. The blond hair is long gone, changed for his favorite color of dark brown, and at this point she believes that she doesn’t even remember the sound of his voice. Were his eyes always that sharp? Was his profile as beautiful as she thinks it is now? Were his lips always the source of her smile?

Drink, she whispers to herself as she takes a gulp of water, feeling her boyfriend’s hand sneaking to touch hers under the table and when she feels the warmth of someone else’s hand, she wonders if Minho’s is equally as soft and candid. The man barely looks at her and then she is reminded of the months they have spent without talking to one another, without even making the effort of picking up her calls. Minho was angry or saddened, one of those two, she would say he is acting upon resentment. Towards her, most likely.

Across from her, he is seated. She doesn’t know how to get him to pay attention to her, to spare one little glance her way and the first thing she does is kick him under the table. That gets a reaction out of him, parted lips and widened eyes as he looks at the source of his pain and once he realizes it was her, he looks down. All Minho can seem to think about was the man beside her, the irrational anger he feels towards two people he used to call friends just because they are in love.

He feels childish…does that stop him from acting childish?

Not really.

He puckers up his lips when he feels another kick against his leg and he sighs, raising one eyebrow as he connects gazes with his best friend. If he can even continue to call her that. She lifts both of her eyebrows, widening her eyes and mouthing a small ‘talk’, which he considers is an invitation to talk to one another. His response is simple, he shakes his head, but she rolls her eyes before pointing with her phone as discreetly as possible.

Oh, Minho thinks, Kakao Talk.

Without realizing, or with all the intention in the world, his fingers reach for his phone, unlocking it before realizing that there was a text from her—a number which he had deleted, but her profile picture gave it away. Minho sighs deeply, opening the text to be met with the words of: “I’m sorry. Let’s talk about this.” He clicks his tongue, frowning deeply before locking her phone and that is enough to cause frustration within her. Her fingers move to type on her phone, his device buzzing as he picked it up again. Once he looks at her, she is pretending to listen to Jaekwang’s conversation. “Please, Minho, I miss you so bad.”

“Don’t say things like that. Your boyfriend is right beside you.”

Whether he realized just how bad that sounded or not, that’s up to him but he doesn’t receive another text until minutes later. Minho has his chopsticks midway through his mouth when he reads over her text. “What?! Minho, you’re my friend, I don’t care if Jaekwang is against our friendship (which he is not), I care about you.”

He rolls his eyes, licking whatever was left in his chopsticks before typing down. Can’t a man just a conversation with his friends without being met by the reality of feeling jealous for his best-friend? “Yeah, right. Jae doesn’t like it when we get together, that’s it. I’m not about to break bro code.”

She groans when she reads his text and that earns a look from Jaekwang, but a kiss on his cheek and a hand gripping his thigh is enough to calm him down, as well as an excuse of how a coworker is bothering her. “You’re breaking bro code with me! I’m your friend and you’re ignoring me.”

Minho decides to reply as soon as possible. “I don’t see you like that. Stop texting.” Before he could regret it, he deletes the conversation and locks his phone, basking in conversation to forget about everything that was happening but in the matter of seconds, she responds, something he only gets to see once he goes back home.

“See me like what?” She wrote first. “Minho, what do you see me as?” Once again, she typed. “Minho?!” And after that, she gave up, just like Minho wanted.

Or did he want that?

The landlady of the building she lived at with Jaekwang was the sweetest old lady she had ever met. There was something about her eyes, glossy and smiley, wrinkly as she laughed, that gave her the comfort she received from a good broth whenever she was sick. Whenever she had the time, like when she was going out to work or when she was arriving home late at night, she would try to talk to the landlady, lonely and old she would always bask in conversation.

The only bad thing about the landlady is that she is a bit of a witchy, driven by her sixth-sense type of woman and personally, she doesn’t believe much in the existence of physics or anything of that sort. Maybe, because her sixth sense was dull or slow, one or the other, she never understands situations quickly, but that was far from the point. When she had moved in with Jaekwang to that new apartment, the landlady had made it very obvious that she saw something in her…something like love. Obviously, Jaekwang had beamed happily at the reminder of his girlfriend of years, loving him to the extent that she did, but only when the two women were alone did she get the full version of it.

“I think you fell in love with someone without knowing. You never acted upon those feelings that you had and sooner than later, you’ll regret it.”

That was ridiculous! She had thought. She had loved Jaekwang for who he was, sweet and caring, for his mistakes and his little quirks, but she loved him for waiting for her as well. However, as days passed by and she realized just what was missing in her life, she gave a bit of reason to the landlady. All she ever did was fall in love for the person Minho told her was perfect for her, the complete contrary of who she used to be when they were friends: always trying to control who Minho dated or not.

Back then, she thought it was caring for him. Now, she thinks it is jealousy.

But the more she asks for him, the more delusional she feels. One friend says that Jhonny is as cute as ever and she gets to see a picture that one time, but she doesn’t get any news about Minho. Another friend indicates that Minho is dating this girl—short hair, thick lips, small in height but with the biggest smile, but it hasn’t been long and it is his first serious relationship in years. The last friend says ‘wait, you don’t talk to Minho?’ and then she realizes it has been almost a year since the last time she talked to Minho, and oh, how things have changed.

It’s the landlady that gives her this terrible-looking box that has his name on it, written in his messy handwriting and definitely something that she would like to hide from Jaekwang. The least she wants is an argument when things have been going so well for the two of them. Seriously, Jaekwang has been smiling to no end ever since she moved in with him, his dreams had come true: he had a cat, a girlfriend and he was living with both of them. What else could he ask for?

The light that seeps through the curtains illuminates the beige color of the box as she opens it with a knife, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear once she opens it, her cat growing insanely curious about the contents inside. “Go away.” She whispers but the cat doesn’t listen, making her sigh as she opens the box only to be met by two things. A canvas and a photo album. “Oh, my fucking God.”

That is the first thing she says when she picks up the canvas in between her hands and now she understands what had gone wrong between the two. Minho had always said that he drew people the best when he liked them, like his first girlfriend or a woman he meets at a bar, he is detailed when he looks at them and when he likes someone, he stares and now she understands the meaning behind his reasoning. Every single one of her features was drawn to perfection, like he took everything she ever considered a flaw only to turn it into her best feature. Minho used pastel colors, lots of pink, the nice contrasts and the perfect shade for her eyes and lips. Minho recognizes where her moles are, the little spots here and there, the way she smiles and it is at the very corner, not a single date and a signature but a time-lapse of sorts.

Minho started painting that for her two years ago. Only a month after she started dating Jaekwang.

And the album is no better, it shows pictures of the two of them—their first picture together, that one time they went to a country they did not the language of and ended up lost, those pictures she took of him drawing and those he took of her when he needed a subject for his photography. All those memories were put together, ending with a drawing of the two, more like a doodle of sorts. However, she felt mortified and hurt the moment she read the last few word, written rapidly across the last page of the photo album:

“Please, never forget. My one and only love.”

It is then that she realized just what was wrong, why Minho was so against her relationship and why she had always been protective of him. Her stomach churning did not come from laughter whenever she was around him, it was the excitement she felt when being with him. She never forgot about him, neither does she think she ever will…but now she realizes she is part of the what-so-called ‘bad list’ of women Minho had fallen in love with.

However, in his opinion, she is not part of his bad list of ex-girlfriends. She is the sweetest ‘it never really happened’ that he ever had.

#mino scenarios #mino #winner scenarios #winner #kpop scenarios #writing #winner angst #winner fluff #mino angst #mino fluff #is this really fluff though?#not really #but i consider it #sCREAM AT ME LATER #best friend!mino

106 notes · View notes

artistic-writer · 6 years

Text

Love Finds a Way : CS Jurassic World AU : Ch 3

Title: Love Finds a Way by @artistic-writer

Summary: Emma Swan is the Head of Operations for David Nolan’s exotic adventure park, Jurassic World. She has a son, Henry, and is loved and respected by her colleagues. Her life was perfect until a new dinosaur the park created, Indominus Rex, decided to escape. Oh, and her one night stand, Killian Jones - he’s there to help contain the asset. Just to complicate things even more. Jurassic World AU.

Rating: M (for people getting eaten)

Also on: AO3 - FF

A/N: Chapter three is here! Beta’d by the lovely @resident-of-storybrooke because @kmomof4 can’t see everything first ;)

Taglist: @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @resident-of-storybrooke@cocohook38 @sherlockianwhovian @searchingwardrobes @wordsmith-storyweaver @winterbaby89 @kymbersmith-90 @wellhellotragic @killianmesmalls @killian-whump @nonnyj @jennjenn615

Want to be tagged/untagged? TELL ME HERE

——————————————————————————————

The drive out to where Killian Jones lived was something Emma never thought she would have to do again. He kept himself to himself for a reason, constantly tinkering with his boat engine, or his motorcycle, or some other contraption that had her kid so engrossed in the man. Henry loved him, but Emma suspected that because of his lack of a father figure, or any siblings, Henry was just latching onto the only man that paid him any attention. Or that’s what she hoped. The last thing she wanted was for her very smart, very cunning son to be parent trapping her with a man only she knew she had slept with.

And Killian. Of course, he knew too but had been the gentleman he always had promised he would be and never said a word to anyone. As far as anyone on the island was aware, they were colleagues who had only interacted because of Henry’s fascination with the man. Emma knew Graham suspected more, but he had never mentioned anything, probably afraid of losing his job. He was her employee after all, and even if she had caught him glancing a little too languidly in her direction from time to time, that was all he was to her.

The dirt track Emma was driving on opened up ahead, the stabilizing suspension of the SUV keeping her reasonably steady as she hit a few potholes in the road. She clicked her tongue against the back of her teeth, aggravated by Killian’s need to be so out of the way it made everyone else's life difficult to get to him. At least, when he did hang around with Henry, he did most of the ferrying back and forth, and she didn’t have to make this god awful journey each time.

Two huge Guanacaste trees partially blocked the view of Killian’s Airstream trailer, the panels of which were beaten a dented in places. Emma parked her car under the tree, its gnarled and twisted branches swaying in the humid Costa Rican breeze that swept in from the water next to where Killian called home. It was modest, Emma would give him that, and confusingly nothing like the cocky, arrogant demeanor he exuded to everyone. Maybe he was different than she had first thought, and maybe he was more than what everyone made him out to be. But Emma liked control, and that night they had spent together gave her enough pause to make sure she was gone the next morning.

She had never regretted anything so much in her entire life.

She turned off the engine and sat back in her seat, spying the man she had come to see instantly. He was, as usual, tinkering with his motorcycle, smudges of oil across his forehead and his hair almost wet with sweat. The heat of the day meant no training of his raptors apparently, and so she knew he would be here, elbow deep in some sort of grease. He didn’t look up as she watched him through the windscreen, reluctant to exit the air-conditioned vehicle.

“Just act professional,” Emma told herself with a deep breath, tugging the spring loaded handle of the door until it popped open and stepping out onto the hard, grass-covered ground. With one last look at herself in the reflection of the car door’s window, Emma smoothed her blonde locks from her face and tried to ignore the tingle in her stomach she always got when he was around.

Killian looked in her direction as she approached, his face lighting up for just a second before he remembered that a visit from the director of operations probably wasn't a good thing. He only ever saw Emma after hours when he hung out with Henry, so he knew this was a business visit. With a sigh, he resumed the mechanical fix he had begun on his beloved Triumph, watching his hands as they worked.

“What do you want now?” He called out as she approached. He shifted his weight on the upturned metal bucket he was perched on, angling his head for a better view of the bolt he was trying to tighten.

“Mr. Jones, I need you to come and assess something for me,” Emma began, stopping just short of his bike. He halted his repair, frowning as he looked in her direction and twisted the wrench in his hands. “For Nolan,” she corrected quickly, placing her hands in front of her body so as not to appear too threatening.

“Why are you calling me ‘Mr. Jones’?” He asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at her, his lips curving into a teasing grin. He knew she had to keep this professional, just like she always tried to, only this time there was no Henry around to make sure she kept her hands to herself.

“Killian.” Emma relented, twisting her fingers together awkwardly. “If you’re not too busy.”

Killian let a laugh tumble from this throat. “I’m actually very busy, love,” he said flippantly, reaching beside himself for the bottle of water he kept nearby. It was a poor distraction, but he couldn’t keep looking at her without her son nearby to stop him from telling her how he really felt.

“We have an attraction-,” Emma sighed but he cut her off as soon as the words had left her mouth.

“Funny, I thought that but you were gone when I woke up.” Killian pushed himself to his feet, the sweat rolling down the divot on his spine under his shirt that was already tanned from the dirt of the day. The top three buttons were open to air his chest, and the chest hair Emma remembered so vividly poked out of the space. When he turned to face her, he caught Emma’s looking him up and down and smirked, running a finger over his lips.

“I’m talking about the dinosaurs, Mr. Jones. If you could just come and take a look-,” Emma babbled, her patience wearing thin. She needed to get away from him, but as he started to walk her way, the sway of his hip in his skin tight faded black jeans gave her cause to blush.

“Kil-lian,” he said firmly, accenting his name, the roll of his tongue something Emma remembered all too fondly between her legs. “You didn’t seem to have any trouble remembering my name that night,” Killian teased, watching her roll her eyes.

“We made a new species-,” Emma said flatly, ignoring his attempts at flattery.

Killian frowned, a sinking feeling in his gut making him suddenly queasy. “You just made a new dinosaur?”

“Well yeah, it’s kind of what we do here.” Emma batted away some annoying insects that had begun to assault her face, swatting the air with an annoying tut each time she missed the offending bugs. “The exhibit opens to the public in three weeks and Mr. Nolan wanted me to consult with you.”

Killian’s arm shot out and he caught the bug that had been buzzing around Emma, squashing it between his fingers with so much skill it made Emma pause and hold her breath for what he was about to do next. He brushed his fingers down his jeans, ridding them of the bug guts before giving her a coy smirk. “You want to consult here, or in my trailer?” He grinned, running his tongue along his teeth.

“You’re not funny,” Emma huffed, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m a little bit funny,” Killian laughed, giving her a wink as he turned away from her. Emma let out the breath she had been holding, scared of what he might have done. He was standing so close she could feel the heat from his body, the sexual tension between them more than palpable, and the tone of his gravelly voice had suggested his joke was in fact, not even intended as such.

“We need you to evaluate the paddock for safety concerns. Vulnerabilities,” She clarified as he toyed with another wrench from the set on the rickety wooden bench behind him. He inspected the head of it, not really needing to because he knew it wasn’t the one he required, and then looked back up to her with the soulful blue eyes she would always get lost in as he ascended the steps to the deck surrounding his trailer.

“Why me?” He shrugged, entering a narrow doorway, the sound of metal wrenches rattling around.

Emma sighed. This was harder than she had anticipated. Maybe she should have just called him. “Mr. Nolan thinks, since you can control the raptors-”

“I don’t control the raptors,” Killian corrected her quickly as he exited the tiny shed type building. “We have a relationship, based on mutual respect.” He walked back along the deck towards where she was standing, tapping the wrench into his palm.

“Are we still talking about the raptors?” Emma asked slowly, looking down at her feet. She had never apologized for leaving someone alone in bed before, but it was clear she had hurt Killian. He shameless flirting was a ruse, even she could see that, hiding his true feelings for her that had clearly never gone away. “I’m sor-,” she began, but he cut her off.

“You want to control everything, and you run from what you can’t. That’s why I woke up alone,” He told her with a shrug, brushing past her as he twisted the head of the wrench in his hands. The sound of clicking was almost drowned out by Emma’s gasp.

“Excuse me?” Emma spat, aghast.

“Was I at least good?” He gave her a twisted grin, enjoying the way she blushed under his questioning.

“I’m not talking about this,” Emma shook her head, turning to head back to her car.

“Nevermind, I know I was,” Killian smiled boyishly, catching the glare in her eyes as she spun back to face him. He licked his lips as she stormed back towards him, reseating himself on the metal bucket that groaned under his weight. He loved her when she was fired up, secretly wishing he could it more often, but he would take this encounter for now.

“Look, can we just focus on the asset, please?” Emma ground out, her jaw a little clenched.

“The asset?” Killian cocked his head, standing to meet her once more. He pulled a rag from his back pocket, the fabric worn and full of holes, and proceeded to wipe at his hands. He was done working on his bike for today because clearly, again, the geniuses who ran the park were idiots. “Look, I get that you are in charge around here,” he started, rubbing at his hands a little too furiously as he once again walked towards her. “I get that you have to make a lot of difficult decisions, and it’s probably easier for you to think of these animals as just numbers on a spreadsheet. But they’re not, love. They’re alive.”

Killian was passionate about animals, he always had been, and always thought of himself as lucky to live in a time where a man could get up close and personal with dinosaurs. He had been honored to have been hand picked for his research program, really believing he would be doing good in the world, but had since learned that the people in control never wanted what was best for the animals they created. All they cared about was the income, profits, and losses.

“Yes, I am aware,” Emma told him sternly.

“Are you, though?” He quipped sarcastically. “You might have made them a laboratory, but they don’t know that. They are just thinking about food and fucking,” Killian said smoothly, accenting the last word as he let his gaze roam over Emma’s figure like she wasn’t even clothed. “You can relate to at least one of those things, right?”

“I’ll be in the car,” Emma shook her head, rolling her eyes at his antics. She stormed off towards the car once more, stopping to give him a disgusted face and waved her hand at him. “You might want to take a shower. They are very sensitive to smell.”

It was a quiet ride to the paddock, each sitting in complete silence on either side of the car. Killian felt weird, preferring his motorcycle to any other mode of transport, and idly watched the trees whip past the window outside. The paddock itself was not that far away from his trailer, on a more secluded part of the island where they often raised their new dinosaurs. Killian had heard the roars of this new creature lately but didn't recognize it as anything the park already had on show, and Emma had confirmed this with her earlier story.

He looked over to the driver’s seat, the concentration of Emma’s face reflected in how hard she was gripping the steering wheel. He watched her profile, as perfect as the night he had watched her sleep beside him, ignoring the pang of anger that crept into his gut feeling when he remembered he had never got to see that pretty profile in the sunrise. Emma was flighty, he knew that now, but he was absolutely sure she wouldn’t throw herself from a moving vehicle to escape him.

“Why do you hang around with my son?” Emma asked him suddenly as if reading his mind. She kept her eyes trained on the road before her so as not to hit any low hanging branches that might spell the end of their short journey.

“Henry?” Killian asked dumbly, enjoying the way she cast him a quick glance to affirm her question. “He’s a smart lad,” Killian said honestly, returning his own gaze to the side window. “He has the potential to be something great and if I can help him with that, then why not?”

“So, it’s not to get closer to his mother then?” Emma asked, a little hurt that his initial answer hadn’t included her.

“Certainly not,” Killian shook his head. “I might be many things, Swan, but I would never use Henry like that.” Killian looked back at her, unable to decipher the reason for her questioning from her profile alone. “Henry means too much to me. And besides,” he said with a smirk. “I don’t need an eight-year-old wingman.”

Emma let out a soft laugh, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you sure? You haven’t dated since we, well, you know.”

Killian raised his own eyebrow back at her in response, toying with the patch of skin behind his ear. “And how would you know that, love?” Killian asked quickly, intrigued by her line of questioning more than irritated.

She gave him a soft smile. “Henry, of course.”

“Of course,” Killian agreed. “The lad does spend an awful lot of time with me. He would have noticed a girlfriend. That and he thinks we should-”

“How do you know that? What has he told you?” Emma slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a stop on the gravel outside of the compound wall. Killian’s hand flew out against the dashboard, helping slow the motion of his body as it fought against the seat belt restraint. She turned to her head towards him and Killian could clearly see some panic in her eyes.

“Be friends,” Killian finished his interruption slowly, watching Emma’a body sag in the seat beside him. He smirked, his lips twitching into a smile that he was unable to hide as her cheeks flushed red and she let out a breath. “It’s alright, love,” Killian teased. “I won’t let anyone know you have a crush on me.”

He exited the car before Emma could answer, the slam of the door drowning out the sound of her huff. Emma followed him out, watching him as he took in the huge, concrete wall with a concerned stare. He shot her a look, one that said he was uncomfortable, even before she walked past him in full business mode and began her speech about the so-called ‘asset’.

“Every few years the park has to come up with a new attraction to invigorate the visitors and keep up numbers. Corporate felt that a genetic modification would give us the ‘wow’ factor back,” Emma said cheerily like she was pitching the idea to a new investor.

“They’re dinosaurs, a previously extinct creature. Is that not wow enough?” He followed her up some metal stairs, her heels clicking on the steps each time she took a step. Killian tried not to watch the way her hips moved in front of him, lagging behind a few steps in case any of the construction crew noticed.

Emma laughed, smiling to herself. “Not according to focus groups. This dinosaur makes us relevant again.”

“What’s it called?” Killian asked quickly, watching the steps where he feet fell on his ascent, desperately trying not to watch her arse.

“The Indominus Rex,” Emma said, reaching the top of the staircase. She heard him laugh, a deep, throaty rumble that made her turn to look at him. God, he was gorgeous when he smiled.

“The Indominus Rex? Who came up with that?” Killian lifted his gaze once more, tickled by the name and the expression on her face.

“We needed something scary but easy to pronounce. You should hear a four-year-old try to pronounce ‘Archaeornithomimus’. Emma reached for the keypad on the wall beside the door, keying in her high-level security code before swiping her keycard. The door slid open and she crossed the threshold, leaving it open for him to follow.

“You should hear you trying to pronounce it,” Killian grumbled. The name was ridiculous, too modern and laughable to be a real dinosaur, but as he followed her into the control room, it became abundantly clear what kind of creature they were dealing with.

The paddock was huge, covered in the tallest trees Killian had seen in any enclosure so far, clearly there to allow the dinosaur to hide. They were increasing each wall by at least five huge, six foot wide lengths of concrete, something Killian worried about down in his stomach. He approached the glass, peering out past his reflection into the seemingly empty enclosure, and it didn’t escape his notice that one of the panes of glass had managed to be cracked from the outside.

Whatever this dinosaur was, he was already worried about it.

“So, what’s this thing made of?” He asked casually, putting as much distance between him and Emma as he could. Watching her walk up some stairs in front of him had had an undesired effect, one he was trying to fix with distance. There were at least two huge window panes between them now, and he stood as close to the control room guard, Charlie, as he could.

“The base genome is a T Rex and the rest is classified,” Emma told him, turning to face him and bracing for the inevitable string of questions he would have. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and swallowed, catching his gaze.

“You people made a new dinosaur but you don’t even know what it is?” Killian’s words were interrupted by a nervous laugh, his hands finding his hips and his fingernails digging into the leather of his belt. Her response made him uneasy, his eyes scanning for any movement between the trees.

“It’s not my job to know,” Emma said firmly. “We get delivered finished assets and it’s my job to show them to the public. Charlie, can we get a cow in there, please?”

She was irritated, Killian could tell, but he had been given a job to assess the paddock, whether she liked it or not. Nolan trusted him, for whatever reason, and he knew it was eating her up inside that this was something he wanted him to address, not her. “How long has she been in here?”

Emma looked at him and gave a nonchalant shrug. “Since birth.”

“She’s never seen anything outside of this paddock?” Killian frowned, still scanning the enclosure where he saw absolutely nothing. There was a track between two electronic doors that had a huge footprint on it, but nothing else glaringly obvious to the existence of the dinosaur Emma described.

“It’s not exactly a dog. We can’t walk it,” she snapped.

“And you feed it by crane?” Killian asked, watching the slab of meat being lowered into the enclosure. He pointed to it briefly, before resting his hand back on his hip, the cogs turning in his mind.

“Look, If you have a problem with this assignment I can just tell Mr. Nolan you declined.” Emma mirrored his stance, hands on her hips and her expression fierce. Killian was not intimidated by her in the slightest, simply shrugging off her bravado with a shake of his head.

“No problem,” he told her. “Just, animals raised in isolation aren’t always the most functional.” His tone was almost a warning, his brow knitting together as his anxiety over not being able to see the creature manifested tenfold. There was half a cow in the enclosure. Something should have been interested in that by now.

“Your raptors were born in captivity,” Emma countered but Killian interrupted her before she had the chance to finish her full sentence.

“And they learned social skills from siblings. As a family unit. And I imprint on them when they are born, there’s trust,” he said defensively. He moved towards her, tearing his gaze away to make his point with another point at the crane above them. “The only positive relationship this dinosaur has is with that crane because she knows it means food.”

“So, we get her a friend,” Emma suggested and Killian shook his head before she had even finished her words.

“Probably not a good idea, love.” He was worried. Any creature raised in isolation would surely have some sort of cognitive issues, but it seemed the secret ingredient in the new dinosaur lent itself to more questions than answers. “Where is this thing anyway?”

“It was just here. I was here less than two hours ago.” Emma stalked past him to the podium mounted display and tapped away at the screen. She pressed her finger to the screen quickly, the dull tapping sound filling the room as she initiated a thermal scan of the enclosure, all six sections flashing up as void of any heat signatures. “That’s impossible,” Emma sighed to herself, rescanning the paddock once more, the same six sections flashing red and an alert sounding, but this time more prominently on the screens behind Charlie.

“Oh, shit,” he said slowly, matching the ashen color of Emma’s face as their worst fears became reality.

“Have there always been claw marks there?” Killian called out across the room, turning to look at her slowly whilst deliberately pointing out of the side window. Emma paled, her heart pounding in her chest as she made her way to where he stood and saw the huge gauges in the concrete that insinuated the dinosaur had climbed the walls and escaped.

Surely someone would have seen her? Surely one of the construction crew would have noticed such a huge dinosaur climbing over the wall they were building. Unless they didn’t.

“Oh, shit,” Emma breathed on a hushed whisper, the hair on her arms prickling to life and making her skin tingle. She has an implant in her back. I can track her from the control room.”

Emma rushed back to the car, and called ahead to the control room, asking Ruby to get her a location of the Indominus Rex as she threw the car into drive and sped away from the compound. This was impossible. Never, in her entire time as Head of Ops, had Emma had an asset out of containment. There had to be a glitch in the system. The dinosaur had to be there, it just had to.

“I don’t get it,” Charlie said to Killian, standing next to him in the paddock. They had both made their way down to the enclosure to inspect the marks, Killian’s fingers lost in the deep grooves the Indominus had made with her claws. “That wall is forty feet high. You really think she could have climbed out?!”

“Depends,” Killian said sadly.

“Depends on what?” Charlie asked dumbly.

Something didn’t feel right to him. Killian was always one for gut feelings, and he trusted them implicitly. They had never let him down before, always helping him out of a scrape or two, but he couldn’t pin down the cause of the dread in the pit of his stomach. Something told him there was more to this dinosaur than he was being told, maybe more than Emma had been told. “On what kind of dinosaur they cooked up in that lab.”

“What the hell?” Ruby frowned, the phone pressed to her ear as she conversed with Emma. She was looking at her screen, the tracking device emitting a strong signal from inside of paddock 11.

“What?” Emma screeched, wishing her car went faster than it currently was. “Ruby, talk to me, what do you see?”

Ruby looked at Mary Margaret, confusion etched on both their faces as they watched the still dot on the screen radiating with a red, glowing line. “Uh...it’s in the cage.”

Emma blinked. “No, that’s impossible, I was just there.”

“Emma, I’m telling you, she is in the cage,” Ruby insisted, tapping a few buttons and switching to a live camera feed of the enclosure. What she saw stopped her heart dead. “Wait, why are there people in the paddock? Emma, there are people in there.”

Killian.

Emma gasped, her heart skipping a beat. “Get them out of there,” Emma said in a shaky, hushed voice. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. “Now!” Emma screamed down the phone, her voice ringing out in the control room intercom.

“Paddock 11, this is control. You need to evacuate the area immediately, do you copy? Paddock 11, please confirm, do you copy?” Mary Margaret’s voice was desperate, her fingers clutching the headset as she spoke, her words quicker than she would have liked as she tried to radio Charlie.

Charlie looked down at his hip mounted radio with a screwed up expression, tapping the device with a growl. “Damn radio signal. Control, this is paddock 11, repeat, over?”

Killian heard a rustle of leaves behind them and spun on his heels with wide eyes that scanned the area quickly. He had heard that sound before, from stalking raptors, and knew it never ended well for the prey. There was a slight movement in the grass, but no wind and Killian shot a glance back to the wall in front of them, sudden realization dawning on him as Mary Margaret’s panicked voice came through much clearer than before.

“It’s in the cage with you!” She screamed. “Get out, now!”

“Go, run!” Killian shouted, pushing against Charlie and the maintenance guy who had wandered in with them.

The three men ran, Charlie lagging behind because of an old leg injury that had left him with a slightly askew bone. It affected his gait and he knew he would never be able to outrun a dinosaur, so he turned and headed back towards the scratched up wall, hastily punching the numbers to open the gate into the keypad there.

The sound of broken trees echoed through the paddock as Killian and the other man skidded to a stop, the huge dinosaur that had managed to hide in plain sight, appearing before them. Killian took it in, the long legs and the curved claws so familiar and yet so distinguishable, he knew they could have only come from one species of dinosaur; Raptors. She roared softly, almost deafening both men with her high pitched growl, before giving chase, snatching up the engineer beside Killian in only two steps of her huge gait.

The gate was open, Charlie was long gone, but Killian knew it wouldn’t be for long. He fought the resistance of his thighs, pounding his boots into the dirt as he ran away from the Indominus, cursing his stupidity the entire time. He should have known the scientist in the lab would use Raptors, they were one of the smartest dinosaur species, and as he tried to ignore the sound of crunching bone behind him, Killian knew they had made a grave mistake.

“Close the gate!” David shouted firmly from behind Mary Margaret, watching the huge screen in front of him.

“We can’t lock him in there!” Ruby screeched, pointing to Killian on the monitor in front of her.

“Now, Ruby!” David commanded, barging her away from her workstation and tapping the huge, red touch button that would initiate the electronic cate closure. David looked up, instantly regretting his decision to end a man’s life, but the needs of many outweigh the few, and with over twenty-two thousand people at the park, David had to contain the animal anyway he could.

“Shit, shit, shit!” Killian chanted, his bones aching from how hard he was pushing his body to run for the now closing gate.

He made it through the gate just in time, but it hadn’t closed enough, the Indominus Rex trapping herself in the closing gap. She let out a high pitched roar, almost a cry as the automatic closing gate trap her between the concrete. The gate faltered, motors whirring and struggling to cope with the pressure Indominus was putting on them, and they completely gave out when, with another roar, she burst through the fence. Concrete crumbled away from the wall and Killian ran for the nearest cover he could find, sliding down onto the gravel and rolling under a construction crane.

The Indominus Rex roared again, sniffing the air around her, searching for her quarry. Charlie had made his way to a nearby truck and for some reason had decided to hide behind it rather than jump behind the steering wheel and escape the area. Killian froze, the gravel digging into his stomach as he watched the man kiss a crucifix he had been hiding under his shirt, tears falling silently down his face. Indominus roared again, flipping the truck with ease and leaving Charlie exposed to her attack, the man shooting Killian one last sorrowful glance before he was swallowed whole.

Killian rolled away from the scene to the middle of the crane, reaching behind himself and pulling out his hunting knife. His eyes scanned the underside of the vehicle, Emma’s words ringing in his head - ‘They are very sensitive to smell.’ Killian finally located what he was looking for, the fuel lines and pulled them free of the undercarriage, slicing through them with his blade and spraying the fuel all over his face. He held his breath, flicking the leaking pipeline over his shirt and jeans too, covering as much of his body as he could with the foul, metallic smelling liquid.

Indominus’ deep, booming roar caught his attention once again and Killian shot a glance out the side of his hiding place, her huge reptilian legs shaking the ground as she sunk down on all fours and eased closer to the crane. She was too large to see underneath but Killian knew she was trying to find him, trying to sense his scent under the machine, so he laid as still as he could, staring up at the underside of the crane.

A deep, vibrating sound came from the dinosaur, her nostrils flaring and her jaws open slightly to taste the air. Her teeth were covered in Charlie’s blood, drips running between the plates of her scales and Killian tried to ignore the rancid smell of her breath. He was like stone, too terrified to move from his spot, his eyes pinching closed as she moved her head towards the underside of the crane and attempted to make sense of what she could smell.

Killian turned his head away, his entire body beginning to quiver. Droplets of fuel covered his face and stung his eyes but he tried to ignore it. When Indominus let out a rumbling growl he jumped, trying not to make a sound against the gravel where he lay. Her warning growl got no response and with a frustrated roar, she moved on, her huge weight leaving ginormous footprints in the ground as she walked away. Killian lifted his head, the muscles in his neck straining as he watched the huge reptilian creature move off into the dense forest, a rattlesnake style shaking sound coming from deep in her throat as she did.

Killian let out an audible sigh, his head falling back onto the gravel, his heart pounding in his chest. “God damn it, Emma,” he growled to himself, half out of anger and half out of worry.

#jw au #killian jones #emma swan #cs au #cs fic #ch 3 #life finds a way

30 notes · View notes

bigasswritingmagnet · 6 years

Text

I’ll Cross the Sea Another Time (2/2)

Fandom: Mass Effect

Pairing: Shrios

Summary: A fic correcting the death of romanced Thane. After falling in love, Thane wants to live again. Now he does.

Commissioned by @snuffes

AO3 link

Part 1 Part 2

It was like a nightmare. Every time she thought it couldn’t get any worse, some fresh hell would unfold, and the whole galaxy would be turning to her, waiting for her to fix it. The Citadel was burning, C Sec was in shambles, and just when she’d found the councilor some jackass had hopped down from the ceiling to menace the salarian.

Just once , Joan thought bitterly, I would like something to go right and stay right.

Complain later, she told herself. Right now, she had a mission and that mission was being stalked by a human in black leather. Joan gathered a biotic charge around her fist and slammed her hand against the window, blowing it outwards and showering a rain of glass on the ground below. No time to bother with stairs; she vaulted the window sill. Thanks to her cybernetics, the impact on landing only made her wince, rather than shattering both ankles.

Glancing back at her, the assassin did an absolutely ridiculous jump straight over the councilor and to the other side. Definitely had some sort of augmentation, which was just fantastic. For a moment, Joan had thought this would be easy.

He held up a hand and yellow light gathered at his palm.

“Don’t even think about it,” she ordered.

“Shepard, he’s going to kill us all!” the councilor hissed, voice straining in his terror.

“That remains to be seen,” Joan replied, eyes fixed on the newcomer. Now on even ground, she could take him in in his entirety and holy shit , what was she looking at? He was like a cartoon character, with his tiny ponytail and shiny, too-complicated armor.

The councilor was babbling about Udina -- a coup, a trap, collusion with Cerberus -- but Joan was only listening with half an ear. Her focus was on the assassin, who was wearing what appeared to be oversized swim goggles. The black metal and blue strips of light made him look like a toad. The human was mirroring her attempts to get a clear shot, keeping the councilor trapped between them.

From the corner of her eye she saw Garrus and Tali emerge from the stairwell.

“Three on one, pal,” she said. “It’s over.”

“No. Now it’s fun.”

Joan fought the urge to roll her eyes and groan. What kind of cliche, macho, action movie bullshit …

Thane appeared behind him.

Joan had fought beside Thane for over a year while they hunted the Collectors, but his skill never ceased to catch her by surprise. One moment, the space behind the human had been empty air. Then, there was Thane, pistol drawn and pointed at the man’s head.

The man threw a punch. Thane blocked it easily but dropped his pistol in the process. Their hands flew, so evenly matched it was almost more like dancing than fighting. Joan kept her pistol up, but didn’t dare fire.

The human caught Thane in the face, sending him stumbling; grabbed his arm and threw him to the ground. Joan took the chance and fired, but the assassin was too fast. Thane recovered, pushed himself upright, snatched up his pistol.

The assassin was gone.

Cloaking devices. Joan hated cloaking devices. Okay, yes, they were extremely useful when they were on your side, as Kasumi had proven time and again, but nobody else should be allowed to use them. Her eyes desperately scanned the area, looking for the tell-tale shimmer in the air but finding nothing.

A crackle of electricity and the assassin appeared, holding an honest to god katana, as if this was feudal Japan and not the 22nd goddamn century. Somehow, despite the fact that all four of them had opened fire, the assassin could not be hit. He moved faster than should have been possible, ducking and weaving and always managing to be right where the bullets weren’t.

Thane ducked the first swing of the sword and blasted the man across the room with his biotics. What little of the man’s face Joan could see was twisted in rage as he got to his feet. A breathless pause, and both assassins charged.

Barely a few feet before they met, the human raised his sword, aimed squarely at Thane’s midsection. He wouldn’t even have to strike. Thane’s momentum would do the work for him.

The world slowed. Joan’s breath froze in her lungs. Every blink was an eternity, and she didn't dare blink in case she missed it. Everything was in sharp relief, the world so crystal clear Joan could have counted the threads in Thane's jacket. She was sure, so sure that this was the death of the man she loved. Time was sliding away from them again.

As casually as if he was making room for someone to pass in a crowded hallway, Thane turned and slid past the sword. Giddy, hysterical laughter bubbled in Joan’s chest at the bewildered look that spread across the human’s face.

The world sped up, and Thane slammed his knee into the human’s gut, seized his wrist and twisted until the sword clattered to the ground. Thane struck with another blast of biotic energy, though this one was weaker than before -- the fight was beginning to take its toll. The human only stumbled back, giving Thane the space to catch up the sword.

Like lightning, the human closed the space between him and slammed his fist into Thane’s chest, right at the still-fresh scar. Thane went pale under the green and stumbled back, collapsing to the floor.

The human lunged for his sword, but even like this, Thane was better. He rammed it through the human’s thigh. The blade burst out the other side in a shower of sparks, metal pushed open like flower petals.

Suddenly freed from the shock and fear that had frozen her in place, Joan fired and cursed as yet again her shot winged past the man by inches. He wrenched himself and his sword from Thane’s grip, dragged his blade from his leg with a grimace of pain. There was the merest moment of hesitation, then the assassin fled.

Thane tried to pull himself upright, but collapsed back against a table with a soft noise of pain. Joan spared a glance in the assassin’s direction, and made her choice. She’d be quick. The man would pay, and pay dearly, but Joan could not leave not knowing.

She knelt beside the drell and put her hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay? Are you--” Going to die, she did not, could not say.

“I am fine, siha. I’ve healed enough that one punch won’t do any damage.” He put a hand to his chest and winced all the same. “It did hurt, though.”

Joan grabbed his hand and squeezed it, relief flooding so strongly she herself felt breathless. She couldn’t help but match Thane’s smile when the drell chuckled.

“He should be ashamed of himself, losing to a man recovering from major surgery.”

“You know Cerberus; all dregs and washouts.”

Thane gestured after the assassin.

“Go. I will guard the councilor.” When Joan hesitated, he squeezed her hand again. “I will not die here, Shepard.”

He’s fine , Joan told herself. He’s fine, he’s fine, he said he’d be fine .

Her hands were not shaking, her heart was not pounding, but it was taking all of her strength to make it that way. She couldn't stop her ears from ringing or her mind from replaying the scene of Thane sprawled on the floor, pale and weak, gasping for air.

Joan’s voice was steady when she stopped a nearby doctor and told him she was looking for a drell, a regular patient here.

“ Room 235, just around that--”

Joan was already gone. She didn’t run through the hallways, but she put on her Commander face and the brisk walk that made people hurry to get out of her way. Normally she felt a little guilty -- she didn't like intimidating civilians just for standing around -- but this was an emergency.

Sort of.

Possibly.

When she reached room 235, however, she hesitated, wary of what she might find. She should have asked the doctor how Thane was doing, if only so she could be sure she wasn’t walking blindly into her worst nightmare. Schrodinger's drell, she thought suddenly, slightly hysterically. So long as she stayed out here, Thane could not be dead.

But he couldn't be alive, either. Joan took a deep breath, then let it out.

Joan opened the door and nearly ran into a drell standing in the middle of the room. He turned, and she stiffened, instantly recognizing Thane’s son. The last time they had met had been...tense. Though it had turned out well enough in the end, she wasn’t certain how Kolyat would react to her.

Fortunately, he didn’t react with immediate disgust or hatred, only mild surprise.

“Commander. My father mentioned you were no longer incarcerated. I don’t know if you remember me. My name is Kolyat Krios.”

Joan had to fight down the quirk of a smile at the corner of her lips. How, exactly, did this young man expect that she would have forgotten the kid she chased halfway across the wards and held at gunpoint? Did he think that was a common enough occurrence for Commander Shepard that the experiences would bleed together? Joan’s life was exciting, but it wasn’t that exciting.

“I remember you,” she said, hoping she managed to hide her amusement. Either Kolyat didn’t notice or was ignoring it, because he simply continued.

“I came as soon as I heard what happened.”

“Is he okay?” she asked, voice dropping to a whisper. Kolyat smiled.

“He’ll be fine. He’s confined to the bed for the foreseeable future, but there was no lasting damage.”

The tangled knots in her chest unwound like clock springs, leaving her weak with exhausted relief. She was tenser than she’d realized, judging by the way her legs had gone to jelly.

Outwardly, she managed to maintain calm. Kolyat stepped aside, and Joan approached Thane’s bed. He was asleep, chest rising and falling without strain. When Joan touched his hand, however, his eyes opened instantly. When he saw her, he smiled sheepishly.

“Siha. I’m afraid I won’t be much more use to you in your fight.”

Joan squeezed his hand tightly.

“You’re alive. That’s all I need.”

Thane’s smile turned wry.

“I was very sure my doctor was going to kill me when they brought me in. Apparently fighting off assassins counts as that ‘strenuous activity’ I wasn’t supposed to be doing.”

Joan couldn’t help but laugh at that, though it was a little breathless. Then the laugh caught in her throat and went tight. She swallowed hard as her eyes grew hot with tears she refused to shed. Thane put his hand on top of hers.

“I am alright. I will survive this, and I will be waiting for you when you return.”

“I was so sure I’d lost you,” she whispered.

Thane struggled to sit up, grunting in pain.

“Thane, don’t--” she began, but he shook his head, determined. When he was upright, Thane took her hand and pulled her closer to the bed, close enough that he could reach out and cup her cheek. He drew her down until his lips pressed against hers. Joan had a brief moment of pity for Kolyat, who probably found this extremely awkward, before it was overruled by the tingling on her lips where they met Thane's.

Joan was a little breathless by the time Thane pulled away, but his expression was deadly serious.

“There is too much here on land, siha, for me to pass willingly into the sea.”

#shrios #mass effect 3 #mass effect #joan shepard #thane/shepard #fix-it fic #commission

6 notes · View notes