#too tired and weak to really wake up but just with enough energy to burrow deeper into their blankets | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

animemangasoul · 4 years

Text

You Have A Home With Me

Summery: Tim takes in a meta human kid and tries to keep him a secret from the rest of the batfamily until his team gets back. It doesn't go as well as he'd hoped. And with an entire criminal empire after the kid, it's all Tim can do to keep it all under wraps and away from the media's attention.

Characters: Tim Drake, Batfamily, Young Justice

Chapter: 4/?

Tim doesn’t know when he fell asleep, but he wakes up to a sharp ringtone piercing through the air. He startles. Eyes flying open as he almost stumbles off the sofa, where he’d apparently fallen asleep without knowing. “What the,” he mutters, yawning loudly and sluggishly pulling himself back on his feet. ‘Did I set up an alarm?’ But no, that ringtone.... It was his phone and-- “Shit!” He exclaims, practically throwing himself over the coffee table to snatch up the ringing object. “Hello,” he says, voice catching due to his dry throat. “Who-”

“Tim.”

A single word.

He blinks, now wide awake. “Bruce?”

“Where are you. The meeting is about to start.”

“What?” Shit shit shit. Stretching out his arm to look at the time, he pales. Fuck.

“T...m... im- Tim...Tim.”

“Yes, yes I’m here Bruce. Sorry.”

“You have less than thirty minutes to get here kid. Be thankful you don’t live far away to make that a problem.”

“I-” Tim gulped, reaching out to hastily scoop up his paperwork and lick his lips. He knew a Bruce scolding tone when he heard it and it wasn’t like he didn’t deserve it. If he hadn’t fallen asleep like an amateur. He wouldn’t have had.... Fuck. “Sorry Bruce,” he said. “I’ll be there in fifteen. I promise. I’ll just take my car and-”

“No need.”

His blood ran cold. Bruce couldn’t... he wouldn’t-- Tim wasn’t even late! Dick had been late plenty of time and sure Tim was the CEO and should be more responsible but he’d been so freaking tired lately and he had a kid now—Well, not a kid kid but a kid he was currently taking care of and he’d over slept butthathardlymeanthewasn’tqualified---

“Tim Tim. Can you hear me? Did you catch what I said?”

Tim couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t breathe and his chest hurt, and it was all kinds of messed up in his head right now, but he forced himself to. Taking a big gulp of air, he tried to steady his beating heart before pressing his phone against his ear again and humming softly. “Yeah, yeah. I hear you Bruce.”

“Good,” his father said, an edge of frustration in his tone. “Dick is coming to get you. He’ll be there in ten. Be ready.”

Dick.... What?

“What? Dick? What do you mean Bruce?”

A heavy sigh. Tim winced. He didn’t want to annoy the man but--

“Dick volunteered to come get you and he’s already on his way. It will cut your time short so hurry up and get dressed.” Bruce doesn’t say anything else, just hangs up and leaves Tim staring befuddled down at his phone.

He only remains confused for a second though, because the minute Bruce’s words fully dawn on him, pure horror runs down his spine. Because Matt!

“Shit shit shit,” he hisses, finally turning around to look at the sofa. “Matt, kiddo I-”

He isn’t there.

The kid isn’t there. Tim almost chokes. “Matt! Kid, where are you?” The sofa is empty. His discarded suit jacked the only thing indicating that someone had been sleeping under it. Frantically he paces the length of the room. Looking at every nook and cranny as a mild sense of panic slowly creeps in to squeeze at his heart.

Maybe he’d run away? Maybe he was out there fighting for his life after a bad mugging? Maybe M.E.T had found him or they called him threatening to kill--- Wait wait how would they even know his number, no no, shaking his head, Tim runs a shaking hand through his hair and tries to take a deep breath.

There must be a logical explanation for this. ‘Stop panicking Tim,’ he silently berates himself. ‘You’re a bat. Act like it.’

Something had woken the kid up, either somewhere during the night or---

His eyes widen. The phone call! If it had woken him up than surely.... Taking three giant steps forward, he leans down to rest his hand on the empty spot and yes, it’s still warm. Sighing in pure relief Tim fumbles his way around the sofa and rushes to check the kitchen before jogging over to the bathroom. He’s already planning to check the bedrooms, but a soft sniffle from the locked door makes him pause.

“Matt?”

The noise stops. Tim sighs.

“Matt, if you’re in there kiddo I need you to open the door and let me see you.”

“No.”

Tim gapes in surprise. “What do you mean no? I need to go soon so if-”

The door suddenly flings open and it’s only thanks to his reflexes that Tim manages to dodge the hurtling wood before it bounces off his forehead.

“Wow,” he says, arms coming up in a placating manner. “Careful kid.” But Matt is already heaving where he stands. Small hands clutching at his oversized shirt and eyes red-rimmed from what obviously had been crying. “Hey hey hey. It’s ok.” Tim says, falling down to his knees to be closer to his level. “It’s ok. I know the phone call scared you, but it was just Bruce. He’s sort of like my father,” he says, an edge of confusion in his tone even as he explains it to the kid. “It wasn’t them ok?”

“Don’t.... go.”

“What?”

A glare and the kid takes a step back and ok... Tim could fix this.

“It’s work related,” he says slowly. “I need to go in to present this project I’ve been working on with the tech department and it’s not gonna be for long and I’ll be back before you kno--”

“Don’t go.”

Tim holds back a sad sigh. “I can’t do that kiddo. You know that. Me staying here raises all kinds of red flags and my brother will be here in a few--”

“NO!”

The sudden outburst is so startling it takes Tim a second to even process it in his mind before he can physically snap his mouth shut and stare befuddled at the blonde child in front of him, who is now crossing his arms, lower lip sticking out and glare of utter suspicion swirling in his eyes.

“I have to.”

“No.”

“Matt-”

“No!”

“Please understand-”

“I won’t let you!”

And... Tim is so fucking tired. So so tired. He’d been up for a week trying to uncover M.E.T’S scheme before he could make the mistake of signing a long term contract with them and he’d been helping both Dick and Jason with their respective cases, coupled with the Wayne Enterprise Project and looking after the workload of his Titans teammates, he was running on empty. Burrowing energy from future weeks in fact and now Dick would be here in less than ten minutes and Matt... Matt just wouldn’t understand! He just-

“Look,” Tim mutters as gently and as softly as he can. “I need to go Matt. I promise to call and--”

“NO!” And this one is a roar. A pure, angry, furious roar and Tim snaps.

“Enough!” He’s standing before he can even think, frustration making his fists curl “Just stop being a brat for one damn second and listen to me for once!” and.... and... it’s only when he sees the wide, frightened rabbit eyes staring up at him from a too pale and bruised face that it all sinks in and his stomach drops. Oh no. “Matt I-”

He doesn’t even get the chance to finish his sentence before something invisible is shoving him away, hard and the door is slamming shut.

No no no no.

He hears a whimper. A low keening sound that is so terrifyingly pained, his heart stutters to a stop.

“Matt! Matt! Kiddo, please open up. I didn’t mean to yell! Matt!”

Nothing.

He feels bile rise up his throat and dizziness overcome him. He fucked up. He really, truly fucked up and now.... What the hell was he supposed to do now?

Frustration didn’t excuse yelling at a traumatized kid. It didn’t excuse anything. So what if he was tired? Everyone was tired. It didn’t make Tim special, and now he’d probably irrevocable damaged the little trust he’d build up with the kid and oh my God. Tim was the absolute worst. No wonder Bruce didn’t take him seriously. He couldn’t even take care of one ten years old without screwing it up.

Matt was crying damn it. Matt had been crying, Tim should have focused on that more than his own annoyance. The kid had been crying and what did Tim do? Scream at him.

“Matt, please?”

Nothing.

He feels a silent itch building up behind his eyes and he can’t cry. Tim hadn’t cried in years. He wouldn’t show that kind of weakness. ‘The strong pray on the weak my love,’ his mom had said; cold fingers brushing away his tears with a softness that she rarely exhibited. ‘Never allow others to see your weakness. They will use it against you. Always.’

Tim swallowed. Gave himself a full thirty seconds to calm down and then stood up. Raising a fist to knock on the bathroom door but hesitating at the last second. “Matt?” Silence. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I was wrong. I shouldn’t have raised my voice at you, and I promise to do better from here on out.” Silence. His shoulders slump.

Maybe the kid just needed time. Maybe Tim could call Bruce back and ask him to let Tam take over the presentation for him. She knew the project almost as well as he did and he was sure if he sent her the details she’d somehow manage to pull off a miracle. And....

Tim had hated being left alone. He’d hated it every second of the day and not even following Batman and Robin around had filled the aching hole of abandonment in his chest. So, him more than anyone should have known... He should have known. Matt needed him and he hadn’t even listened.

Yeah, ‘I think I’ll call Bruce and arrange something else.’ It raised a funny feeling in his stomach when he thought about what Bruce would say when he again managed to let him down, but he would make it up to the man. Take on as many projects as needed to earn back his trust. Yeah, he could do that. For Matt, he could do that.

But then, just as Tim thought he couldn’t feel any worst.

“Babybird! You in here!” He froze. “Babybird! Timbo! We came to pick you up!”

We? Tim shuffled down the hall almost in daze, slowly reconstructing his face into the blank emotionless husk he’d come to assume in front of his family. “Dick,” he acknowledged when he finally stepped into the livingroom, an artificial smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Demon spawn,” he added, smile dying down a bit. “What’s he doing here?” he asked, turning fully to face his smiling brother. “Bruce said you’ll be the one picking me up?”

“Sorry babybro,” Dick said; happily bouncing up to him but not flinging his arms around him like he used to. Tim didn’t know whether he missed the casual affection or not. But his heart stinging momentarily gave him an answer he still wasn’t ready to accept. “Dami was let out of school early so I thought why not catch two birds with one stone!”

“We would not even be here if your incompetence wasn’t inconveniencing father Drake. Perhaps I ought to take over the company sooner than expected.”

Tim looked down at him, unimpressed. Yeah, no. Tim wouldn’t be calling back Bruce anytime soon. Hell would freeze over before he let the gremlin see him struggling. Matt.... Matt would have to understand, just this once. Plus, cancelling now, while currently being faced with his brother and his demon pseudo-son, they would surely be suspicious. Tim couldn’t afford suspicion. Not when Matt’s life was on the line. He swallowed thickly. Utter guilt churning in his stomach just thinking about leaving the kid alone and distraught. But what else could he do?

“Give me a second,” he said to Dick, all but ignoring Damian. “I need to change clothes and I’ll be with you in a minute.” Dick only smiled and waved him away.

“Anything I can do for you while we wait?”

A flat out no was on the tip of Tim’s tongue, but he paused. “Tidy up my files for me?” he asked eventually, trying not to react to the softer smile sent his way. “I’ll only be a minute.” He doesn’t listen to the tirade of insults Damian heaps at his supposed incompetence and rushes to quickly get changed before Beelzebub decides to make changes to his speech or something.

Dressed in a new suit, head combed perfectly and red business tie dangling from his neck, Tim hesitates in front of the bathroom door. One hand pressed up against the wood and teeth chewing at his lips. “I’m sorry,” he mutters against the doorframe, afraid his siblings might hear if he speaks any louder. “I’ll leave a phone outside the door and it has my number on it so call me if you need anything ok?” He pauses, hoping to hear anything from the kid, but nothing. He sighs. “Just be safe ok? I’ll try to come back as soon as possible.” Dropping the phone on the ground, he allows himself a tiny bit of hope of receiving a response, but again, silence.

With nothing else left to say, he straightens out, heavy heart lodged between his ribs and casually struts back into the livingroom. “Ready?” he asks, and Dick enthusiastic nod doesn’t do much to lift his mood.

They are out the door, down the elevator and walking to the car when Dick makes a tiny noise of exclamation before he stops and startles looking through the plastic bag he’d somehow been holding this whole time without Tim noticing. “What?” Tim asks, pausing in his hurried steps to look back at his brother and Dick makes a triumphant sound and extends a thermos and a sandwich in his direction. Tim stares at him, making the other shrug. “I thought you might have not eaten so,” he says, shaking the plastic wrapped sandwich in his direction. “I hoped you’d appreciate this. It’s your favorite,” he adds on almost as if unsure and.... sometimes, sometimes when he does stuff like this, it’s when Tim remembers why he loved him so much.

Tilting his head, Tim smiles; it’s small but sincere this time. “Thanks Dick.” His brother only grins.

But just as Tim is about to take the God sent food out of the elder's hands, he stills.

“What?”

“Drake quit stalling we need to go!”

“Wait here,” he says, and he’s off, even before either of his siblings can talk. Pressing the elevator door impatiently and jumping in as soon as it descends.

The minute he makes it upstairs he rushes into the kitchen; shoes and all and practically flings open the fridge. Snatching up the milk before scouring the shelfs for a bowl, and at soon as he finds it, he picks up two different cereals. Balancing his loot all the way to the still closed bathroom door, he knocks at the wood gently with his foot. “Matt,” he calls out, slightly out of breath. “I need to go now and I’m sorry about our argument and for shouting, but I’ll just leave cereals out here ok? In case you get hungry and stuff and you decide you don’t wanna leave the bathroom and... Yeah. Just... there is milk and oh shit.”

Getting back on his feet after putting the breakfast food down on the ground, he rushes back to the kitchen and opens the second drawer, riffling through it until he gets his hand on a spoon before jogging to the bathroom again. “I forgot the spoon, but I got it now, so you don’t have to drink the cereal or anything. So here.” he says, placing the spoon in the bowl and taking a step back. “I need to go now.”

No sounds come from the other side and Tim finds himself wishing that he could just stay. “Bye Matt.”

And with those last words he leaves the silent apartment and heads to work.

End

@miss-choco-chips , @throneoffirebreathingbitchqueen anyone else who want me to tag them please let me know and thanks for reading everyone :)

-----

God Tim just breaks my heart. He has so many issues that raises red flags and he’s still just a kid himself and I don’t know why I make him suffer so much because of it. And fyi, being tired and exhausted and rundown is an excuse for having outburst sometimes (as long as they are not violent and you know you did wrong and try not to make that sort of behaviour a habit)

65 notes · View notes

lihikainanea · 4 years

Note

All sentimental, reading OG Bill x Tiger like that morning sex piece where she says she wants to be ‘even closer’ when cuddling. Can we PLZ talk about sleepy, romantic cockwarming? Like, they’re too tired from a long day to even indulge in lazy sex- but need SOMETHING. I picture them both being too stubborn to admit that they’re too tired for their usual kind of lovin’ - Bonus points (fuckin hell) if he gets a little desperate with the sleepy whispers “need to be inside you” 🥺💦

LISTEN MAN I am just out here low key trying to get my thoughts into the internet world and here ya’ll are COMING FOR MY LIFE.

Nani, baby, I could talk forever about cockwarming. I could talk for even longer about cockwarming in a subby context. And I could talk for even longer than that about subby tiger, cockwarming, and how Good Dude Bill just makes her feel so loved and safe and comfy.

My train of thought derails splits and ya’ll just gonna HAVE. TO. DEAL.

So like, it’s been A Day for our girl tiger, right? A day full of balls-to-the-wall shit. I don’t know about any of you guys, but I’m the smallest fucking subbiest thing behind closed doors but in public? On the dating scene? At my job? Get the fuck out of my way before I destroy you and everything you love. I am ruthless. And my job often requires me to be a powerhouse, to go up against men much more influential and powerful than me in every way, and I can’t show an iota of weakness. Not one, because I’ll be fucking eaten alive.

But the thing is, when I have days that require me to really push it, to really be aggressive and authoritative, Jesus, emotionally and mentally when I get home it pushes me into such a small space. Because I like it when somebody else has control, I like it when I don’t feel like I need to be the one handling everything, and secretly I love it when someone forces me to yield. It’s nice to lose, in that sense. To give up the clutches of control.

In any case, maybe tiger is the same, and she’s had a day full of too many things that made her feel too in control, and now she’s fussy. Having a lot of anxiety about it. And she’s definitely not fussy in a bratty way, she’s not gunning for a punishment and in all reality probably couldn’t handle one anyway, but she’s fussy in a needy, emotional way. She’s really clinging on to him for most of the night but she’s also fidgeting, she’s doing that nervous habit thing where she’s picking at her lip--and when Bill gently reaches to pull her hand away and hold it instead, 30 seconds later she’s bouncing her knee uncontrollably. And when he puts his hand on that to stop it, then she’s scratching at the back of her hand and he can see the first onset of hives start to break out. So when he stops that, she huffs--maybe even gets up, walks away. There’s just so much nervous energy that she’s having a hard time reeling in. She didn’t eat much at dinner, got too warm in the bubble bath he drew for her after to relax, and she wants affection but is also kind of getting annoyed by his touch. He lets her be, he intervenes when he can see her mind getting away on her too much--like when she starts picking her lip again--but otherwise, when she’s this kind of fussy, she needs to be left alone a bit.

And when it’s bed time, Bill goes to get her at the kitchen table where she’s sketching or knitting or whatever, her knee bouncing out of control. He’ll coax her to the bathroom to brush her teeth while he gets her hot water bottle ready, and then they tuck in together. And Bill’s usually a pretty heavy sleeper--and it’s pretty immediate--but he fights it off a bit, because he knows tiger’s going to have trouble sleeping. He curls around her back, tucks her hot water bottle against her stomach, plops a gentle kiss on her ear and then buries his nose in her neck. She’s the one who reaches for his hand, brings it up to her mouth and slides his thumb inside--and he thinks thats a pretty good sign, maybe she’s ready to relax a bit.

But like, you know how nervous energy is palpable in that incredibly annoying way? Have you ever been able to reel in your own anxiety, when you’re around nervous person? (Because if you have, please tell me how.)

Bill knows he needs to fix it for her, but he’s trying to figure out how. But she’s good--man she’s good--and asking for what she wants would be ballsy and courageous in a way she’s tired of being so she’s not about to do that, but she’ll give him a hint. And very subtly, maybe she just knocks her ass back into him a tad--just a tap.

Bill waits.

But then she whines a little, does it again. And at this point Bill’s not sure if it’s actually sex that she wants, or if she wants that...something else that they tried once.

She speaks up before he can guess.

“Do you remember,” she says as she removes his thumb, “That one time that we...”

And Bill’s on it, immediately. He knows what she means, and he doesn’t want her to have to ask for it. So maybe he shimmies out of his boxers, and gently rolls her over onto her stomach. They’ll be more contact for her this way, more closeness, and she loves it when he rests some of his weight on her. He lifts her t-shirt a little bit, reaches his hand between her legs just to make sure she’s ready and--Jesus, she always is. So he slips inside slowly, fills her up, and it’s always really difficult for the first few seconds--because she’s so tight, so wet for him. But he grits his teeth, and usually after a second or two he can get it under control enough. She sighs and goes boneless under him immediately, sinking into the mattress, tucking her arms under her pillow. Bill lies on her back, caging her arms with his, nuzzling his cheek into her soft skin.

“Is this better sweet girl?” he murmurs to her, and she whimpers a little. And listen, I have no doubt--no doubt at all--that tiger falls into a real deep sleep after this. But I also have NO DOUBT AT ALL--that a few hours later, Bill wakes up to her full on grinding on him, working for it. And the angle is so perfect--it’s difficult for her to move the way she needs but it’s real easy for him, so as soon as he’s awake enough and just drives his hips down into her--they’re both coming in no time at all.

BUT THEN ALSO

Listen, Bill tired as fuck alright? Maybe he’s back from somewhere, maybe she’s on set with him somewhere. He’s pulling real late nights so usually when he stumbles back to his hotel tiger is already curled up in bed, asleep. And it’s a real devastating thing when desire and exhaustion are battling, because nobody wins. And Bill wants to bang her brains out but he also just WANTS SLEEP ALWAYS and these days sleep is winning out.

And like, not only are his nights late, but his mornings are fucking early. And maybe this is the first time in a long time that he has a day off the next day. And he’s dead to the world, but maybe he wakes up real early the next morning just because his internal clock says it’s time to wake up. And he’s super drowsy, not fully awake because he also knows he doesn’t have to be. But then like...tiger backs her ass up into him in her sleep, like she sometimes does. And that friction stirred something--still not enough to wake him up, but something. And he can feel her lips pursing round his thumb, rhythmically sucking, And oh god--she smells so good. And he’s so tired, so warm and cuddly, and he’s a big sappy love bug and wants some more closeness with his girl but he’s nowhere near awake or motivated enough for sex. So instead he just burrows that cute little nose further into her neck, maybe rolls his hips into hers.

“Tiger,” he murmurs in her ear and Jesus if she wasn’t wet before, that’ll do it every time. His gravelly, sleepy voice in her ear, deep and raspy, his warm breath on her neck. She stirs a little.

“Please kid,” he whispers, “Can I....?”

And she’s also very much not awake yet so she just rolls her ass into his groin again, purring a little, which is all the confirmation he needs. So he tugs her panties down, pulls his boxers down to just his mid-thigh, and slowly pushes into her. It’s incredible--it’s euphoric and comforting and warm and just everything he needs. He sighs happily, curls around her even more, locks her tighter in his arms. But tiger--listen, she’s good to him, too. And she wants to make sure that he’s getting what he needs, and not just what’s good enough because that’s all he has the energy for. She doesn��t want him to ever go without something he wants or needs.

“Do you want me to do it for you, bud?” she murmurs sleepily to him, and her offer is clear. If he needs a release he can lie back and she’ll get him there, no strings attached. And he will eventually need that but right now....this is all that wants.

“No,” he says softly, “Just you, kid. Just this.”

#sub tiger #soft bill #sleepy bill #bill skarsgard #bill skarsgard drabble #BFF!Bill

63 notes · View notes

banashee · 4 years

Text

17 - Home alone

Clint is pacing back and forth in his apartment. He knows his steps must make at least a bit of noise, but he can't hear it.

When he wakes up that morning (early, way too early) he does so with a start and a strangled yelp on his lips which he is unable to hear then, too. His heart is beating too fast, and he's shaking, sweating. Slowly, he reaches out for his hearing aids on the bedside table, fumbles them in and switches them on. They pick up the low noises from the street, cars driving by, howling sirens. It helps him a little to come back to reality, to even out his breathing.

But then, glass is breaking and a man starts yelling down on the street, causing Clint to flinch violently and rip out his hearing aids again.

A low noise must be escaping his lips, and he's glad that no one is around to hear.

He almost flinches again when something is touching him, but it's soft and heavy on his back, and then a long wet tongue is affectionately slobbering all over his ear, and he can smell the dog treat breath near his nose. It's Lucky, and he relaxes a bit, stroking one of the paws that made its way around for him to reach.

Clint concentrates on the weight and the heartbeat on top of him, trying to calm down his breathing. The dog nudges him a little, as if to say, “I'm here, I'll help.”

When Clint manages to breathe better, he gently pushes Lucky off of him, but he keeps stroking his soft golden fur in the process, lets him lick his face and then Clint heads into the kitchen to give the dog his breakfast and to make some coffee for himself.

He doesn't remember the last time he's eaten something. When was the last neighbor BBQ again? Friday night, right? So that was roughly two days ago. He's not hungry.

Clint drinks another cup of black coffee, staring ahead on the wall by the breakfast bar. Now that he thinks about it, his last shower must have been a while ago, too. Too much work, too little energy.

He sighs and runs a hand through his shaggy blond hair – it feels greasy. He drinks another coffee and Lucky presses his head against his leg.

It takes him a while to get up and force himself into the bathroom.

Clint avoids the look into a mirror at all costs and slowly undresses himself. When he turns on the shower, he waits for it to get warm. His energy has left him by the time it does. He sits down on the edge of the bathtub for half an eternity, then shakes his head to get up and under the spray of water.

(Useless. Wasteful.)

Only, it's turned ice cold again by now. Clint curses all the way through washing up, getting it done as quickly as he possibly can, and by the time he's out and dressed again, his energy runs lower than before.

He ends up falling asleep sitting on the tile floor, head propped up against the bathtub behind him.

When he wakes again, he startles from a nightmare and he can already feel a wicked crick in the neck. Clint curses and pulls himself up from the floor. It hurts more than it should, but he steps out of the room.

All he wants is to curl up on the couch with Lucky and hope it'll get better on its own. But the dog isn't there. Instead, there is a short note taped to his kitchen table.

Hi Hawkeye,

Sorry I don't have more time, but you are in the shower right now, so. I'm out of town for a bit, Lucky is with me like we agreed. We'll be back soon, see ya!

Kate

it says in her handwriting. Clint blinks at it, confused. He must have forgotten about that. What day was it again? He checks his calendar on the wall, and yes, it says it right there.

He feels incredibly stupid, but he already misses Lucky. His day so far has been utter crap (let's be real, so have the last few months) and this ridiculously wonderful mutt really, really helps. But now he's gone, too.

Clint sighs unhappily. His phone lights up next to the note, and it's a message from Barney. Chances are that his brother is drunk off his ass right now, so Clint opens it cautiously. The text is full of typos and it proclaims how sorry he is for everything, that he misses him and loves him.

It leaves Clint numb and unfeeling, but later that day he spends about an hour crying over a fucking commercial, who knows what even for, but there is a happy, smiling family with your stereotypical 2.5 children and a big, cheerful dog.

Depression is strange like that.

Clint passes out on the couch, and when he wakes up, he has no idea what day it is – it's dark out, but his phone tells him that it's still the same shitty day, later in the evening. He scrubs his face with one hand, looks around him. There is something out of place on his kitchen counter. Something new. A bright blue plastic container. He frowns, gets up and steps closer. A small note sticks to the lid, and he reads through it.

Hi Clint,

This is leftover lasagna, enjoy. You were asleep when I came by, didn't want to wake you up.

I hope you're okay.

Simone

Bless Simone and her good heart. He makes a mental note to thank her later, and maybe bring something nice for the kids, too – they always appreciate it, and they do way too much for him, anyway.

There is a lump in his throat, and a gaping hole in his growling stomach. He puts the food in his microwave and eats dutifully. It makes him sick later, but that's okay. It's not Simone's fault that everything tastes like ash to him right now. If she asks, he'll lie and say it was great.

When he's done heaving into the toilet, he feels hick neck prickling, and the tell-tale panic in his guts.

He bolts out of the bathroom, stumbling with shaking legs, tremors in his hands, rushing through the apartment, searching every corner.

No one is there. No threat. Nothing.

He puts his hearing aids back in while his brain still runs crazy.

'You keep passing out when you can't even hear shit. Anyone could walk in at any time and you won't know. You're lucky it was only Kate and Simone earlier. You'll be useless kicking anyone's ass when they sneak in and overpower you! Stupid, weak! Waste of space!' His mind is screaming at him.

And Clint paces again, keeps shaking his head, trying to calm down his breathing.

His phone keeps ringing, but he ignores it. It turns over to voice mail, and it's Barney again. He's slurring badly, and he sounds like he might be on the verge of tears, as he begs Clint to call, he's so sorry. When Barney starts retching, the call ends abruptly and Clint closes his eyes, sliding down on the wall and stays seated on the dusty, wooden floor.

He wishes, his dog was here. But no one is around, so Clint manages to get up, go to the couch and curl up there, hugging a cushion close to his chest in an poor attempt to mimic company. He laughs out loud at that, but even to him it sounds sad and pathetic.

When he wakes up, the sun is high in the sky, so some amount of time must have passed. Also, his ears feel gross since he fell asleep with his aids in, but there wasn't anyone in his apartment, as far as he can tell. Clint want's to look on his phone, but it's dead.

He stares at the landline on the wall.

'Don't do it, it's not worth it!'

He gets up and steps closer.

'You're just lonely you idiot! Do. Not. Call. Your. Brother.'

But he does.

Barney picks up after a few rings, barking “What the fuck do you want?!” into the phone.

Ah, so he's sober today. Great.

“You called me first. And texted.” Clint replies flatly and Barney scoffs, “Bullshit!” and then he hangs up again.

It's like a punch in the guts. Just more painful. Clint doesn't know what he expected but he feels ('Stupid! Stupid! Useless!') and then he realizes that there are tears burning in his eyes.

Cursing, he hangs up violently enough for the phone to fall back down, but he doesn't care and just crawls back into bed.

He really wishes Lucky was here with him.

He sleeps restlessly, and with more than one panic attack interrupting him.

The next two days are so bad, that he can't even get out of bed.

Clint is in a constant state of questioning why he's even alive, shaking and clawing on the sheets, drenching them in sweat, tears and snot. It's probably a good thing he's too tired to do anything, or else he would have found some some sort of tool to end it.

He doesn't.

On the third day, he manages a shower and a cup of coffee with some dry crackers because his stomach is revolting by now.

Water. Would be a good idea, probably. So he forces himself to drink a bottle, too.

Then his pager sounds. Avengers Assemble, and so he suits up, packs his bow and heads to the rooftop, just in time for Iron Man to pick him up – literally. He swoops by and Clint holds on, long used to this way of transportation.

“Hey Clint.”

“Hey man. What are we going to shoot at?”

“Doombots. Again.”

“Aw. At least they're satisfying to blow up.”

“Sure are, once we know the latest shit update Doom gave those little fuckers. You look awful by the way, are you okay?”

“Yes, thank you.” but it comes out pressed and flat. He can't see Tony's face behind the helmet, but he just knows he gives him a look.

But then they're busy fighting annoying killer robots, and it's the most alive Clint has felt in weeks.

When all is said, done and wrapped up, he's being dragged along along to the tower for one of their “Yai, we live another day”-parties. Clint plasters a smile on his face and it feels awfully fake. It probably looks just as bad.

But Clint tries to keep up chatting with his team mates, putting up a happy appearance which he hopes can fool people at least a little bit. It probably doesn't work, because they're starting to hover.

“You okay?” they ask, and he nods, smiling just a little bit brighter, joking and claiming he's just a bit tired.

Clint leaves rather quickly, sneaking out of the tower as soon as he's got a chance.

Back home, he drops his cheerful facade because keeping it up is exhausting. He skips the shower, even though he knows he's going to hate himself for it later. What else is new.

Clint burrows into the couch and wakes up to Natasha sitting on his coffee table, calmly cleaning her guns.

“Hey, Nat.” he rasps, and she looks up.

“Hi. Anything you wanna talk about?” she asks lightly, but it doesn't fool him. She's worried.

“No.” he replies hoarsely, and forces himself upright.

“Go shower. I'll have food here when you're done.” she instructs, and it's easier to just obey. Nat gently squeezes his arm when he walks past her.

Shower. Get dressed. Walk back out. Face potentially uncomfortable talk. Great. He's got this.

Natasha has moved to his couch in the meantime, and when he sits down next to her, his leg keeps bouncing up and down. Clint doesn't say anything, just stares right ahead into nothingness. His vision gets foggy again, and he faintly notices that Natasha puts the cup of soup she was offering him on the table and folds herself down on the floor in front of him, running a gentle hand through his hair until he slowly leans forward, into her touch until they sit in an embrace.

It would be so easy to give in and let go, but he holds himself back. The human contact feels good, tho. It's been too long.

Still, he pulls away when he realizes that he's going to have a complete breakdown if Nat hugs him for any longer now. Clint manages to pull himself together, holding onto threads at this point.

“Don't lie to me right now. How not okay are you, Clint?” Natasha asks quietly.

“I don't know.” he shakes his head slightly.

He could tell her about days spent in bed, wanting to die but feeling too tired to actually get up and do something about it. Clint figures she knows or at least suspects that.

“Things are fuzzy right now. I'm... I don't know how to explain it. But I'll be fine, I'm always fine.”

He can only hope that this will be true – it's getting harder to actually be fine lately. Natasha looks at him with concern and something... soft in her eyes as she keeps her hands placed on his knees. She doesn't come closer since he's pulled away, but she refuses to leave him alone and he loves her for it.

“You don't have to be fine all the time. I'm here. You've got me, the team, Kate... We're all very much willing to help you, if you'll let us. But we don't know how.”

“Can you stay with me for a little bit?” he asks, too silently for his own hearing aids to pick up but Natasha nods.

“Of course.”

She sits back down next to him on the couch, handing him the now lukewarm cup of soup and a bottle of water. Then she turns on the TV, filling the room with something light and brainless. Natasha settles against him, letting him choose how much physical contact he wants. Clint puts an arm around her and rests his head on top of her bright red curls.

Some time later, the front door opens and a second later he's greeted by a lapful of dog, and Lucky excitedly slobbers all over him.

“Hey Pizza Dog.” he says softly, burying his hands in the soft, golden fur and he can't help the small smile.

Lucky looks up at him, tail wagging and his one eye fixed at his human with an open mouthed doggy smile on his big, fluffy face.

Kate follows, and flops down onto the couch on Clint's other side with a “Hey Hawkeye” and grins when she gets the same words back as a greeting.

Something eases in his chest, and Clint pulls her close, too.

“What's up with the sappiness?” she asks, half jokingly, taking in her friends appearance – pale, eye bags, too much stubble, lost weight.

“Deal with it, Katie.” he grumbles goodnaturedly and she huffs but squeezes him in a tight hug.

“Yeah, whatever. Missed you, too. Hi, Nat.”

Clint leans back. There is still the heavy darkness inside of his head, and he's not sure if or how or when he can get rid of that. Or at least get a better grip on it.

But right now, with two of his best friends by his side and with his beloved dog sprawled out on his lap, drooling all over his sleeve while he pushing hid head into his stomach in an attempt to get even closer, Clint thinks that this car crash life of his looks a lot more bearable again.

*+~

OK so I know I've posted part 16 last night and it's like 6:40 in the morning on the 17th where I am now, but in all honesty, this story is one of my, if not THE favourite of all the stories I've written for KeGo. So I'm kinda excited for it to see the world because I'm kinda, super proud of it? I hope you like it, too.

*+~

About the KeGo https://banashee.tumblr.com/post/189288814786/keep-going-december-kego

Also, go check out @bananaink she is the other mastermind behind KeGo ♥

Go show her some love because she’s great ♥

Check out my AO3 while you’re at it ♥

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21829720

#kegodecember #kego december #banashee writes #marvel fanfiction #hawkguy #mental health issues #tw suicidal thoughts #tw depression

14 notes · View notes

bazypitchandsimonsnow · 5 years

Text

Without You

Rating: T

Genre: Fluff/Angst

Word count: 8569

Summary: Simon is severely injured and out of commission. Baz has trouble coping. Based on "you’re in a coma and I confess all my feelings only for you to wake up" request.

Read on AO3

AN: Heyyyyy, my peeps. Long time no fic. Long story short: I started antidepressants and they fucked with me hard. They wiped out of my energy for weeks, I could barely get out of bed. But now I've adjusted and I'm mostly back to myself, and I plan to get through the requests :D There's actually one request before this but that one was gonna take awhile so I thought I'd post this one first. I'm still iffy on some parts of this fic, but hey it's done. That's more than I can say for most of my writing recently lol. Hope you guys enjoy it :D. Disclaimer: Idk exactly how a coma of this length affects someone. Don't take what happens here as fact please.

———————————————

Baz

It starts as a normal day. (Well, as normal as mine can get.) Snow wakes me up at an ungodly hour, banging around like a frenetic ping pong ball. I growl and burrow deeper into my blanket pile. Why does he always insist on doing this? I swear, Snow forgets that other people exist in his little world.

He makes a particularly loud bang, equivalent to gun shot to my sensitive ears, and my patience snaps. I bolt upright and glare at his back.

“Would you keep it down?” I hiss. “Some of us actually want to sleep.”

Snow whips around so fast he nearly trips. I’m taken slightly aback. He looks like a frightened rabbit caught in the headlights. I’ve never seen him so frantic and afraid. Even his breathing is strange, rapid and shallow. What could scare the Chosen One so badly?

“I gotta- I-I can’t,” he stutters, like the adorable numpty he is. Snow is bleeding magic, making the air feel thick and smokey. We stare at each other for a long drawn out moment. Then he just leaves, dashing away in a flurry of bronze hair and untucked clothing. I’m left in the rising dawn light, feeling thoroughly perplexed.

Is Snow okay? He looked so helplessly terrified. Part of me wants to run after him, ask him what’s wrong, maybe try to help. But I know he wouldn’t tell me anything. Actually, he’d probably yell his bloody head off at me.

“Whatever,” I groan, flopping back down. And I let myself drift back off to sleep.

———————————————

Boom!

BOOM!

The entire room shakes, flinging me back into consciousness. My eyes fly open and I bolt upright. Flecks of plaster rain down from the sky like a light dusting of snow. The stones are still vibrating slightly. Crowley and Merlin and Methuselah, what the ever loving fuck was that?! Has the Mage completely lost his mind and decided to test nuclear bombs on the Watford grounds? As if he needs another bomb with Snow-

Wait. What if... No, he’s the Chosen One, he’s fine. I don’t need to worry. He was probably just panicking like a moron earlier. That explosion was...fine. He’ll be okay...

Fucking hell.

I dash out from bed, throwing on my jumper and shoes terrifyingly fast. I grab my wand just in case. As I’m running down the steps, I wonder how I’m going to explain this, dashing towards Simon bloody Snow with a racing heart and fear in my eyes. But I don’t fucking care. He might be in danger. I can’t leave him alone, I can’t, I just can’t.

The second I’m outside, I see the towering smoke coming from the Great Lawn. It’s a massive plume blacking out the sky. My undead heart is roaring in my ears as I run towards the smoke, not caring about any fire within. When I reach the edge of the spot, all the breath leaves my lungs. Flames cover the grass, burning so bright my eyes hurt. In the middle of the inferno are two silhouettes. One is kneeling, and the other is laying limp on the ground. Maybe I’m imagining, maybe I’m terrified, maybe I’m just projecting, but I swear the person on the ground has a mass of dirty bronze curls.

I raise my wand up and yell, “make a wish!” The fire goes out with a rushing pop. Grey smoke still trails off the blackened ground. I wave through the thick cloud, focusing on the two silhouettes. And when I step through, my heart sinks right to the ground.

Simon Snow is on the ground, eyes closed, laying limp with his head on Bunce’s lap.

“What happened?” I ask, voice shakier than I want it to be.

Penelope Bunce’s head whips around. Her face is streaked in ash and tears, hair a tangled mess of fading purple. Unsurprisingly, she looks utterly shocked.

“Baz?” she says. “What are you doing here?”

“I heard the explosion, what else?” I snap. “What happened? Why was the Lawn on fire?”

Bunce glares at me, but I see the way her lip trembles. She rubs her forehead, streaking ash across her skin. “It was a group of ogres. Simon spotted them from his window then sent a messenger bird to me for help. Then we came here. They were under the Humdrum’s control, completely vicious. Simon and I couldn’t hold them off. He was getting tired and scared, so...”

A few tears fall down her cheeks. She places her hand over her mouth, trying to control her rapidly increasing breath, trying to say what I already know. There’s only one thing in the World of Mages that could’ve made such a concussive sound. And this time, I heard two.

I step forward, getting a clearer view. Snow is spread out across the ground like an exhausted starfish. Eyes closed, head lolling to the side, covered head to toe in dirt, blood, and ash. His sword is still laying on his open palm. I can hear his breathing and pulse with my vampire ears. Thank fucking Crowley, he’s still alive. But from the weak sound of both, I’m not sure how long that’s going to last.

“Fucking hell,” I whisper.

Bunce nods solemnly. “I tried to wake him up, but he’s out cold.” She sniffles, and I can��t help but feel bad for her. “Is this good enough for you, Basilton? Finally getting rid of the Chosen One like you want.”

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the storm in my mind and heart. I can’t lose control right now. I can’t react to her fiery but justified words. Not when Snow needs me.

Quick as lightning, I kneel down and scoop Simon up. I don’t go for a full on bridal carry, that’s a little too obvious. Instead, I sling him over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes, his sword falling to the ground, arms hanging down my back. He’s incredibly light with my strength. I have to force myself to not think about how close he is right now. This is absolutely not the time and the place for that, dammit.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” Bunce shouts, shooting to her feet.

“What does it look like?” I hiss. “I’m getting him to the nurse’s office.”

“Why would you do that?! You’re on opposite sides of a bloody war!”

Because I love him far more than my own reputation, I think. But I can’t say that out loud of course. I never can. “Because I don’t want the Mage to find a way to blame this on me and my family.”

I start speed walking across the grass before Bunce can respond. I don’t need more questions right now, I need to get Snow to help. His torso bumps against my back with every step. A stupid part of me hopes the simple vibrations and movement will wake him up. But he stays completely limp.

Crowley, Snow, if you die, I will kill you.

———————————————

“He went off twice?” Nurse Keswick asks Bunce. She nods, gripping Snow’s hand tight. He’s laying on the bed, wrapped tight in a blanket, hooked up to a heart monitor and breathing tubes in his nose. It beeps steadily, every blip reminding me he’s still alive. But his closed eyes and frozen body say he’s not going anywhere anytime soon. Bunce is by his bedside while I lurk in a dark corner, though I desperately wish I could sit there too.

“Yeah,” Baz replies.”One right after another. I’ve never seen it before. The first time was like pulsing waves, but then the second was like...like a bloody nuclear bomb.” She squeezes his hand tighter. “His magic exploded out into a big dome with a mushroom cloud after. All the ogres were incinerated on the spot, along with a lot of the grass.”

Ms. Keswick nods along thoughtfully, making notes on her clipboard. “And he fell unconscious after the second one?”

Bunce’s face crumples in distress. “Yeah. I cleared most of the fire around us, then tried to wake him up with magic and just, y’know, shaking. Nothing worked.”

“I see. Any dizziness prior to today?”

“No.”

“Did any of the ogres hit him particularly hard?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Didn’t hit his head after going off again?”

“He was already unconscious before he hit the bloody ground,” Bunce snaps. Her brows pull together, matching her scowl. If I were Ms. Keswick, I would back away very slowly. Other than the Humdrum, the scariest thing in the Magical World is Penelope Bunce’s wrath. I know. I’ve been on the receiving end of it for years.

Ms. Keswick clears her throat and jots something down on her sheet. “Alright. Well, there isn’t anything physically or magically causing Mr. Snow’s unconsciousness. At least not normal magic. From what you said, it seems to be caused by an overexertion of power.”

“That’s not a thing,” I say coldly. Bunce glares at me over her shoulder, rightly assuming I’m just being my usual snarky arsehole self. But really I’m concerned Ms. Keswick is just making up a diagnosis because she doesn’t know what else to say. I don’t want Snow to suffer because of a wild guess.

“Not usually,” Ms. Keswick says slowly. “But Mr. Snow’s magic does tend to be unusual. He’s not like other mages. It’s very possible he used too much magic and...burnt himself out in a way. I just can’t tell you for sure.”

I scowl deeply. Bunce scoffs at me. I know what she thinks, that I’m upset he’s not fully dead. If only she knew how my entire world is shattering.

“Will he wake up?” Bunce asks.

Ms. Keswick’s eyes soften with sadness. She holds the clipboard to her chest. “I have to be honest, I don’t know. No spell is working. I think we just have to wait and see.”

Bunce’s face falls. It’s only because of my years of practice schooling my expression that I don’t look the same. My heart is beating so loud in my ears. I want to rush over and shake Snow awake. But that won’t do any good. Snow will stay asleep, possibly forever. I don’t even want to consider that.

The door bursts open with a bang so loud I jolt. The Mage stomps in, hand on his sword and fire in his eyes. He’s so enraged he walks right past me.

“What happened?!” he barks at Ms. Keswick and Bunce. Fucking prick.

“It was ogres,” Bunce says, sounding more than a little annoyed. “Sent by the Humdrum. Simon went off twice and passed out. I tried to wake him up but nothing worked. Ms. Keswick says we just have to wait and see.”

The Mage looks even more furious. Bastard probably doesn’t like his favourite weapon being out of commission. “Have you tried every spell, Ms. Keswick?”

“Yes, I have,” she replies. I commend her for staying calm in the face of his anger.

“I doubt that. I will try myself. Everyone leave.” He looks right at me, eyes thin blue slits. “That includes you, Mr. Pitch. I don’t even want to know why you’re here.”

I scoff, crossing my arms. “Neither I nor the Families had anything to do with this.”

“I never said that.”

“You never had to.” I push off the wall, hands linked behind my back. “I’ll be taking my leave.”

The Mage nods stiffly. He turns back to Bunce and Ms. Keswick. “As should everyone else, like I requested.”

Ms. Keswick nods and walks towards her office. Bunce frowns as she goes out the exit. I follow behind her. Before we leave, I glance over my shoulder, looking at Snow’s face one last time. I’m not sure when I’ll be able to see him again.

Bunce and I walk down the hall together, me a few steps behind her. She’s stomping so hard it rattles the floorboards. If she weren’t here, I would be doing the same. I’m so damn frustrated. None of us have any idea what is going on, none of us can seem to help, and Snow is just stuck there, unable to wake up. I’m quite used to feeling helpless when it comes to Snow, but this is far worse.

“Hey.” Bunce stops and turns around. Her mouth is thin line and her voice has an edge. I cross my arms, awaiting a verbal lashing. “It feels weird to say this, but...thanks, for getting him here.”

Well, didn’t expect that. I hope Bunce can’t see the small smile on my lips. I do have a reputation. “You’re welcome. I must say, I’m surprised to hear that from you.”

“Yeah, so am I,” she chuckles in morose sort of way, rubbing up and down her arm. “I know you didn’t do it for any altruistic reasons, but still, it’s good you did it anyway. Though this doesn’t change anything.”

“I know.” She nods, then turns around and walks away. I stand still for a long moment, trying to recollect myself. I know exactly what you still think of me, Bunce. What Snow will still think of me when he wakes up. If he wakes up...

I press the heels of my hands hard into my eyes. Pitches don’t cry, dammit. I take a deep breath and recollect myself. It will be okay. It has to be. Otherwise, well, I don’t know what I’ll do.

———————————————

It’s been fourteen whole days, and Snow still hasn’t woken up. I’ve tried to ignore the anxiety that fears to it’s way through my stomach, but it gets worse with every passing second. During the day I hide it well, going about my business as usual. But at night, I spend hours laying awake, just staring at his empty bed. Having Snow there was torture, but him not being there is absolute fucking hell.

“Do you think the Chosen One is really out of commission for good?” Niall asks through his sandwich.

“Who knows,” Dev replies. “Either way, the Mage’s side is shitting their pants in fear now that their favourite weapon is gone. The Families are elated.”

Crack. Niall and Dev both jolt. Fuck. My knife nearly made it through the plate and onto the table. I could’ve goen further. Damn vampire strength. I put my utensils down calmly and pick up my teacup. “Yes,” I say evenly, “they definitely are. My father and aunt sent word that they are quite pleased.”

Luckily, both of them act like nothing happened. Good men. Niall nods as he eats his salad. “They’re finally off our backs, and we didn’t even have to do anything.”

“Very true.” I push at a piece of chicken a bit too hard, nearly sending it off my slightly cracked plate. But I quickly regain my control. “So who do you think is going to win the FA cup this year, gentlemen? My money is on Manchester.”

Dev scoffs and rolls his eyes. “You always say that. I’m betting on Liverpool.”

“And you always say that!” Niall points at him like it’s a devastating accusation, though we all know Dev’s incessant loyalty to Liverpool. My personal theory is that it’s just because he loves the Beatles.

He and Niall start arguing about the ability of football clubs, and I just sit back. I don’t have the energy for a rousing football debate. Or anything else really. It feels like every ounce of myself is going into worrying about Snow. There’s nothing left for the rest of my life.

We finish lunch, and I pretend I’m going to the library. But the second Dev and Niall are out of sight, I walk towards to the infirmary. I’ve been trying to get there since that first day, but Bunce is by his side almost every bloody hour. She would yell my ear off if I showed up. One thank you does not a friendship make. But I want to see Snow, dammit. And I know for a fact Bunce has a major test this period, while mine is totally free.

Just as I’m turning the corner, I run head on into someone. We both yell as we fall on the floor. Once my vision comes back into focus, I look up, and meet a pair of wide brown eyes.

“Oh, hello Baz,” Agatha says nervously. “What...what are you doing here?”

I gulp down the small lump in my throat and recollect myself. “I could ask the same of you, Wellbelove.”

She starts collecting her books, staring intently at the ground. “It’s my free period, and I’m going to see Simon.”

“I thought you two broke up.” Agatha freezes up. I wince slightly at my own sharp words. I didn’t mean to be that harsh. But part of me is still angry at her for hurting him. They’re disgustingly cute relationship was agony for me, but Snow was happy. That’s what matters.

Wellbelove sighs, standing with her back straight. I do the same, clutching my bookbag strap tight. “Yes, we did break up a few weeks ago. But I still care for him.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I’m not sure Snow believes that.”

She nods in a strange, solemn way. “No, I don’t think he does. But I do. I just couldn’t be what he wanted. Simon wants me to be his happy ending, the person waiting for him when all this insanity is over. I want to be someone’s right now.”

My annoyance dissipates, and I feel like a right prick. I clear my throat and look down at the floor. “I see. That’s...understandable.”

“I’m glad you get it. Simon didn’t.” I raise my eyes slightly. Agatha is gazing at the door in a forlorn sort of way. Like a gothic heroine gazing out from her balcony. “I know I did the right thing, but it was hard.”

“Most right things are.” And so are the wrong things, as I’ve learned from experience. They just tear you apart inside in a whole different way.

“Too true.” She smiles slightly. “But I’m glad I did. It was worth the risk. I’m happier now. I only wish Simon was awake so we could at least try to make up. I don’t want to lose him even more.” Her bottom lip trembles, and even though we aren’t even close to friends, it still breaks my heart. “I just want him to be okay.”

My chest feels tight at her words. Before I can stop myself, I’m nodding, and I can feel my face fall slightly, my sorrow bleeding through. I quickly school my expression and straighten up. But Agatha is looking at me, first with shock, and it slowly fades to pity. It stabs me in the gut so sharply I immediately look away. Yes, I’m pathetic, but no one needs to know.

I clear my throat and look away. “I should go. Studying, and all that.”

“Right.” She smiles softly. I can’t tell if she’s being kind because I’m so pitiful, or just because she’s nice. I don’t want to find out. So I turn my back and walk away. Snow is still stuck in that room. It’s stupidly poetic and over dramatic, but if I have a heart, it’s stuck there along with him.

———————————————

I’ve been frozen for hours. I just keep staring across the room, staring at his bed.

It’s still a complete mess. At first I didn’t want to touch his things because I prefer not getting my ear yelled off when Snow comes back. Now I can’t bear to do it, to erase the most obvious sign of his presence. Looking at the crumpled sheets reminds me he used to be here. He was here, where I could make sure he was alive and okay.

He’s still alive, you dolt, my rational brain reminds me. But not in any way that really counts. I want him to be laughing, snarling, yelling, living his damn life. He should be here. It’s not fair. Simon Snow doesn’t deserve to be in a coma.

What I wouldn’t give for him to wake up.

What I wouldn’t give to have him in my arms.

I didn’t get to see him yesterday. And I feel like if I don’t right now, I’m going to catch fire and burn to a crisp.

I throw my quilt off and swing my legs over the side. I don’t even bother putting on shoes. After slowly descending the stairs of Mummer’s house, I tiptoe through the halls. Luckily, I’m very good at being totally silent while sneaking through Watford. It finally pays off to be like a ghost.

Eventually, I reach the nurse’s office. I press my sensitive ear to the door. There are no footsteps, no muttering, no sound except that incessant beeping I remember. With a shaky hand, I turn the brass knob, and step inside.

The moonlight pours in through the window, a silver stream perfectly illuminating the bed. I cautiously walk forward. Every step feels like I’m walking on knives. Snow is still there, obviously, a perfect sleeping statue. But he looks so different. That’s probably because he’s lost quite a bit of weight. A feeding tube can only do so much, I suppose. His cheekbones are more prominent, pushing through his pretty face. His skin looks paler too. It’s lost a lot of its golden luster, more of a pale yellow now. He looks so...empty. My undead heart shatters.

There’s a chair next to the bed. I suppose that’s where Bunce has been spending every minute she can. I sit down slowly, like it’ll bite me I want to touch him. I want to feel his skin, just in case I may never be able to again. But I hold back.

“Hello, Snow,” I say, unsure if I’m really talking to him or myself. “You’ve been here for quite awhile, huh? The window isn’t open. You’re probably overheating, you human furnace.”

I’m not an idiot, I know he’s going to wake up just because I’m talking. But how I wish his stupid blue eyes would open right now. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. I reach out and lightly brush the back of his hand. Crowley, his skin is colder than his namesake. A choked sound is wrenched from my throat.

“You moron,” I hiss, “how could you go off like that unprepared? Just bring your stupid sword to fight an entire pack of ogres? Bunce was there, I know, but you two were still not enough. You should’ve thought it through more. You should have...” I take a deep breath, holding back tears. “You should have asked for my help. I could have protected you.”

My mind goes back to Wellbelove’s words. How she was scared, yet took the risk anyway to be happier. I wish I could be that brave. And...maybe I could, at least while he sleeps.

I swipe my thumb over the back of his hand, feeling every single bone in it. “You never would’ve asked me though, because you still think I hate you. But the truth is, I don’t, Snow. Not in the way you think.” I hold him tighter, tighter than I ever have before. Wet drops slide down my cheeks. Fuck, I really am pathetic. I’m a stupid blubbering mess, all over this ridiculous, brave boy. “I despise what you do to me, but I can’t despise you, Simon. You’re too strong, too clever, too incredible to hate. You’re the best person I’ve ever met, so much better than my horrible undead arse. You don’t deserve to be stuck here.” I press my fingers harder into his chilly palm. It’s all I can do to keep from falling apart.

“I know you’ve never listened to me once in our years living together, but I hope you make an exception this time. Please, wake up. The World of Mages needs you. I need you. I can’t bear to imagine a world without you in it. I don’t care if you still hate me forever. You should get to live and have your happy ending.” I reach forward and brush away a tangled mess of curls from his forehead. Because I’m a constant disappointment to myself.

“I hope you wake up, because you’re the best thing in existence. And because...” I take a deep, powerful breath, pushing the words out of that deep dark place I’ve hidden them for years. “Because I’m absolutely, hopelessly in love with you, Simon Snow. And losing you would be worse than dying again.” I lightly brush his cheek, barely touching him, but it’s enough. “So wake up, you bloody numpty. You’re not allowed to die. I won’t let you.” My voice cracks. I fall forward, pressing my tear filled eyes on my hand. “You can’t leave me yet.”

My breaths come out shaky, like a rattling old air conditioner. I haven’t let myself cry these entire two weeks, holding in every ounce of horrible, tangled despir. But they fly freely now, streaking down my cheeks. I can’t live without Snow. He’s my hopeless love, my stupid reason to live, my sun. If I’m not crashing into him, what am I doing? I’ve considered dying by his hand, but never him going before me. I can’t lose him. I don’t how to lose him and not lose what little is left of my soul as well.

A weight falls on top of my head. It’s cold, bony, and splays out over my head. A hand. I bolt upright, and I’m immediately met with plain blue eyes and a soft smile, like it takes Atlas level amounts of effort to just to pull his mouth up.

“Hi,” Snow says, voice raspy from disuse, yet somehow still the most beautiful sound.

I stare at him slack jawed for a stupid amount of time. I swear, my brain has turn to thick gruel. Simon Snow is awake, looking at me, smiling. He’s okay. And I’m holding his hand.

Immediately, I shoot back, sitting up ramrod straight, hand very far away from his. I probably look like a panicked deer. “Hello, Snow. You’re up. I’ll...go get Bunce. She’ll be very thrilled.”

I start to stand up, but the slightest brush from chilly fingers, and I freeze. I look over my shoulder. Snow is frowning in this pouty puppy dog way. He looks so unbelievably vulnerable and scared.

“Baz,” he wheezes, “don’t leave me alone, please.”

Crowley, did he really have to say that? It sends a sharp pain directly through my chest. I immediately fall back into the chair. “Okay, I won’t.”

He smiles again, making me almost sigh with relief. “How are you feeling?” I ask. I hope he doesn’t notice I’m shaking like a leaf.

“Like shit,” he chuckles. It brings a laugh out of me too, small and breathy.

“Laying in bed for two weeks will do that, Snow.”

“Yeah, true enough.” He takes a rattling breath. “I thought Penny would be the one here when I woke up. She’s been here a lot.”

My eyes widen slightly. “You know that?”

He nods slowly and winces. It obviously hurts him to move. “Yeah. After a few days, I could hear everything, I just couldn’t, y’know, open my eyes or move.”

Oh fuck. I can feel whatever little blood I have rush to my face. I hope it’s not too noticeable. There’s only so much embarrassment I can take before I explode. “Oh...everything?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Everything?”

“Yeah,” Snow sighs, “everything.”

He turns his head towards me. I see his wince again. I start to reach forward, like I want to what, comfort him. No, I’m not allowed to do that. I’ve never been allowed. Why the fuck do I think I can? Snow looks at my hand strangely, between confused and awestruck I think. I quickly pull my hand back into my lap.

“Sorry,” I whisper, looking very pointedly down.

“Baz, I-I told you, I heard you.” His eyes narrow slightly, as much as he can right now. “But this isn’t some plot, right?”

My blood starts to boil and a scowl nearly split my face in two. Of course in his own mind, it’s reasonable for him to ask. But I just poured out what’s left of my pathetic heart to him, even though I thought he couldn’t hear. It was the most truthful I’ve ever been in my life. And he thought I was lying.

I push my chair away. “Well, I won’t bother you with anymore of my plots. I’ll go get Bunce or Nurse Keswick now.”

“No, Baz, wait!” Snow sits up, and immediately starts coughing. His entire body convulses with the force of them. I’m immediately standing at his side

“Don’t get up, Snow.” I gently hold his upper arms and help lower him back onto the sheets. My thumbs press right into his humerus. Crowley, he really is all skin and bones right now. It hurts me in such a horrific way.

He gestures to the cup of water on the bedside table. I immediately pick it up and bring the straw to his cracked lips. Snow drinks deeply, shoulders relaxing. He ends up drinking the entire thing, then falls back on the bed. I put the cup down and sit, all thoughts of leaving obviously out the window.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I just, I had to ask. I heard it all, but part of me just...can’t believe it.” Our eyes meet, and a shiver runs down my spine. “I never knew you felt like that.”

I stare at my lap, fiddling with my shaky fingers. The world is closing in, shrinking to just me, the lonely lovesick vampire who has never dealt with his feelings. Except Snow is here too. And a part of me wants him here, and another part desperately can’t handle him right now. Snow overwhelms me, always has. He rids my brain of any logical thought. It’s horrible, and I love it. Just like him.

“I made sure you didn’t,” I whisper. “I made sure no one did.”

“Yeah, I kinda guessed that.” He smiles softly again. No matter how weak he is, it’s still such a pretty smile. “For how long?”

I take a deep breath and squeeze my eyes shut. I hope I don’t look too ridiculous “A long time, Snow. Almost since we met.”

I look up slightly. Snow’s eyes are bigger than saucer plates and his lips are slightly parted. Part of my brain supplies an intense image of my tongue between those lips, tracing the inside of his mouth, feeling every crevice. He just woke up from a coma, Basil, get a hold of yourself.

“That’s...a long time...”

I snort in a very undignified way. “No shit, Sherlock.”

“You don’t need to be an arse,” he mumbles.

“I do when you state the absolutely obvious.”

He pouts in that ridiculously adorable way again. Snow really is a giant, sword wielding, explosive puppy dog. “Why do you always go for the lowest blow? Especially if you...care about me like that.”

I gulp. Did the coma make him more articulate somehow? Maybe it rattled some of his brains loose. “Because I’m not supposed to. You know that, Snow. We’re enemies.”

“But what if I like this better?” He blurts out. His cheeks immediately go rosy pink, body a bit too iron deficient for bright scarlet.

My eyebrows furrow together. “What is this?”

“This. What we’re doing right now. Talking, being nice, not being arseholes. And,” he smiles sheepishly like a cheeky schoolboy, “I liked what you had to say, before I woke up.”

My first reaction is to blush. And my second is to scoff and stare at the wall, which is boring, but at least not his beautiful face. “Like having your ego stroked, Snow?”

The room is completely silent for a few long, drawn out seconds. I keep my eyes on the stone wall, analysing every line of mortar. Anything to not look at him. But then I feel something tepid brush over my hand, making my whole body jolt. Snow’s fingers are laying atop mine. It’s something I’ve wanted for so many years. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

“I thought about you.”

My eyebrows shoot all the way up to my hairline. “What?”

He keeps smiling, like that’s an answer. “While I was stuck here, I thought about what you were doing.

“You mean what I was plotting?”

“Yeah. And I missed you.”

I scoff, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair. “Sure, Snow.”

I keep looking at the wall, though I can’t bear to remove my hand from under his. But suddenly, I feel something slowly curl around my long fingers. I whip my head around. Snow is actually holding my hand, even after I insulted him. And when I look up, he still has that smile, despite how much strain it obviously causes him.

“You called me Simon before,” he says.

Surprisingly, it makes me laugh. Because he’s just so ridiculous, and adorable. “That’s what you care about?”

“Uh-huh. I like when you call me Simon. I like you being here, just the two of us. I like all of this better than us fighting.”

Merlin and Morgana, this is too good to be true. Simon Snow is awake, and he knows how I feel, and he likes this better than fighting. I don’t know what to do. My brain is overloaded with information and emotion, and I don’t deal well with the latter. I need to recollect myself before I do something irreversibly stupid.

Snow yawns loudly, mouth wide like a boa constrictor swallowing its prey. The analogy seems apt, honestly. I feel like Snow has swallowed me whole.

“You should rest, Snow,” I say. “You’re probably loopy from...something. Bunce will want to talk your ear off in the morning. Certainly have to have your strength for that.”

His fingers tighten on my hand. He’s so weak it’s barely a squeeze, but it makes me stay anyway. “You’re running away.”

How Snow says that so pathetically yet resolutely all at once is astounding. And it breaks my heart a bit more. “I just need to rest. And so do you.”

He frowns deeper. “Are you going to pretend that none of this happened? Make me feel crazy?”

Well, I had thought about it. But...I don’t think I can now. Not with the way Snow is looking at me with those big plain blue eyes. He destroys all my walls. He makes me feel so weak. I hate it, but I want to love it.

“How about,” I say slowly, “we talk later, when you’re not just emerging from a coma? Okay?”

Relief obviously washes over Snow. His weak body melts into the mattress. It’s good to see him relax. “Promise?”

I chuckle and shake my head. “What are you, five?”

“Please, Baz?” he asks, already drifting off to proper sleep.

Crowley, I am so weak. But maybe I really could learn to love it. I grip his hand tight, but not tight enough to hurt. His skin is warming up. He’s starting to feel like himself again. “I promise, Snow.”

He smiles as his eyes slide shut. He’s immediately asleep. Snow always looks beautiful, but smiling in his sleep, he looks positively angelic. Usually he’s curled up in a knot, whimpering and crying. But not tonight it seems.

I put his hand over his stomach, and exit the little nurse’s room. I walk back to my room in a daze. My brain is still playing catch up. Simon is awake. He’s coherent. He heard every stupid thing I had to say and he liked it. A grin spreads across my face, dopey in the best, most ridiculous way.

He’s okay. And maybe for the first time ever, so am I.

———————————————

It’s been another week and a half of Snow-less agony for me. He has to recover from quite a bit, I assume. An ogre fight, a massive going off, and a two week long coma is bound to do some damage. That’s all I know though. It’s not like Bunce is giving me daily updates on his condition. I want to go see him, desperately, but I also think he needs time to think. He needs to get his head on straight. I know he was worried I would pretend none of that night happened, but I’m more worried he will. Snow will get all his mental faculties back and pretend I never confessed my stupid undying love. Objectively, that would be best, I suppose. There’s no chance at all for us. Still, it would hurt.

“Baz? Baz? Baz are you listening?”

My head snaps up to see a very confused Dev and Niall. Shit, right, we’re supposed to be studying. There’s a test next week. A world still exists outside of Simon bloody Snow.

“Um, yes,” I say, looking back down at my extremely wordy textbook. “History of the first magical war, right. Who was the instigator?” I raise my head again, trying to look as bored and passive as my father. But both my friends still look monumentally concerned. I frown at them. “What?”

“You okay, mate?” Dev asks. “You’ve been off these past couple weeks.”

Niall nods. “Yeah, totally. Ever since the Chosen One went into a coma...”

Crowley, I hope I don’t have enough blood to blush. It keeps happening, and I hate my thoughts being out in the open. “Coincidence, my dear Niall. Finals stress has been a bastard.”

It’s an easy lie, a believable one, but a lie all the same. And unfortunately these boys have known me since I was in diapers. They look at each other briefly, then back at me, both with an expression of deadpan disbelief.

“Is it cause you actually put him in the coma?” Dev asks.

I immediately snap my pencil in half. Just one hard press of my thumb and the little stick is dismembered. Both Dev and Niall jolt. I can’t blame them, I would be shocked too. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and put the pencil down.

“Where,” I say slowly, carefully, “did you hear that?

“Um...around,” Niall replies. “People heard you were there when he went off. Some people are saying you egged him on until he blew up...”

I press my lips together and take another long, deep breath. I need to calm down before I explode. It makes sense, considering what I’ve let people think about me. But the fact that people think I’m responsible for hurting Snow, when I actually tried to save him, is so much more painful than I thought it would be. I don’t want people to think I hurt Simon. I no longer want to be known as his enemy. Crowley, I’m tired of being his enemy at all.

“Baz? You okay?”

I look up at them again. I’m not sure who said that, but both my friends look incredibly concerned. They’re good men, really, underneath all that sarcasm. I nod once.

“I’m alright,” I say, “and that’s not what happened. Snow went off on his own.”

“Okay,” Dev says. “Are you sure you’re alright though? You seem weird.”

“Yeah. I’ve just got a lot going on.”

Niall leans forward on his forearms, brows all scrunched together. “Y’know you can can tell us shit, right?”

I lightly drum my fingers on the table, creating a low rattling sound. I know he means well, but that’s not true. How could I tell them about Snow? How I’ve been in love with him for years? How I accidentally confessed and now he may want what I want? I can’t. Right?

“I know,” I say. “And I’ll tell you if there’s anything to tell.”

“Okay, good.”

Dev smiles, closed mouth and reserved, but there’s a genuine kindness in his face. “We’re always here for you, mate.”

Niall nods and smiles along with him. My eyes narrow slightly. Who are these people and what happened to Dev and Niall? They’re being too nice. We’re always arseholes to each other. They keep smiling. Maybe they’ve been hexed or something.

Or maybe...they know something.

No. No way. They haven’t possibly have figured it out. If they have, they would be yelling at me, they would hate me. That’s what I’ve always expected. But maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance it’ll be okay. Maybe I don’t need to be so terrified.

“Thanks,” I say slowly, then flip up my book, focusing intently on the little black words. They make my chaotic world melt away for a moment. My panic dips ever so slightly. Simon is awake, he’s okay. And for the first time ever, maybe I will be too.

———————————————

I’m laying on my bed, having my fifteenth existential crisis of the past three and a half weeks, when the door starts to open. I immediately bolt up like I’ve been electrocuted. It opens further, and every creak of old hinges sound like a thousand decibels to my ears. Soon, a tawny face peeks through, which makes my slow heartbeat skip. And when he smiles, it stops completely.

“Hey,” Snow says.

“Uh, hi. You’re back,” I say, like a useless idiot. Way to go, Basil.

“Yeah. They finally freed me.” He steps in, and I see the cane in his left hand. It’s dark red wood with a curved brass handle. It’s probably the most posh thing I’ve ever seen him with. He leans on it heavily as he walks in. His legs still look very shaky, like thin branches in the wind. He stumbles on the dip in the wood floor. Immediately I’m on my feet, rushing to his side. I catch his arms, and suddenly realise what the fuck I just did. My eyes meet Snow’s plain blue ones, wide and wondering. I have to actively stop myself from getting lost in them. We stare at each other as the seconds stretch out. I finally come back to my senses, then clear my throat and look away.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

“Y-Yeah,” Snow says.

“Good.” I take a step away, putting a respectable distance between us.

Snow steps forward, still leaning more than slightly on his cane. He sits heavily on his bed with a sigh. I sit on my own, legs pressed together, hands in my lap. I probably look like my father, far too respectable and reserved to look normal. I feel like I’m one bad moment away from falling apart or jumping out the bloody window.

“How are you feeling?” I stare at the dark wood floor. I don’t think I can look at him right now.

“Better,” Simon says. “Penny’s been helping me with moving. My muscles got all funny after two weeks stuck in a bed. But I can walk now, at least with a cane. And I can eat solid foods, thankfully.”

I chuckle quietly. “Back to scones?”

“Soon, hopefully.” I flick my eyes up for a moment, and unfortunately see his big dopey grin. My dead body melts into a white hot puddle. Damn Snow for being so painfully adorable. I have to look down again before I really do defenestrate myself.

“That’s good for you, I suppose.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another stretch of silence. Long, tension filled, agonizing silence. It makes want to eat my own skin. The image is horrifying but accurate. My tongue feels heavy and any ideas for a sentence is utterly idiotic. I’m not used to being at a complete loss for words. Is this how Snow feels all the time? It’s terrible. It gives me a new brand of sympathy for him.

“So,” both Snow and I say at the exact same time.

I look up, and he’s looking back. We stare for a moment, until Snow makes a very dignified snort. It’s like a high pitch hog. My eyes go very wide.

“Sorry,” he giggles. “Sorry.”

“Uh, it’s fine,” I say.

He keeps giggling and snorting. And it’s so stupidly ridiculous, that I laugh as well. I’m quieter and more controlled, as usual, but I’m still laughing. Snow makes a few more snorts, and it turns into a full blown howl. Head thrown back, hand pressed to his stomach. It’s so beautiful and free, so different from when he was in that bed. Before I know it, I’m howling too. It’s the loudest I’ve laughed in my entire undead life. Our sounds fill the tiny room so perfectly, and it’s absolutely glorious. Bloody hell, why haven’t I felt like this before? Why can’t I feel like this all the time?

Slowly, we start to calm down. The room returns to its usual tranquility, only the sound of birds outside the window accompanying us. Snow and I look at each other once more. He softly smiles, and I smile back.

“I still like this,” he says quickly, like he’s trying to get the words out before he stumbles.

I fiddle with my shaking fingers. “Do we even know what this is, Snow?” He shrugs, making me roll my eyes. “Have you ever noticed half your sentences are shrugs?”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. “I mean, I don’t know what this is yet. But I meant what I said before. Whatever this is, I really do like it better than fighting. Don’t you?”

I press my lips together, holding my tongue back before I say something stupid. Simon is still smiling, still looks hopeful. I know I shouldn’t want him, but every fibre of my being is crying out for Simon Snow. He offers out his hand, palm up, shaking ever so slightly. It’s so unbelievably kind, just like him.

“How can you even trust me? After everything?” I whisper harshly, because if I’m anything, I’m self destructive as fuck. Happiness and I aren’t allowed to mix, right?

“I’m not sure I fully do, but...” he shrugs and holds his hand out even farther, wiggling his fingers as much as he can. My pulse is faster than the speed of light.

Crowley, I hope I’m not doing something irrepreably idiotic.

Ignoring every sensible part of myself, I reach out and grab his hand.

Snow grins, brighter than the sun he resembles. He slowly laces our fingers together, probably waiting for me to pull away. But I don’t. For once I don’t run away. I let myself take a risk, on the smallest off chance I can find happiness. With Simon Snow.

“I want this too,” I say before I get scared. “I’ve wanted this for a long time.”

Impossibly, Simon grins even harder. I’m going to go blind from his light. “I know.”

I raise a curious eyebrow. “How long have you wanted this?”

He shrugs, and I sigh in exasperation. “Yeah, sorry,” Snow giggles, “not the answer you’re hoping for, I guess.. I dunno when, Baz. I don’t really think about things I can’t do anything about. I just know that I want this now. That’s what matters, right?”

I sigh again, but tighten my grip on his hand. “Yeah, I suppose it is. I don’t know what we’re going to do though. There’s a lot in our way.”

“That’s been true about our whole lives, innit?”

I have to nod. “True enough.”

Simon stands up, legs buckling slightly. I grab his other arm and help him turn. He sits himself next to me, so close our legs press together. His warmth shoots up through my body, spreading like a wildfire. I’d gladly burn because of him.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says with complete confidence. “I’m the Mage’s Heir, you’re a Pitch. Between the two of us we can come up with something.”

Bloody hell. He’s so willing to just barrel forward with no plan. It’s ridiculous, yet oddly inspiring. Snow doesn’t need a plan. He just wants us to be happy. The frantic part of my mind can’t handle, overthinking and over-analyzing everything that could go wrong, which is a lot.

Simon keeps grinning. I feel warmer than I have in my entire life.

Fuck everything. I just want him.

“Okay,” I sigh.

Simon’s eyes widen. “Okay?”

“Okay, I’m in. You’re an idiot, but you can have...this, if you want.”

Now his perfect, pretty lips fall open, Crowley, is he trying to kill me? “Really?

I roll my eyes out of pure habit. “Do you have cotton in your ears? Yes, really, you nump-”

And then he kisses me.

The whole world comes to a screeching halt. I’m thrown into near catatonic shock, frozen as Simon bloody Snow pushes his scorching lips against mine. His right hand cups my cheek, calluses scratching my smooth skin in the best way. I’ve never known this kind of feeling. Literally. This is my first kiss. It’s warm, soft, and made a thousand times better because it’s him, Simon Snow. Simon Snow is my first kiss. He’s still kissing me.

I’m living a charmed life.

I stay frozen for longer than I should. Crowley, could I make it more bloody obvious I’m a kiss virgin? Eventually, I let my eyes flutter shut and raise a shaky hand to cup his cheek. It’s just as soft as his lips. I tilt my head ever so slightly, and so does Simon, slotting us together even more. He does this wonderful thing with his chin that makes my thoughts melt into putty. This can’t be happening.

Snow reaches back, brushing the nape of my neck, moving up to weave his fingers in my hair. Then he clenches his fist tight and jams our faces even closer together. I inhale sharply in shock.

Bloody hell, this is real.

I pull away a bit too suddenly. Snow blinks open his blurry, pupil blown eyes. His lips are red and swollen. Could he look anymore like an image from my dreams?

“Sorry,” he says. He’s out of breath. It’s amazing.

I shake my head. “No, it’s fine. It’s just, well, you recently came out of a coma, and you’re still recovering. Maybe you shouldn’t be engaging in any...strenuous activities.”

Simon smiling and starts giggling. It’s utterly adorable. “Aw, you do care,” he says between snorts.

“Obviously.” I lean forward, tapping our foreheads together. It’s a stupidly romantic teen thing. I love it. “I care for you far too much, Simon.”

Snow slowly runs his thumb over my nape and brushes our noses together. “I care about you too. Definitely more than I thought I did.” He grabs my hand, putting it between us. “We’ll make this work, Baz. We’ve both gone through Hell. This will be a piece of cake.”

“And you do love cake.”

We chuckle together, holding each other’s faces, holding each other’s hands. There might be slightly less in our way than I thought, but there’s still a lot. But this is all I’ve ever wanted, and I’m going to fight like hell for it. I think Snow will too.

“We can do this,” he sighs, hot breath caressing my cool skin.

I hold Simon tight. I almost lost him once. Never again. “We can.”

Snow and I sit there for a long while. And for the first time in my miserable unlife, I feel at peace.

———————————————

AN: Hope y'all enjoyed that :) Tbh I feel like this isn't my best work but I'm still proud of it. The fact that I was able to write at all was an achievement. Also I love angsty overthinking Baz lol, and the ending was super sweet imo. I hope to get back to more regular posting soon. Thanks for being patient. See you peeps again soon :)

#carry on #snowbaz #simon snow #baz pitch #penelope bunce #nct fluff #angst #canon divergence #mysnowbazfic

86 notes · View notes

aliceslantern · 4 years

Text

Beyond this Existence: Atonement, a Kingdom Hearts fanfic, chapter 13

Ansem always had a penchant for strays, so it's not at all surprising when he takes in the orphaned child Ienzo. The boy's presence changes everything, far more than Even is willing to admit. Ienzo's brilliance seems promising, but the arrival of a young Xehanort pushes the apprentices onto a dark, cruel, inhumane path which will affect the future of the World. And even once it's all over with--once Xehanort is dead--they still must pick up the pieces, forgive one another, find a way to atone for their atrocities, and struggle to accept the humanity which has been thrust upon them.

Or: Even's journey from BBS through post-KH3

Chapter summary: Ienzo wakes up, but that doesn't mean things are peaceful. Leon has questions about the experiments.

Read it on FF.net/on AO3

---

He’s actually working on the new replica’s samples when it happens; he’s astounded to find they’re developing their own DNA, their own signatures--essentially, becoming organic humans. But before he can compute the thrill of this, his door is being thrown open.

“Boy, I told you if you want to come you must knock--”

“It’s Ienzo,” but he’s grinning, his eyes alright. “Even, he’s awake!”

"He… is?"

Demyx grasps his hand and pulls him towards Ienzo's room. "He's been talking and everything. His vitals look great. He's… he's really…" His voice hitches a little.

"Don't get emotional on me, boy. I'm sure you want to be on your best behavior. Not when you have so much to tell him."

"Yeah… I do."

Even squeezes his hand gently. "It'll all be alright. He's nothing if not understanding."

“Do you think we’ll be… different?”

“...I’ve no idea why you’re asking me about the state of your own romantic affairs.”

He takes a breath. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

“You are different, Demyx. But I think he’ll see any changes as for the better.”

Demyx nods once. “I’m sure you two want to talk.”

It occurs to Even that, after all this time, he’s unsure of what to say to a conscious Ienzo. “We all have a lot to catch Ienzo up on.”

Demyx winks once, and disappears. The change in the boy is immediate. He’s so much happier.

Even feels something like a flutter of nerves when he sees the open door. He takes a deep breath to compose himself. And enters.

Ienzo’s sitting up, his feet over the side of the bed, a blanket draped around his shoulders. “Hi, Even,” he says.

The relief is uneven in him. “Oh, child,” he says. “Have you any idea how worried we’ve all been?”

“Apparently so.” He smiles.

Even approaches the boy. "How do you feel?" he asks cautiously. "Spare me no small ache--you truly did a number on yourself."

"Actually quite well, against all odds," he says. "Ironically I'm rather tired."

He takes the boy's wrist, feels for a pulse. He brushes some of the dirty hair out of Ienzo's face. "It was a brave thing you did," he says softly, in case anyone is listening. "Brave… and foolish."

"I'm afraid I can't watch idly by anymore. Not if I have the power to make change."

"Nor should you, but… Ienzo. If you're to be as self-sacrificing as this, you must be more careful." He sits next to him. "You… essentially liquified your own organs. For some time you read as braindead. We thought--"

"I wouldn't make it?" He nods once. "It was quite hard, to claw myself back. I do not intend on going anywhere. I have so much to do still."

"Well. I'm afraid you must take things easy. Your body's likely going to be weak. You shouldn't do anything strenuous, physically or mentally."

"Human fallibility," Ienzo mutters.

"...Quite."

"I suppose it was illuminating," he says, twisting the end of the blanket in one hand. "I… regained my lexicon. But it's different. Let me--" He holds out a palm; Even grasps it and pushes it down.

"You can show me another time," he says. "I'm sure it's fine, considering your miscreant has gotten his weapon back too, but it never hurts to be too cautious. And you should be, boy. Do you realize how close you were to--"

"That's what I fought for six weeks, Even." His tone is sharp. "Every minute, if I didn't consciously concentrate, I could've--" He trails off. "What happened? Out here?"

"You were asleep. No neural activity. Nothing. We weren't sure--"

"That I had a will at all?"

"Yes. Were you conscious of anything? Did you hear us talking to you?"

Ienzo thinks. "No," he says. "I heard Demyx's sitar, but I was in his memories. I might not have actually heard anything."

"He did play for you. Extensively, and much to Dilan's displeasure."

He laughs a little, then sobers. "I… know how you feel about it. Thanks for tolerating him."

"A lot can change in six weeks. It's been… surprising. I figure… it could've been worse. He was devastated. I was worried that he might not be invested in you."

"...That he would use me." He shakes his head. "You needn't worry. Not about him, anyway."

"No. Clearly you're your own menace."

He bites his lip.

"Your life has worth, too. You needn't spend it to atone."

"I'm trying to realize that. Truly I did not mean to do anything reckless. But by the time I got out, it was too late."

Even squeezes his hand. "It's alright, little one."

"I'm twenty. You needn't call me that." He offers a smile. Then, rather timidly, he embraces Even.

"Alright. Both of you so emotional. Pull it together, yes?"

He chuckles. "I suppose… now we find out what comes next in this life."

"Yes, well. Not until you recover. Do you feel up to eating something light?"

---

Now that Ienzo’s awake again, the mood at the castle has brightened; or at least it does for several days. It’s beyond a relief to know everyone is well.

Even feels as though he’s wilting. He tries to be there for the boy, to offer him any help he can with his recovery. They walk, the two of them. They do have a lot to talk about. But what to say? How to say it?

Ienzo looks a bit withered as well, a dullness coming back into his eyes. “You alright, boy?” Even asks.

He fiddles with his turtleneck, pulling it higher over his scars. “Strangely, I am rather dejected,” he admits. “Without work… I feel listless. Moreover, I fear I’m beginning to process… all that has happened.” He’s silent for a moment, shoving his hands into his pants pockets.

Even sighs. With all the boy’s gone through over the years, this could be dangerous.

“It feels like something of an iceberg. All these complicated feelings keep washing over me, and I’ve no way to adequately deal with them.” He opens his mouth, then shuts it.

“What is it you need to say?”

“I am twenty years old… and yet… my heart is quite literally that of a child’s. I’m not prepared .” He scratches at his cheek, fidgeting anxiously. “Demyx and I are talking to each other about it. He’s incredibly supportive, but yet--he also has so much to deal with. So much.”

“I’ve heard… stories,” Even admits.

“It’s all so complex. I know I need to open myself in order to heal. But I’m afraid that, should I…” He trails off.

“You might not be able to bear up against the pain?”

“...Quite.”

It’s a snowy day, as have been most recently. “But you must,” Even says softly. “You can’t deny your past forever.”

“I know this.” He takes a long, deep breath. “Which is why I want to go to the basement.”

Even feels his heart skip a beat. As calmly as he can manage, he says, “Why would you want to do that? It’s just all moldering architecture.”

“Something must be down there. I can no longer feel it the same way I used to, but I still feel something. They were the first artificial Heartless--likely they could not burrow into the realm of darkness. Our victims might still very well be trapped there.”

Even turns to face him. He sees a muscle in Ienzo’s jaw twitch, bracing himself. “How do you propose to do that? I know Zexion was a powerful mage, but Ienzo--you’re recovering from a coma, and you have no power.”

He drops his eyes. “I suppose you’re right.”

“There’s also no proof anything is down there. Boy, I’m afraid that chapter is over--done with. You need to move on.”

“And how do you propose I do that?” he asks, coolly.

Even can’t think fast enough to respond.

“You don’t know either,” he says instead. “Do you?”

“Ienzo--”

“I should go. I said I’d meet Demyx for lunch.”

---

Ienzo’s right. The boy’s not going to take unsubstantiated platitudes--nor should he.

Even turns back to his writings. His head is positively spinning, but every time he tries to focus, to brainstorm, he hits something of a dead end. He never used to be so incapable of thought. So much for being a devious researcher.

He finds himself gravitating towards their research during the Organization years…

Why was the use of power so dangerous for Ienzo? He reads what they learned about the will… its nebulousness, its intangibility… and something clicks.

Ienzo doesn’t have a human will.

Rather, it wasn’t , considering he became a Nobody before it was fully formed, but it became. The energy caused by that shift alone must have only destabilized him more… Trying to slam together the humanity of his decision to save his beloved and the fact that this was a Nobody power must’ve been cataclysmic. Increasing the risk a thousandfold.

In the middle of all this research, he receives a message from one of the restoration committee members, asking to talk to him about his report. It’s been close to two months since he sent it; he’s surprised it’s taken this long for someone to have questions.

He meets the man in the hallway. He’s not sure what to expect; honestly it puts him a bit on edge, like he’s been caught. But this was a willful confession.

“You’ve been cleaning the place up,” the man says. He’s perhaps a few years older than Demyx, but more mature in his bearing. Even’s eyes catch the scar on his face. “It looks good. Name’s Squall Leonheart. Call me Leon.” He offers a hand.

“...I am Even. One of Ansem’s former apprentices. But you know that, I’m sure.”

He nods.

“Could I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea? I’m afraid it’s always rather cold in here.”

“Not necessary, but thanks. Is there somewhere we can talk?” His expression is stoic and his voice betrays little. It’s rare that Even has trouble reading someone.

“Of course. There’s a fire in the sitting room. You’ll likely be more comfortable there.”

It’s here they settle; Even on the small sofa, Leon in one of the high-backed chairs. He pulls a steno pad and pen out of his pocket, all business. “So I heard you were MIA, for a while,” Leon says.

“I was… tying up a few things. Doing what I could in that fight.”

“Solving Ienzo’s body problem,” he says, with a small smile. “He almost ended up on the business end of Yuffie’s shuriken, when she was patrolling the place. We didn’t know anyone was here. But he offered his help. I’m not surprised by much anymore, but that was… something.”

“He wishes to atone. Like the rest of us.”

“So I’ve heard. Aerith is beyond excited Demyx wants to learn from her. It’d be nice if she could actually sleep for once.”

Even has a feeling the small talk is supposed to be warming Leon to him. But he has no idea what the other man wants. “How can I help you?” he asks. He tries to smile.

“I’ve been combing through your report. I just had a few questions.”

“...Anything.”

Leon seems to think for a few minutes. “After you… experimented on these people,” he begins slowly. “What did you do with them?”

Even takes a slow breath to compose himself. “There were no bodies,” he says. “Little physical to dispose of. A vast majority became Heartless, and the few that begat Nobodies… Braig quickly eliminated them. You likely remember him as Xigbar.”

He scribbles quickly. “What were the families told?”

“Well--nothing. It was only when the junior apprentices--Lea and Isa-- called the authorities on us that Xehanort… convinced us to cast aside our hearts.” His hand flutters at his breastbone; he forces himself to drop it back to his lap. “I’m not sure if they still know.”

“And the list you gave me was comprehensive?”

“Yes. We were rather meticulous in our records--for good and ill.”

“How long was it really going on?”

“In total--only about two years. These things escalated unusually quickly. And once Xehanort was found, all bets were off, weren’t they?” Even sighs. “It took us all too long to realize the boy was corrupt. By then… so were we. There are no excuses.”

“And no law,” Leon says. He looks up and smiles, and Even doesn’t know what to get out of it. “But seems like humanity has changed you.”

“I was able to return to myself, the person I was before darkness, that is. That gives one… clarity. I think the others feel similarly. I only became Vexen again to assist the other side in finding and giving form to their lights. The least I could do. We’ve already caused so much destruction--this town included.”

Leon keeps writing, his eyes on his pad. “What you did made us vulnerable, sure. But ultimately it was Maleficent, and her stupid plots, that made us fall.”

Even blinks. “What?”

He looks up. “She was the one who spread the darkness--didn’t you know that?”

“If I did… I surely did not process it until now.” He shakes his head. When he caught wind of Radiant Garden’s fall, he’d just assumed--

It does not matter whether or not they made it fall; they made so many other worlds fall as well. Xemnas needed Heartless for fodder, for Kingdom Hearts. How else to get them? “I guess the only other question I have concerns Ansem, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with him,” Leon says. “Maybe you can help?”

“I can’t pretend to understand that man. But I can offer an answer.” It doesn’t surprise Even at all that Ansem’s been dodging those calls.

“Is he going to try and retake power?”

Even blinks. He’s been expecting more questions about the genesis of their experiments. “I don’t believe so,” he says slowly. “Would you even want something like that?”

Leon purses his lips. “It’d be a bandaid on a larger problem,” he admits. “There’s no government, nothing ruling the town. And now that so many people are coming in--it just gets more and more obvious we need some rules, just to keep people safe.”

“What, no robbery and murder?” Even asks dryly.

“...Pretty much. Should that happen, what could we really do to stop them? Not to mention, without an adequate headcount of people, we can’t be sure how to allocate or plan for resources. Anarchy is well and good--if people have good intentions.” He shuts his notebook. “Thanks for this. You were pretty thorough, for the most part.”

“I would hope so.”

“The only outstanding question I have… do you all intend on staying here? Better than the place rotting, for sure, but I just need to know how far our patrol has to stretch.”

“It was--is--our home,” he says. “We can be the most useful here.”

“Alright. Thanks.” Leon stands.

“I don’t suppose there’s anything I can assist with?” he asks. He hopes he sounds calm.

He shrugs. “Not so much that I can think of, at least right now. You must have a lot on your hands as is, getting this place habitable.”

The subtext, such as it were, is clear. You’ve done enough. “...Alright.”

“Stay warm,” he says briskly, and leaves.

Not a moment later, Dilan saunters in. “What was that about?”

“Oh, he just had some questions,” Even says. “I had given over an impact statement.”

Dilan’s eyes widen in horror. “Why would you do that?”

Even blinks. “As if they don’t already know?”

“Even, you’ve--you’ve no idea what you’ve done, do you?”

He cocks his head. “We can’t hide behind these walls. The things we did have hurt everyone here--the least we can do is be honest about it.”

“There’s no government. What of those seeking revenge?”

“Like they wouldn’t have already?” Even asks.

His face is very red.

“The least we can do is cooperate with what the committee needs.”

“For all you know, you might have just signed our death sentences.”

Even rolls his eyes. “I hate to break it to you, Dilan, but times are different. These people are not nearly as ruthless, as merciless, as us. As if we’d ever get such an easy escape from the guilt.”

He’s scowling, his fists clenched tightly. “You do not get to make decisions for us anymore,” he snaps, and storms away.

Anymore? Had he ever?

Even isn’t angry, though. He’s just tired. He goes back to his rooms, notes with annoyance that he needs to do laundry. He gets it done and is just folding the dry things when he hears a gentle knock at his door. “Enter.”

He sees Demyx poke his head in.

“Did you need help with something?” he asks. Then frowns; the boy’s face is pinched, anxious. “You do not look well.”

He hesitates, then shuts the door behind him. “Ienzo wants to go to the basement.”

Of course he told him about it. “Yes. And?”

“Well--what if something’s down there?”

“I thought you could adequately defend yourself now?” It’s making sense. Ienzo wants Demyx to go with him, to supposedly free whatever’s down there--if there even is anything.

“It’s not me I’m worried about.” He exhales and rumples his hair. “He’s got the lexicon. What if he tries using his powers again?”

He shakes his head. “He’s aware of the risk. I doubt he’d try.”

“What if he doesn’t do it consciously?”

He raises an eyebrow. “I had the impression it took a lot of effort for him to traverse your memory.” Not to mention the return...

“But he couldn’t control it. I don’t know what this is going to entail. If I’m just going to beat up some Heartless, or maybe there’s nothing down there and this is just for closure. But what if .” His hands are trembling as he gestures.

“Since when was forethought a strength of yours?” Even asks. “Boy, now you’re making me worry.” The last thing they need… he’s only just--

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to ask.”

He sighs. He sets aside his things, noting that his hands are shaking now, too. There’s one way he might be able to get ahead of this--to stop Ienzo from killing himself, because this is what it’s rapidly becoming. “Come along.”

In a blur, they both go downstairs. He packs him a simple med kit, and then reaches for the nuclear option, with a syringe. He places them on the table in front of the boy. “You’re aware of the correlation at this point, of heart failure and overuse of power.”

“Well--yes.”

“I’ve been poking through our research. The reason why it struck Ienzo so intensely has largely to do with the fact that he quite literally grew up as a Nobody. Trying to adequately corroborate his humanity with a Nobody will served to heighten the risk. It may not happen again. Perhaps he’s adjusted. At the same time… it may.”

Demyx eyes the vial. “What’s that?”

“A serum to induce sleep. Should he begin to exhibit the same symptoms, you should dose him. And then call for help. I’m giving this to you as a precaution only.” Even unwraps the syringe, preps it, and then caps it off.

Demyx shudders. “That’s a poison. Not a sedative.”

“Sleep akin to death,” Even murmurs. “Better than actual death, is it not?” Anything to stop the damage before it stops him. But Demyx doesn’t take it from him. His skin has gone ashen.

“I can’t.”

“You must. This is--” He exhales, exasperated. “For goodness' sake, you might not even need it.” Even places it on the table in front of him. “Have you tried convincing him out of it?” If Ienzo will do anything for anyone, it’s Demyx.

He nods. “Yes. But how can we escape it? We live here. He’s reminded of it every day. If it’s not now, it’d be some other time.”

“The boy is… determined.” He sighs. “I’m trusting you with this. With him. Do you understand?” Don’t let him slip away.

Another nod. There’s something like resolve in his eyes.

“So take it.”

After a moment where he seems to struggle, he grasps the syringe and leaves without another word.

Even finds it hard to breathe. He tries to convince himself that this won’t happen--that there’s nothing down there, and if there is, that Ienzo can’t be of any help to them. Heartless don’t have memories.

That wasn’t all Ienzo did to Demyx.

He altered things. Lessened the brunt of trauma, the binding of it.

What were Heartless--theirs--other than pure trauma, pure darkness?

Even rests his head in his hands. He can’t. He can’t let him--

But the suffering of those poor people--

He hears himself gasping. He can’t lose Ienzo to darkness. Not again. Was it truly the boy’s decision? Or is it some--suicidality he isn’t fully conscious of? Doesn’t he have things to live for? Can’t he see that?

The boy can never be happy if he can’t move on.

The boy can’t move on unless he does something to atone.

He can’t atone without helping their victims.

Even sinks wearily onto his cot and prays for unconsciousness.

#beyond this existence: atonement #even (kingdom hearts)#ienzo #demyx #leon (kingdom hearts)#dilan #beyond this existence

1 note · View note

veneataur · 5 years

Text

Whumptober day 16

Prompt: bedridden

Fandom: Salvation

Title: Setbacks

A/N: Again, a very late whumptober story, but it’s here. The stories are all complete, I just have to remember to post them. Anyway, this takes place after the series finale. Darius is still feeling the effects of the torture and coma.

They find him sitting in the shower, back against the wall, cold water spraying down relentlessly. The one saving grace of the whole thing is that he managed to pull his legs up, wrapping his arms around them and locking his hands together so he could conserve some warmth. With his head down, forehead against his knees, he doesn’t see them come in. It’s only their shocked cries and the water shutting off that finally tells him they’re there.

“I’ve got a towel here, Liam. Get him out of there,” Grace says. Normally he likes her voice, but he doesn’t like it when she’s worried. She shouldn’t have to worry, especially about him. He’d just come to take a shower after three days in bed with aches and pains and a fever. Judging by the shaking and new aches to accompany the old ones, he hadn’t really helped himself in that department. And the exhaustion is worse. The last of his strength was spend in locking his hands together, the ones that Liam so easily undoes as he lifts him from the shower. When was Liam so strong?

“We’re going to need some warm towels,” Liam says. “He’s so cold and shaking. How long do you think he was in there?”

“Long enough. Ask Alycia to find him some warm clothes. Maybe he’s got a heating pad or an electric blanket, too. He’s going to get worse if we don’t get him warm quickly.”

Liam disappears from his eyesight quickly.

“That was a stupid move, Darius. Going to shower without telling anyone of us. You’re not supposed to even be out of bed yet. Are you in there, Darius,” she adds after a pause.

“H… h… here,” Darius says. Somewhere Grace has found a second towel, replacing the wet one around his shoulders with it, pulling it tight in front of him. He’s sitting on the floor, on the bath mat, leaning against the glass doors of the shower. Grace is off to his side, looking worried.

“Good to know.” Grace gives him a small smile.

“Here’s some clothes,” Liam says. “Alycia found an electric blanket and some extra blankets with TESS’ help.”

“You want me to leave while Liam helps you get dressed,” Grace asks.

Darius shakes head. “Y… you’re fine.”

“Alright, let’s get him dressed and back in that bed he wasn’t supposed to get out of.”

It really shouldn’t take two people to get him dressed, Darius thinks. He shouldn’t even need help at all. He’d gotten dressed on his own back at the hospital. Though Grace might’ve tried to help him if she wasn’t busy asking the doctor about his condition and he might’ve also been half dressed there, so maybe that’s not the best example. He doesn’t fight them though. He doesn’t have the energy to, even if he wanted to. He’s not stupid like he knows they think he is. He knows that he needs their help although he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want to be any more of a burden on them than he’s already been. That’s something he’s not used to doing, being a burden.

Liam and Grace work quickly to get him dressed in sweatpants, a t-shirt, hoodie, and socks. By then, he’s standing, though he’s still feeling chilled and unsteady.

“Think you can make it to bed on your own,” Liam asks. “Alycia’s got an electric blanket waiting for you.”

“Probably.” Darius’ first step, however, falters slightly. Liam quickly moves to steady him. “Thanks.” Darius’ voice is tired.

“No problem,” Liam says. “Let’s get you settled in bed so you can get back to resting.”

Darius nods. He knows that the two started as mentor and mentee and quickly turned to friends, but he feels like an old man now. Just to walk the few yards to his bed, he needs help to steady him and halfway there, he contemplates stopping to rest. If Liam picks up on any of his frustrations, he doesn’t say anything. No, he patiently helps Darius to his bed, pulling the covers up once he’s in while Alycia lays the electric blanket over top. They’re all patient with him. Even Grace, in all of her irritation over his shower escapade, didn’t get mad. She was just patiently irritated, even though he didn’t realize that was possible.

Before he has a chance to think about speaking, there’s a thermometer in his mouth. He doesn’t quite see the need considering he’s more cold than hot, but he doesn’t have the energy to say anything about it. With a few pillows propping his head and chest up, he finds himself comfortable, if still cold.

“101 even,” Grace announces once the thermometer beeps. “You’re back on bed rest and no work.” She pauses for a moment to look at Darius. He gave into everything far too easily. Just a few days ago he was running around in a manic-like state trying to save the planet in the last hours. The days that followed, though he spent a lot of it sleeping or in pain. They’ve kept the room dark and quiet to help the nearly constant headaches Darius has been dealing with. His doctor said they’d start to taper off with rest and time, but it could be a few weeks before he really started to feel better. Part of it was the exhaustion, but the greater part from the torture.

Right now, she can see the headache coming back, worsen by the exertion and fever. Soon, probably in a few minutes, they’ll have to leave him to rest.

“What were you thinking, Darius,” she asks, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. It won’t help at the moment.

“I wanted a shower.”

“Okay, that’s understandable, but why didn’t you come get one of us. Liam’s here. He could’ve helped you and Harris would’ve been here later today.”

“I… I just wanted to take care of it myself.”

“You’re not strong enough yet to do that.”

“Yes, of course. I think I’m going to get some rest now.” Darius turns onto his side, burrowing down a little into the blanket. It’s become his customary position lately to combat the lingering light in the room. He hears Grace’s huff of irritation. She hasn’t left yet, which doesn’t surprise him. He knows that she wants more of an answer, but he’s not giving it to her. The anger he feels is irrational and it shouldn’t be directed at her, at them. They’re only helping him.

At some point in his stewing, he falls asleep, waking slowly with a familiar grogginess of fever and a headache. Together, they’ve erased any feeling of freshness he got from his trip to the shower. With a frustrated sigh, he rolls onto his back, slowly though as there’s still an ache on the side of his head and igniting it is the last thing he wants.

“It’s evening.” Darius jumps at the voice, wincing as his headache spikes. He tries to steady his breathing as he works through the sharp stabbing in his head. He hears Harris apologize next to him. None of it matters though as the pounding won’t settle and now there’s an unease in his stomach. He usually has a strong stomach, but this exhaustion and torture have made it weak. Someone, Harris probably, gets him sitting up as he dry heaves, leaning over a bucket, just in case he happens to bring up anything. He hasn’t eaten since morning, so there shouldn’t be anything.

When the heaving has eased, even though his stomach is still unsettled, Harris eases him back. He groans at the pain the movement causes. It doesn’t sound like it comes from him, sounding distant and miserable. It’s only later, a half-hour later he supposes, that he feels the effects of the shot of painkillers Harris must have given him. It’s a preset syringe prescribed by his doctor.

“Better now,” Harris asks.

“Yes, thanks.” The pain is still there, but it lingers on the edge, a faint reminder of the last half hour or more. The whole affair has exhausted him even more than he thinks possible, but that’s routine lately. The ache is always present, but sometimes there are terrible attacks that leave him unable to function, to think. The painkillers are the only relief, which he hates. Harris lets the silence between them grow, for which Darius is glad. He’s still sorting himself out, getting control back and calming down.

“I sent the others out for a while. They’ve been here almost non-stop, especially Alycia and Liam,” Harris says.

Darius nods, risking opening his eyes to look over at Harris, who looks like he’s just come over from work. He’s still wearing his dress shirt, but he’s ditched the tie. Exhaustion is clear on his face as well with dark circles beginning to form under his eyes.

“I’m supposed to check your temperature once you wake up. There’s some worry that you’ve set your recovery back.”

“Here to play warden then,” Darius says.

“No. I’m not playing warden. I’m giving you some breathing space.”

“I… I didn’t mean….”

“I know. I thought they would’ve known better and expected you to do something like that.”

“I should’ve said something. It wasn’t fair to them.”

“Yes, you should’ve, but that’s not you. You have friends now, Darius. People who care about you, not what you can do. You need to let us help you instead of doing things on your own. We want to help, but we can’t if you don’t let us.”

“I know. I am trying, it’s just not that easy.”

“I don’t expect it to be, but you have to start really trying. Your doctor told us that if you don’t take the time to rest and recover from this, it will leave you with permanent effects. That very likely means headaches and chronic exhaustion. You’re going to have to be patient and rely on your friends to get through this.”

“I’ll try. I promise, but can you ask them to tone things down?”

“We’ll talk with them when they come back,” Harris says. “How’s the headache and nausea now?”

“Better. The nausea’s settling and the headache’s in the background for now.”

“Good. Are you up for a shower?”

“Really?”

“I was thinking now’s the best time with the painkiller in you and you really didn’t get to finish your shower this morning.”

A shower sounded really good in the aftermath of his headache, but that involved a lot of moving.

“We’ll take it slow,” Harris says, reading the hesitancy in Darius’ eyes.

“Sounds good.”

#salvation cbs #darius tanz #whumptober #fanfiction #whump #episode tag

10 notes · View notes

outtacommission · 6 years

Text

everybody, please believe I’m fine

hello i have the soren sickfic!!!!!! (no pairings, just sibling h/c)

Ao3

If there was going to be a day for this to happen, it would happen to be this day. Soren wakes up to a dark, cloudy sky, cold rain pattering against the window, and a splitting headache. He doesn’t realize how bad it is until he sits up in bed only to have a bolt of pain spear through his skull. He drops his head into his hands with a hiss and pushes the heels of his palms into his eyes. It takes too long for the throb to lessen enough to look up again, and when he does, it becomes apparent that the headache isn’t the only discomfort plaguing him at the moment. Pressure is already building in his sinuses, and his throat is itchy and sore when he swallows.

Soren freezes. Is he… Is he sick? He can’t remember the last time he’s felt this way.

He groans in frustration and rakes a hand through sleep-matted hair. Is this because I didn’t wash my hands with soap before lunch a few days ago…? Or maybe it’s the universe’s way of getting back at him for laughing at Claudia that one time when she fudged a spell and accidentally gave herself a rash.

Either way, a cold can’t get in the way of his responsibilities. He’s a strong, tough guy. In all honesty he thought he was beyond getting sick at all. The last time he was ill was…probably as a child. There was one instance in his early teen years when he had an allergic reaction to some weird edible plant he ate on a dare, but he doesn’t really count that.

It’s weird that he’s suddenly experiencing these symptoms now, when his body is in such excellent condition. Guess it can’t be helped. The day has to go on, and he can’t spend it in bed.

He skips breakfast. Out of all the days to do so, this is probably the worst one, but he can’t really seem to work up an appetite. In fact, the thought of porridge or pastries makes him a little nauseous. That’s also unusual, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He’ll make up for it with a large lunch—surely he’ll be feeling better by then.

The castle seems draftier than normal and his armor sits heavy on his shoulders when he puts it on. His muscles ache as he reaches up to secure his pauldron. He willfully ignores it.

Claudia catches up to him in the corridor on his way out to meet with the rest of his troop. “Mornin,’ Sor-bear!” she says loudly, running up to his side. “I didn’t see you at breakfast!”

Soren tries not to wince when the volume of her voice causes another spike of pain in his head. “Uh, yeah. I didn’t really feel like breakfast today, so.”

“You…didn’t feel like breakfast? That’s weird.” She reaches up and pokes his cheek gently. “You feel like breakfast to me!”

He only laughs softly in reply.

Claudia frowns. “You okay, Sor-bear? You seem…quiet.”

“Ah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He smiles, internally grimacing at how utterly unconvincing he sounds. “Just a little tired. Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

His sister purses her lips and places a hand on his shoulder. “Then take it easy today, okay? You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Including Dad.”

Soren starts a little at that. He and Claudia have always been close—closer than most siblings, he thinks—and sometimes it seems like she can read his mind. Truthfully, he’s not entirely convinced that she can’t, since magic doesn’t make much sense to him. It can be a little unnerving. And Claudia is terrifyingly smart and perceptive when she wants to be.

And, well, maybe it’s a little bit true that he carries himself like he’s got something to prove. But when you’re the youngest member of the king’s army, ever, and the son of the High Mage, it’s hard not to feel pressured. Eyes are on him all the time, and no matter how skilled he is with a blade, he can’t help but wonder if people look down on him for not being talented with magic. And by people, he specifically means his father. Not that Viren has ever given him much reason to think he’s disappointed in his lack of magical ability, but when Soren watches him and Claudia together, he can’t stop the idea from passing through his mind.

He’s never admitted that before. It’s just a nagging little thought that he usually stuffs deep, deep down under bravado and confidence, and that works pretty well.

Damn Claudia for bringing that up now. Damn her for noticing it in the first place. Soren is not insecure. That’s just not a thing. And he certainly doesn’t think this deeply about things. Feelings and emotions and worrying about not meeting expectations are not a part of who he is.

“I’m not—I don’t—” Damn it. He stutters to a stop as his face screws up, and before he can stop it, he sneezes. Forcefully. The ache behind his face flares and he groans.

“Bless you!” Claudia says, surprised.

Shit. Soren sniffles wetly, dragging the back of his hand under his nose. “Thanks.”

His sister comes to stand in front of him and crosses her arms. “I’m serious, Soren. Don’t push yourself today.”

With one last sniff, he straightens up and puts on his best smirk. “I’m fine, Claudia. I’m not gonna keel over or anything.”

She raises an eyebrow at him, but then cracks a smile and shakes her head. “Okay, well, I’ll be around. If you happen to need anything.”

He smiles back and nods before turning and continuing on his way.

—

Training is… Well, it goes a lot worse than he had anticipated. The floodgates open ten minutes in and he's instantly soaked through, and training in wet gear is miserable enough on its own. But on top of that, his armor is so heavy and each swing of his sword takes herculean effort. He doesn’t understand. He’s never had this much trouble. Armor isn’t light, exactly, but it’s never weighed him down like this, even while wet. He’s never struggled so much to get his footwork right. His movements are sluggish and clumsy and it takes far more concentration than it ever should merely to keep his balance while his sparring partner deals offensive blows. And despite the constant movement, he's freezing. Courtesy of the rain.

It’s when he’s finally knocked on his ass that he admits to needing a break. He stows the wooden training sword and makes his way to the water pump around the corner of the courtyard, where he takes a moment to press his forearm to the wall and rest his head on it. His body is so weak and drained of energy. He definitely shouldn’t have skipped breakfast, but even now the thought of eating makes him feel ill.

He growls in frustration. This is so inconvenient.

A cough suddenly bursts from his throat, forceful and dry. He’s been having the urge to cough since he got his heart-rate up, but hasn’t allowed himself more than a quick clearing of his throat until now. Now, the cough completely takes over and his lungs heave as he hacks, feeling how much the illness is settling into his throat and chest and head.

Why can’t the day just be over already?

No sooner had the thought entered his head than a distant clock chimes twelve, and he groans again as the coughing tapers off. Lunchtime. And then he’s supposed to have swordplay training with the step-prince. He usually enjoys being Callum’s instructor, even if the kid is no good with a blade, but today just thinking about training is exhausting.

That, and he still isn’t hungry. Either he forces himself to eat and potentially vomits from it, or he continues on with an empty stomach and drains what little energy he has left and pray that he can keep pulling strength from somewhere.

Neither option sounds good.

Technically he could always admit to not feeling well and take the rest of the day off, but that’s not going to happen.

He pushes himself upright and takes off for the training ground again. But after a few steps, the blood suddenly drains from his head and his legs lose strength completely. He stumbles to the wall again, feels his shoulder slam against it as his vision starts spinning and morphing into bright shapes and a rushing sound fills his ears. For a few moments, he’s completely cut off from the world and his own body as he can’t see or hear, and can only feel a dull tingling, trembling sensation.

When he finally comes back to himself, he’s lying slumped on his side in the grass not five feet from the water pump. His hands are shaking, he’s covered in cold sweat and rain, and his head is absolutely pounding.

What…just happened…?

Fear starts burrowing into his consciousness as he comes to the realization that he’d just passed out.

Oh, not good, not good, not good, not good.

He’s got to get up before someone sees him like this.

His first attempt fails miserably. As soon as he sits up and tries to get to his feet, his muscles scream in protest and dizziness overwhelms him, knocking him right back down. He pants roughly, the air making his throat ache. He’s weak as a newborn foal, and probably looks about as graceful as one. Oh, this is so bad. What if he can’t get up? What if he has to call for someone to help?

No, he can’t. He’s stronger than this. He’s got this. It’s just a stupid cold.

He removes his pauldron, gorget, and breastplate, and it’s a little easier to breathe. He leans his head against the stone wall and focuses on drawing oxygen into his lungs. This is because he skipped breakfast for sure. He really should try to eat something for lunch, even if it’s just a piece of bread. And maybe he would, if he felt steady enough to stand.

After a while, his hands stop shaking quite so badly and the dizziness recedes, leaving just the terrible headache and utter exhaustion in its wake. Soren takes a deep breath, begs his body to cooperate, and slowly climbs to his feet. Thankfully, this time, his legs are solid enough to hold him and he doesn’t get knocked back down by vertigo. Good enough. He coughs again into his elbow and makes his way back out to the training ground.

The rain has slowed to a drizzle now, hardly enough to notice, but everything—including Soren’s hair and clothes—is still wet and cold. He shivers.

Surprisingly, Callum is already there on a bench with his head bent over his sketchbook. He looks up when Soren approaches.

“Hey,” he greets. “I was wondering where you were.”

Soren’s brow furrows. “Why? Training’s not ’til one.”

“Uh, it is one.” Callum tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. “Where’s the rest of your armor?”

It’s…been an entire hour? There’s no way. He couldn’t have been sitting by the water pump for a whole hour, and he hadn’t heard the clock chime. He’s not…

“Hellooo? Soren?”

Callum’s waving a hand in front of his face.

Jeez, he’s out of it. If he can’t get his head on straight maybe he really shouldn’t be swinging a sword around, even if it’s a wooden one. “Sorry. What was the question?”

Callum frowns at him, confused and maybe a little concerned. “Are you alright?”

Soren blinks. It’s getting a little hard to breathe again. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. Why?”

“Because you’re missing half of your armor.” Callum’s shrewd green eyes linger on his face for a brief moment. “And you look really pale.”

Panic rises in Soren’s breast. He totally forgot about his discarded armor. His chest heaves. “I was just—sparring. That’s what…what a good workout’ll do for you. You should try it sometime.” He stretches his arms out in front of him and bends sideways, ignoring the persistent ache in his muscles and praying the kid will just take the explanation.

Of course, he does not. Callum puts his sketchbook aside and stands. He’s decently shorter than Soren, but something about being sized up makes Soren nervous and he unconsciously backs up a little. “Are you…sure? You really don’t look too good, Soren.” Something lights up in the prince’s eyes and he rubs the back of his head. “You know, you shouldn’t train with me if you’re not up to it. I don’t mind missing a day—”

“No, no, no.” It’s no secret that Callum doesn’t like sword-fighting, or any type of fighting, but Soren’s taken that as more of a personal challenge. He was entrusted with teaching the step-prince how to fight, and it’ll reflect badly on him if Callum is unable to at least defend himself in battle. “Nice try, but we’re not skipping training.”

“But you—”

“You should be focused on yourself.” He goes to retrieve the sparring swords and tosses one to the prince (which is dropped and clatters on the cobblestone). Soren rolls his eyes and tries to convince himself he’s feeling alright. He’s not—he still feels worryingly out of breath, his nose is running, he needs to cough, his body is almost unbearably heavy and every inch is in pain. Maybe he’ll cut their training short today, but he can’t allow either one of them to just skip it.

They work on offense. He shows Callum the proper footwork and techniques and they run through them together over and over again. Soren wonders if the prince can tell how sluggish and uncoordinated he’s feeling. It’s only gotten worse since that morning. But if Callum does notice anything, he keeps his mouth shut.

He’s demonstrating another technique for the fourth time when he feels it again. An uncomfortable chill creeps up his neck and down his arms, causing him to break into a cold sweat, and his head starts getting light. No, no, no! This isn’t happening again. It can’t. He is not about to faint right in front of Callum. He’ll…he’ll be alright if he just ignores it. If he keeps moving and powers through, it’ll go away. He thinks.

He pulls up out of his thrust and turns to the young boy, panting. “Okay, now…now you try it.”

Callum looks unsure, but he makes a pathetic attempt. As if anticipating the scolding Soren would give him for messing up again, he grimaces and sighs. “I just don’t really get how the steps work. Like, I could never remember where to put my feet if I was actually fighting someone, you know?”

Soren’s breath comes in ragged pants. No matter how much he wills it away, black spots are clouding up his vision and the rushing sound is coming back. He’s gotta do…something.

“Sorry if it doesn’t make sense to me that when you’re in battle you’d basically just start dancing with the other person, but I really don’t get why—uh. Soren?”

He’s aware, on some level, that he’s just staring into space. At some point he’d put his weight on his sword, leaning on it like a crutch, and the fact that he doesn’t remember doing so is kind of alarming. He needs to answer Callum, but he has no idea what the kid had been talking about and he’s far too preoccupied with focusing on not falling over.

“Soren?” Callum appears in front of him, big eyes wide with worry. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

A little bit of clarity comes back to him. “I’m—I’m okay.” He puts a hand on Callum’s shoulder in what’s supposed to be a reassuring gesture, but when he tries taking a step he ends up putting most of his weight on the prince’s small frame.

“Whoa—Soren—!”

His strength leaves him and suddenly he’s on his knees with his face buried in Callum’s tunic. He reaches up a shaking hand and grips his jacket. Tries to tell him that he’s fine, he just needs a minute, but soft gasps are all that come out of his mouth before he’s coughing violently.

And then, somehow, he’s on the ground again. Callum is hovering over him and shouting something that he can’t make out.

He feels absolutely terrible. Easily the worst he’s ever felt in his entire life. As soon as he’s down, all interest in putting up a front and powering through his illness vanishes without a trace. All he wants is his bed. And his mother.

Things go dark and hazy for an indeterminable amount of time. The next thing he’s aware of is a cool hand on his face and voices above him. Something is pressed to his lips and then there’s liquid trickling into his mouth. It’s sweet, and he can’t help but sputter and cough when it makes its way past his tongue.

“Come on, Sor, you need to drink it.”

That voice has him prying his eyes open. “C…Claudia?” It’s still hard to see as his head hasn’t stopped spinning, but her long, dark hair is unmistakable.

“Yeah, I’m here.” He thinks she smiles a little. “You’re alright. Think you scared the daylights out of Callum, though.”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a pathetic groan.

“Try to drink some of this, okay?”

More liquid is poured into his mouth, and now that his body actually recognizes what it needs to be doing, he manages to swallow it.

“Good, Sor.”

In the back of his mind, he’s aware that he’s still on the ground in the courtyard, undeniably making a huge scene with his sister there holding up his head and helping him drink. He’s never going to live this one down. At the moment, though, he can’t be bothered to feel embarrassed, even if he would like to get in bed as soon as possible.

When Claudia lowers the vial, he coughs again. “Wh—what happ’ned?”

His vision is slowly clearing, and he can see a look of sheer worry come over his sister’s face. She looks at the prince, who’s still hovering, but over her shoulder now. “Callum?”

“I don’t know, he just…passed out. He was really pale when he showed up. I knew he shouldn’t have been training and I told him that but he didn’t listen.”

Claudia looks back down at Soren and sighs. “You’re such an idiot. I told you not to push yourself too hard.” She presses a palm to his forehead. “You’re running a fever, Sor-bear. Ready to go to bed now?”

He can’t do much more than moan miserably in agreement. What an awful day this has turned out to be.

“Alright. Callum, help me get him up.”

And it isn’t over yet, he soon learns, as they help him get upright and walking. The lightheadedness comes back almost instantly and his body sags, like there are weights tied around his limbs and torso. He gasps at the pain that spears through his head.

“He’s heavy,” Callum groans.

Soren almost feels bad for the two of them. He’s not much more than dead weight, hardly able to lift his legs and shivering all the while. When the cough comes back, he tries to lower his head out of courtesy. His throat is killing him.

They make their way through the castle corridors slowly. Claudia murmurs soft encouragements to him the whole time, even when he tells her he needs to stop and rest (which is more often than he wants to admit. He blames the weakness on the apparent fever). At the edges of his consciousness, he is aware of the servants and guards who stop to ask if he’s alright, and it’s absolutely humiliating to have his fellow guardsmen see him in such a state. He wishes he could just sink into the floor.

When they’re almost back to his chambers, a new voice pipes up down the hall. “Callum! There you are. I was looking for… Uh, what’re you doing?”

Soren likes Prince Ezran, even if he doesn’t always understand the kid. He’s sweet and curious and more clever than a kid his age should be. He can’t say that’s a trait he appreciates right at the moment, though.

“Getting Soren back to his room,” Callum replies.

Quick little footsteps echo on the walls as Ezran comes closer. “Eugh. What’s the matter with him? He looks like he’s about to puke.”

“He’s not feeling well. Hey, would you mind getting the door?”

The hinges creak when Ezran pushes it open, and the relief Soren feels at the sight of his own bed is absolutely immense. His body turns to jelly as soon as he’s able to sink onto it. His head misses the pillow, but that doesn’t matter. He closes his eyes and lets out a soft sigh.

“I sent for the court physician,” Claudia says as she begins removing the rest of his armor. “And Dad.”

That has Soren picking his head up again. “Dad…?”

“Well, yeah.” She looks at him like she doesn’t understand why that would be a problem. She probably doesn’t. “He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

He groans, letting his head fall back forcefully. Of course, his father would find out what had happened eventually, but he’s definitely not thrilled about having the man here at his sickbed. If he even bothers to come, that is. Honestly Soren isn’t sure which he’d prefer.

When the armor is off, Claudia steps back with a satisfied breath and turns to the princes. “Okay, you two, you can run along. I can handle him from here.”

Callum gives a hesitant nod. “Um, sure. Feel better, Soren.”

“Get well soon!” Ezran says, lifting his little toad creature above his head and scurrying out after his brother.

He gives a little wave in thanks and instantly feels better as the door shuts behind them.

Claudia gives his shoulder a nudge. “Come on, big guy. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”

He patiently allows her to help him change. She’s the only one he would ever let do it.

“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” she asks as she holds out his nightshirt for him to slip his arms into.

“Dunno.” He coughs gently as she pulls it over his head. “Thought I could make it through the day.”

She huffs, exasperated. “You know, for a knight, you don’t really have a good sense of self-preservation.” She pulls back the bedcovers and helps him get situated under them, fluffs up his pillows, and pulls the sheets up to his chest like their mother used to do when they were little. “I wish you’d just told me earlier that you were feeling sick. I’m your sister.”

“You would’ve stopped me from going to training.”

“Yeah, and maybe then this wouldn’t have happened!” She sits on the side of the bed and gently pushes a lock of sweaty hair back from his face. “You look really awful, Sor. You gotta take better care of yourself. You didn’t eat breakfast and you—” She stops abruptly, a horrified look coming over her face. “You haven’t eaten at all today, have you?”

He looks away, wincing in guilt.

“Oh, Soren—no wonder you collapsed! You’re such an idiot.”

“You’ve said that already.”

“Well, it’s worth repeating.” She gives him a sad look that makes his heart clench painfully in his chest. “I heard Callum yelling for help out in the courtyard and when I saw you on the ground…”

His cheeks burn with something more than fever. “I’m sorry, Claudia. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

Her bright green eyes wander over his face for a moment before she sighs. “It’s alright, I’m just glad you’re okay. But, please, don’t do this again.”

He gives her a small smile. “Won’t. Promise.”

“Good.” She ruffles his hair and stands up. “The doctor will be here soon. I’m gonna get some food sent up in the meantime. Is there anything you want? Soup? Jelly tarts?”

“Soup is fine.” He still feels sick at the notion of eating anything, but he definitely doesn’t have a choice in the matter now. There haven’t been too many reasons over the years for Claudia to mother him like this, but she sure is good at it. And he wouldn’t admit it, but just having her looking after him has already made him feel ten times better, at least mentally and emotionally.

Once she’s spoken to a few servants, she returns to his bedside with a basin of water and a cloth. “So how are you feeling? Be honest.”

Soren shrugs. “Exhausted, mostly. My head and my throat hurt a lot. And I'm really cold.”

Claudia hums sympathetically. “That's the fever. You’re burning up.”

He grunts unhappily. “This is pathetic.”

“No, it's not. Everyone gets sick sometimes. Even you.” She wrings out the cloth and presses it to his forehead.

“Dad's not gonna be happy with me.”

She pauses for a brief moment, some emotion passing through her eyes that he can’t quite recognize, and then resumes wiping down his face. “He knows it’s not your fault.”

Even in his feverish state, he doesn’t miss the fact that didn’t disagree with him.

“Try not to worry about that,” Claudia says. “Just focus on resting and getting better.”

“Okay.” Hopefully he can fall asleep and just forget about this whole day. If he’s lucky, maybe he’ll even wake up feeling well again.

Just as he closes his eyes, though, an itch flares up in his sinuses and his breathing hitches a few times before he sneezes. The force makes him groan.

“Bless you,” his sister says, gently wiping under his nose. “Poor thing.”

He gazes up at her through stinging eyes. “Thanks for taking care of me, Claudia.” He really doesn’t know what he’d do without her.

She smiles warmly. “You’re welcome, Sor-bear. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

#the dragon prince #tdp #soren #tdp soren #sickfic #my fic #i wanted to go more into stuff with viren #and have his illness take a bAD turn #but this was already so long and i wanted to get it out #so maybe a part 2? if people are interested enough?

74 notes · View notes

galvatronsthighs · 6 years

Photo

Part four! Story under cut! <<PREVIOUS | FIRST | NEXT>>

The base was dark and no doubt abandoned.

Not that anyone would have rushed to help the lumbering shape anyway. Seems the Decepticons really did take to his orders when he told them to run and they fled from everything.

Of course they would, he’s a monster, he attacked them, some are dead because of him…. A soft ‘thwak’ brought Galvatron’s processor back to the moment. Cyclonus’s arm had come loose and flopped over his torn chest giving the ex-leader a nudge back to reality. With a soft grumble he shifted the two unconscious bodies a little more and continued on his way. His steps were loud and echoing, each door opened with a sound like claws trying to shred concrete, did they always sound like this? A few lights flickered dimly as if deciding if it was worth turning on just for them, probably not. The med bay had been messed with, while fleeing it seemed some of the Decepticons had saw fit to raid the place for some supplies. With a sigh like a old steam train finally choking out it’s last, Galvatron dropped his cargo onto two available berths and his systems screamed in relief. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem for him, just two mecha? But his injuries were still rife from the battle they had just went through. It didn’t matter. They would heal. They always did. Applying some gentle percussive maintenance to the med bays systems Galvatron got the place humming with some weak attempt at life once more. He approached Scourge first, the mecha was undoubtedly lighter than himself and Cyclonus despite being the same size and the larger wing struts were just bigger targets, certainly during the fight they were. Galvatron shook his helm trying to rid himself of vague echoing memories of himself swinging wildly at Scourge, overtook in the desperate moment, and landing a few blows on the wings as he picked them up. His unconscious form didn’t move at the sensation of his wings being touched but Galvatron faltered, they bent and sagged in places they weren’t meant to. He did that. Just like Unicron said. Unicron was right about him. Galvatron dropped the wing and let it flop, as throbbing thoughts pounded at his processor making him stagger back and sink to the floor. His new spot was not much better either, just above him Cyclonus lay, bent and crooked. He did that. The monster. Pain called to him a sweet siren song, a delicate lullaby riding on waves of throbbing agony. Galvatron could feel the still slightly-wet cuts along his back, paint a small arc against the berth he leant on as his body lacked the energy, or the will, to fight much longer and it sagged over to the side, before collapsing the final distance down to the floor. Exhausted, wounded and tired in far too many ways there was nothing that could’ve kept Galvatron conscious for much longer. A weepy voice in the back of his helm hoped he wouldn’t wake up again and this would be over.

Waking up was a different matter. It felt as though cement had been poured into every available opening, every minute gap within his systems. Feeling almost literally dusty did not aid him in the slightest either. A breathy, dry groan escaped his vocal unit as Galvatron rolled to his front a little more. One hand, two hand, move, repeat. Galvatron almost crawled his way forwards a staggering, full, inch. By the AllSpark he was pathetic. Maybe he should repair some of his injuries… With slow and careful movements Galvatron pulled himself over to an adjacent room, the doorway providing him with a hold on either side to hoist himself up with. Sparks flew and energy crackled as his systems revolted at having such pressure and work put on them. Before his self-repair systems were second to none and these kind of injuries probably would have already been healed to a decent, manageable amount, but who was he kidding, that was all Unicron too, Unicron made him who he was, Unicron did it all, who was he without Unicron? Pathetic? Mistake? Aimless? Directionless? Nothing. Galvatron cringed and his systems groaned, no, no, not now, he should push the thoughts of that thing out of his processor. He wasn’t nothing without Unicron! He… he hadn’t even had the chance to try yet! That’s all! He can do it! He can do it… He can… try… Looking at the systems Galvatron had the dawning realisation he knew nothing about them, and absolutely nothing about what he could do to fix himself. The Auto-repair systems were shot, barely able to manage the most basic of repairs at best, everything here was a joke. No wonder it was his home. With a sigh, he decided it’d have to do.

Letting the system hum to life, Galvatron slid himself onto the berth and allowed it to work. Mostly superficial damages were being fixed, holes and bleeds in his external systems getting patched, his support structure also got a very basic once over, with cracks and breaks being welded back together and his cuts wiped and covered over. It tried to engage in a more thorough system repair, parts requesting access to his internal systems but the machine itself didn’t even have the capability to finish it’s own request. Galvatron decided it was adequate at what it was. He could move better and looked like nothing happened, that’s all he needed. It had handled the worst of it, and as long as he doesn’t over-stress it his self-repair system should be able to finish it off now. He did feel grateful to have the gashes on his face patched up however. They felt the worst. The only bit of outdoor light that graced the room had slithered along the wall and Galvatron frowned. The auto-repair system had shut off a while ago. He blacked out again, didn’t he? Galvatron heaved himself off the berth, grunting painfully as it still felt like a knife was wedged in his lower abdomen, if only the repair system fixed that. He had a mission. He had to repair his friends, he had to free them… he had to… save them… Quick Stepping into the adjacent room he came to a spluttering halt. Both Scourge and Cyclonus were fixed. Not a dent or a smudge on them. An analytical panel hanging from the ceiling was hooked up to both of them, it’s screen split as it displayed both of their vitals, but, the most curious aspect of all, both of them were strapped down, clamped to the berth. It’d be a miracle if they could even turn their heads with bonds so tight. A few attempts at a word formed in Galvatrons mouth but only escaped as the most faintest of sounds. Swinging around the berths Galvatron strode down between them, hand on the monitor he looked over the results it showed. “Finally woke up, eh?” Galvatron froze. He did not recognise that voice… no, wait… he did… deep in his systems… it was so long ago now… He could feel his spinal strut try to bunch up, fear overtook his spark, panic embedding itself in like a burrowing Scraplet. Another person. He’d have to talk! He’d have to do something! “Face me.” They were cold and commanding, yet a edge of curiosity peaked in their tone. Galvatron relaxed his systems and un-hunched himself. One hand refused to leave the monitor however, like a small safety blanket, with a twist of his pede’s he turned to face the voice. “Down here.” Nearer the end of the berths a small figure stood. Human. No, not quite. His memory circuits buzzed as a fresh load of static blared through them, but there were images to the static, sound too, he could just make it out. “S… s… sssssss… Sari?” How could he forget her name. The small hybrid had not grown an Earth-inch from the last time they’d met, when he was a different person. Her colours were dull however, greyed and a few streaks of dirt covered her. She had a scar over half of her face, optics cold and wary, her organic body was hard to see under layers of battle-grade armour forced upon her during cycles of battle. “So, you remember me huh? Your friends here didn’t seem to” Her eyes thinned as she glared at him, an icy glare probing him for answers. “O… oh… oh… I…” Galvatron’s words died in his vocal unit, his head pounding as he struggled to say something, anything. It didn’t help, not in the slightest, when Sari relaxed. The sudden, almost wrong, motion send Galvatron into a minor panic. “I’M SORRY!” He squealed. “Hey, hey, calm down” Sari held her hands up, but it did not help at all. “I’M SORRY!” He squealed again and the monitor was released from his grip. Galvatron sunk to his knees, his forehelm touching the ground as he practically tried to force himself into it, “I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” He continued to shriek. “ENOUGH!” Sari yelled, silencing him, “I’m not here to fight” Sari paused, waiting for an answer, but Galvatron just looked at her with wet optics and let out a quiet sniffle. “I mean, if I was, wouldn’t I have brought all the Autobots with me?” She tried again, Galvatron merely looked around the room, although his view was hampered by him keeping his face pressed to the ground, “Will you sit up?” Sari hissed a little annoyed. Galvatron obeyed. “I came here because I saw what happened. You fought these two, didn’t you?” She gestured to Cyclonus and Scourge on the berths. Galvatron nodded weakly, unable to look at the two motionless figures. “I saw you crying” She added as if it answered everything. Galvatron nodded again, the very mention of it practically provoking his systems to begin weeping once more, but a hasty sniffle managed to stop him from full-blown tears. “I’ve never seen a Decepticon do that… I’ve never heard you beg for forgiveness as you fight… My curiosity was peaked” She added. “Ah” Galvatron quietly choked out. “What’s going on?” Her voice turned stern and demanding again and she stepped forwards. “I’m sorry!” Galvatron whimpered quickly, “I deserve it! Whatever it is!” “What?” Sari backed up again, “Look, I’m… I…” She cocked her head and looked him over, “I won’t hurt you, I just want to know why the most feared monst… ah, Decepticons ever known were fighting amongst themselves while their leader bawled his optics out!” “It doesn’t matter… It was all for nothing… I couldn’t help them… I couldn’t save them…” Galvatron covered his head with his arms and curled up. “Save… them…? You’re talking about that planet-eating monster aren’t you?” Galvatron shrieked like he’d been shot, tears escaped from him freely. Did everyone know? No, everyone shouldn’t know, why should they? No one deserves this? No one deserves him! No one deserves that! Was Unicron common knowledge? Who was he hurting now? Oh, come on Galvatron, you know the answer to that! Everyone! Unicron’s hurting everyone! It’s all his fault! He left Unicron! He left and now Unicron has no toys! The room was empty when he looked back at it, no Cyclonus, no Scourge, no Sari. But there was a shadow, grinning as it seeped in through the ceiling. Unicron was hurting everyone! It’s all his fault! He should never have left! Galvatron was vaguely aware of himself shrieking. Sorry Unicron. Sorry. Sorry sorry! I don’t… Please don’t… Galvatron lunged at the shadow seeping in. Are you happy now Unicron? Yes, of course you are. He loved watching them fight. Are you happy now Unicron? Will you stop hurting them? I’ll be good. I’ll be good. Please. The shadow was gone and instead something blue and burning hit him in the head. Feeling like all his energy was gone anyway, Galvatron collapsed with a whimper. The room seemed a bit more normal now. Something was cycling air through it’s vents, hard. “Uuugh,” He groaned, “Ow” “Get up” The cold commanding tone jabbed into him like a dagger. “Yes Unicr-!” Galvatron blurted out with a harsh obedient tone, but that name tasted like vile, bitter poison and he gagged himself before completing it, but still stood up. Looking around the room once more, he found the source of the noise and the blue burning thing. Sari floated an arms length away, her own arm stretched out and in weapon-mode as she panted heavily. The floor where she once stood was suspiciously dented and new scratches littered the place, her and Galvatron. “Yes?” Galvatron croaked, notifications pinging in his processor that he’d obtained a few new lacerations and dents himself. Sari squinted back at him, she must have attacked him for screaming rather than answering, yes, that’s it, he deserved it anyway. “It is… that ‘moon-eating monster’, he… he controls us… well… he sort of made us too… he owns us...” Galvatron felt the words tumble out of his mouth freely now, no point in trying to bury the memory she knew of him anyway. “Is he still controlling you?” Sari refused to move, seemingly ready for a fight. “N...no! I don’t think so! He left me! I think so… W...wh… when I… I touched the AllSpark!” Galvatron felt his spark race and energon pump burn as words spilled from him, “I touched it and then I saw how bad everything was! It’s awful! I hate it! I… I hate him! He laughed at us! This is all funny to him! Like a game! He… he hurt me! He hurt US! He… Unicron did it, I was so stupid, I believed him, he said it was all going to…” Galvatron sunk back to the floor, hands sticking themselves to his helm as he groaned “I… just want all this pain to go… It’s… consuming… I… He… We...” Sari landing back on the ground sounded like two buildings falling over as the noise shattered the eerie silence left when Galvatron gave up the fight with his stuttering vocaliser and shut up. Her weapon was largely deactivated but the low-level glow from her palm betrayed it. She approached. Her hand touched his pede. A short blast from her jetpack and she was up on his knee guard, sat there, staring at him, like an Osmium Owl. Although Galvatron could only see her feet, he didn’t want to look at her he didn’t want to face her. Sari didn’t like that and hovered over until she took up his field of vision. She was angry. There was searing fury that would have sent the very stars cowering. “Unicron ate Earth” She snarled. Galvatron felt the panic rise again, his faceplates twitched uncontrollably, he tired glancing around, anything to avoid her, to avoid the boiling, squirming feel of empty horror, but she was not having it and followed his gaze. “My Father was on that planet. MY DAD!, and your ‘BOSS’ ate him AND my planet!” She shrieked, “That was CYCLES ago! SO MANY that my dad was still alive! Oh yeah, he’d be dead by now, it’s been too long for a ordinary human to live, but NO, that thing took him while he still breathed!” Sari reared back and punched him, her powered-up form decorating his forehelm with a hefty dent. “I tried approaching this calmly… nicely but… but you will show me EVERYTHING! THEN I will decide on what YOU THREE deserve!” Her fist crackled with a familiar blue energy prompting an equally familiar scene to play out in his head again. Drifting through space, angry, bitter, alone. Until that green light bathed the very void itself as he came to you. Only now, an angry girl stood by watching, waiting, judging...

#galvatron #sari #sari sumdac #transformers animated #maccadam #cyclonus #scourge #TFA: Homecoming #eschaton #attempting art #Galvatron keeps on turning out cute even when I don't mean him to hahahaha

20 notes · View notes

floralseokjin · 6 years

Text

A series of hook ups with Kim Seokjin, the college’s biggest fuckboy…

↳ the index [ #6 the accidental cuddle ]

pairing; kim seokjin x reader genre/warnings; smut wordcount; 1,219

“Mhm–mh—shit.” You gasped, breath catching in your throat as Seokjin’s tongue ministrations became too much. “Jin, stop!” You yelled, hands falling into his hair as you gripped and tried to halt him between your legs, jerking your hips wildly, trying to get loose. “I already came, stop, I’m sensitive—Stop!”

You were near shrieking now but as if he knew what was good for him, he finally let go of you, snapping his head up. He rolled his eyes as he knelt up, wiping his mouth. “You cum too quick.”

“You should take that as a compliment,” you snapped.

He ignored you and bounced to the side, jiggling your body beside him as he got comfy, getting under the covers in the process. “I wish my dick would get hard again,” he pouted, turning to face you as he puffed up his pillow.

“I think twice in the space of a few hours is enough for one night,” you told him. However, to be honest, you weren’t really paying much attention now, already half asleep. You sounded tired as you teased him. “Wouldn’t want my favourite part of you to fall off now, would I?”

“But I thought my face was your favourite part?” He exclaimed, sounding offended. You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not, eyes now closed.

“That too,” you appeased.

“Your ass is my favourite.” You jumped when you felt his hands grip your hips, turning you a little so he could get a view, pretending to thrust into it. “I will get to fuck it one day!”

You heard him but you didn’t reply, too busy slowly falling to sleep. It was nearly 1am, you were exhausted. You’d had a full day of classes and then as soon as you’d had some free time Seokjin was calling, begging you to come over. Why you’d agreed you had no clue. You’d used the last of your energy just now on that third orgasm. You needed a moment.

“Are you gonna leave now?” He asked curiously, as if on cue. Although he wasn’t pushing you, just sounded as if he was wondering…

“Mmm,” you hummed, your words coming out slow. “In a minute. You wore me out.”

“Sorry,” he apologised. His voice sounded closer as if he hovering over your face. Your eyelids were too heavy to open and check. “You can stay if you want?”

You had never stayed over Seokjin’s all night – well, not sleeping anyway… There had been a few 2am booty calls before now, but that’s was as far as it went. In the back of your mind you knew you should probably say no. You could go home, take a shower and then sleep in the comfort of your own bed, but you were honestly so tired right now you didn’t listen. You were even too tired to be shocked at his offer. Instead you instantly agreed. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Seokjin however, does sound shocked. “Okay, well I’m going to take a quick shower. Unless you want one?”

You grunted, he took that as a no. You didn’t even want to get up to pee. As he stood and rounded the bed he paused, stopping to guide you under the covers before he left. By the time you felt the warmth, your head hitting the pillow again, you were asleep… You were sure.

You woke up randomly, warm and cosy. You loved that feeling, knowing you could burrow back down and catch some more z’s. But as you hid your face in the pillow, you realised something. This wasn’t the smell of your bedding. You were not home. Your eyes snapped open, Seokjin’s room coming into focus. That was right, you’d stayed the night. It all came back to you.

You shifted, attempting to roll onto your back but something was weighing you down. It took you another moment to realise why and then horror filled your whole body. Seokjin’s arm was draped around your body, chest against your back as his head shared your pillow. No wonder why you were so warm and cosy…

“Jin,” you hissed immediately, panicking.

He didn’t stir, but you could hear his faint snoring against your ear. He was that close. What the hell was going on?! Why was he cuddling you?!

“Jin!” You tried again, shaking your body before finally giving up and beginning to shout. Loud and clear. Probably waking up Sanduel in the process next door. “SEOKJIN!”

He woke with a start but didn’t move his arm. He must’ve been still out of it. “Hmm-huh?” He mumbled, rubbing his face in the your pillow.

You shook your body again, adamant to make him realise.

“What?” He asked, sounding more with it now, head lifting up and you felt him freeze, finally noticing. “Argh,” he half-shouted, flying away from you, and finally you were free!

“What was that?” You rounded on him immediately, positively horrified.

“I don’t know,” he defended. “I must’ve done it in my sleep.”

What? Instead of sleepwalking he sleep cuddles? Ludicrous. You took your time to look at him now, his dark hair a mess on top of his head, face swollen, pillow marks on his cheek. You’d never seen him like this. God, that was a thought. What did you look like?

You told yourself to shut up. The reason why you and he worked so well was because you didn’t care at all what he thought of you, and vice versa. Why start now?

“You cuddle in your sleep?”

“I don’t know,” he exasperated. “Maybe? Yeah. Usually it’s one of my pillows.” He looked just as shocked as you, eyes wide and mouth agape. But it wasn’t enough. How dare he think cuddling you was allowed! You couldn’t think of anything worse. You and he didn’t even kiss unless you knew it was leading to sex.

“Well don’t next time,” you snapped, crossing your arms, highly offended. Even though, logically speaking, there shouldn’t be a next time…

“How can I control it?” He asked dumbfounded. “I was asleep! You shouldn’t have stayed over!”

“You were the one who asked me,” you argued, annoyed he was trying to turn it on you. He was the fiend that had tried to be all romantic!

“You should have refused.”

You whacked his chest, unable to think of a comeback. He put his hands out in defence, grumbling. “Ow! What time is it anyway?”

“Half 6,” you replied, rolling your eyes at his change in subject. You were still in shock but at least your heart was beating again…

“Half 6?!” He exclaimed. You ignored him, turning away to get comfy again, ready to fall back to sleep. However then— “Maybe we should...?”

“What the?” You uttered, rounding on him again as you felt him press his crotch into your ass, something hard and noticeable hiding in his pants…

“Morning wood,” he gleed. “I’m back in business, baby!”

You were weak. You hated yourself.

“Fine!” You gave in, “but no kissing because your breath reeks.”

“So does yours,” he shot. “That’s why you shouldn’t stay over again.”

You agreed at the time, but of course, how could you have been so stupid. So naïve. Now that it had happened once, it would happen again… and again, and again…

#seokjin smut #jin smut #bts smut #jin fanfic #bts fanfic #floralseokjin:writings #fic:moam

675 notes · View notes

malecsecretsanta · 6 years

Text

Merry Christmas, @jinellewarner!

I hope you have a wonderful holiday! :•)

*****

Chapter One

If there was one thing that Alec hadn't planned on happening at 10:34 pm on Christmas Eve, it was being sprawled out on the sidewalk with a complete stranger on top of him after slipping on a patch of ice. He really hadn't meant to pull the man down with him, but he had panicked and grabbed onto the first solid thing he could find, which just so happened to be the unsuspecting person in front of him- who, as far as he could tell in the brief moment he had held on for dear life, had very nice arms. The breath had been knocked out of his lungs, but he was sure that he would've been breathless no matter what, because the man who was practically straddling him was drop-dead gorgeous. His brown eyes were warm and full of amusement, and Alec was both literally and figuratively frozen, his cheeks flushing with a mixture of embarrassment and immediate interest.

"Well then, I am positive that this is already a much better gift than anything Ragnor will give me this year," the man said, his voice smooth and tinged with humor. Alec had no idea who Ragnor was, but it didn't seem to be important in the moment as the man shifted suddenly. He grabbed onto the fire hydrant that was next to them and pulled himself up much more gracefully than should've been allowed, and before Alec had fully recovered, he was being offered a hand. He stared at it for a few seconds, silently pondering whether or not his brain had been scrambled in the fall, before sliding his palm across the stranger's and standing. "I take it ice skating is not one of your skills?"

Alec felt his cheeks get red again, but he stood his ground, allowing a sheepish grin to cross his features. "That was always my sister's thing, not mine," he said, scratching the back of his head with his free hand. It took him a moment to realize that he was still holding the man's hand, and when he met his eyes that same mirth was present. Instead of letting go, however, the man shook it.

"I'm Magnus," he said, swaying his shoulders in a way that was just distracting enough to draw Alec's eyes away from his gaze. "Normally I wait at least a month or two before I let myself fall for someone, but you didn't give me much of a choice, did you?" He was obviously teasing, but the implication had Alec's stomach fluttering pleasantly. The majority of his relationships had been set up by Isabelle, and lasted less than a couple weeks because there was never enough time or chemistry. But there was something about this man that had Alec's nerves singing, and for whatever reason he didn't want to let this opportunity pass.

"I guess I'll just have to make it up to you, then," Alec said, hoping that he sounded even half as calm as he intended to. He watched Magnus' reaction closely, preparing himself for an excuse or straight-up rejection, but instead those beautiful eyes- which he now noticed were framed with golden liner- lit up as the man smiled, and he nodded.

"Lead the way, then..." He paused, and Alec realized that he never actually told him his name.

"Alec," he finished, his heart racing as Magnus stepped closer, his grin widening.

"Good to know," he replied, his head tilting to the side with an expression close to wonder adorning his face, and something settled in Alec's chest then and there. This was different from all of the other times, and Alec was not going to let it slip through his fingers.

---

The bar that they ended up in was small and a little bit scary, but Alec felt far from afraid as Magnus' hands moved across the space between them, gesturing wildly as he told a story about his vacation to Rome. It turned out that Ragnor was one of his best friends, and that he always gave boring Christmas presents, but Magnus loved him anyway. Alec filed as much of the information into his brain as he could, wanting to memorize every little detail. He reveled in the flush of Magnus' cheeks after he drank a few cocktails, the slight droop of his hair due to the heat of the room, the way the skin around his eyes crinkled when he talked about his friends. He was beautiful, in a gut-wrenching, all consuming, taking-your-eyes-off-of-him-would-just-be-stupid way, and Alec couldn't get enough.

"So, why were you out and about so late on Christmas Eve?" Magnus asked suddenly, and there was that teasing smirk again. It already felt familiar to Alec, but that was probably because he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the man's lips long enough to focus on anything else. He forced his gaze to meet Magnus', and his stomach flipped for the millionth time that night. God, he was so screwed.

It wasn't until Magnus raised an eyebrow that the question sunk in, and Alec's heart stopped for an entirely different reason. It must have been clear on his face, because Magnus' expression changed completely in a matter of seconds, his confidence clearly wavering. "I'm sorry," he said, reaching forward and placing his hand over Alec's, which were wringing together nervously. "You don't have to tell me."

Alec focused on the warmth of Magnus' skin against his, and he shook his head. For some reason, he felt like he could trust him, and he was tired of holding everything in. Maybe it was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that this man made Alec feel warmer than he ever had in his life, but before he could stop himself he started talking, letting the story spill out of his mouth. He told him about his cheating father, and his mending relationship with his mother, and how Christmas had never really felt like Christmas at all in his family, and the best part about it was that Magnus didn't look at him as if he was weak or pathetic. Instead, he just listened.

Alec had never met anyone who didn't feel the need to give their input. He grew up with nosy siblings and strict parents, eyes constantly watching and analyzing his every move. The fact that he could sit there and tell Magnus about such a big problem in his life and not receive any unrequested advice was shocking, and maybe just a little bit addicting, too. It made him want to keep talking, keep revealing parts of himself that he usually never dared to speak of, because somehow he knew that Magnus wouldn't complain, that maybe he would even be eager to hear it, but Alec refrained from doing so, reminding himself that they had only met hours ago.

They fell into silence, and Alec stared into the empty beer bottle in his grip as if he could find all of the answers he needed inside of it. Magnus' hand was still resting on his own, and when his thumb slid across his knuckles he looked up, immediately catching the other man's gaze. Magnus stared for a moment, his expression far away, before he smiled softly and eyed something behind Alec.

"Well, Alexander, I think this just might be the year that things turn around for you," he said, his voice gentle. Alec raised an eyebrow, turning and following Magnus' line of sight to see the clock.

It was 12:00 am. Christmas Day.

A rush of joy that could only be attributed to the man sitting across from him shot through Alec's body, and he offered Magnus a smile as he turned back around.

"I really hope you're right."

Chapter 2

Alec let out a hum as he woke to the sensation of soft lips trailing across the back of his neck down to his shoulder, and a sleepy grin spread across his face without him being fully conscious of it. If there was anybody who could make him smile within seconds of waking, it was Magnus. He kept his eyes closed as he turned to face his husband and nuzzled his face into his neck, letting out a long breath.

"What time is it?" Alec mumbled, dreading the answer. It wasn't that he wasn't looking forward to the day ahead, but he was so warm and comfortable that a part of him never wanted to leave the little bubble that him and Magnus always seemed to create. It was always like that with them, falling into the routine of wearing their hearts on their sleeves whenever they had a chance to be alone. It was becoming more and more rare these days, and they were determined to cherish every moment that they got.

"I'd say we have about 10 minutes before we are attacked," Magnus answered, clearly amused at Alec's reluctance to move.

Alec let out an over-dramatic groan and burrowed further under the covers, causing Magnus to laugh and run a hand through Alec's unruly bed hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. "You've been talking about how excited you are for weeks, darling."

"I am-" Alec began to reply, but he was interrupted by their bedroom door slamming open and two little blurs of pure energy jumping onto the bed. Alec barely had time to register their giggles before Max jumped onto his back, clinging to him as he sat up. Rafael was pulling on Magnus' hand when he looked up, and a warm feeling radiated in his chest. There had been so many mornings like this since they adopted the kids, but none that felt so significant. It was the first time in years that the entire family was going to be together in one place, celebrating the holiday.

"Come on, come on! It's time to open presents!" Max said, his entire being trembling with enthusiasm as he bounced up and down. Alec had never felt affection as pure as when he saw his kids so excited for something that he never got to have when he was younger. Christmas had always been something that him and his siblings despised, something that they hoped their parents would forget about every year.

It always started out fine, with each of them getting a few presents that usually disregarded everything that they had put on their lists, and a silent breakfast. But by the time they were ready to go to sleep at night, they were kept up by their parents' yelling. It usually involved alcohol, and ended with their mother crying quietly in the bathroom where she thought no one could hear her. Alec remembered huddling on his bed, his arms around Jace and Isabelle as they shook, and wondering why his family couldn't be like the ones he saw on tv.

All of those memories were dulled, though, by the sound of Max and Rafael's footsteps slapping down the hallway as they ran out into the living room, impatiently waiting for Alec and Magnus to get out of bed. Lips pressed to Alec's forehead, and he smiled as he felt the bed shift and turned to see Magnus standing.

"It seems I underestimated our children's eagerness. We better get out there before they explode," he said. He was wearing one of his extra-soft smiles, the one that he saved for the moments when he knew Alec wasn't mentally or emotionally at his best. They had been together for five years, married for three, and there was no one in the world who knew Alec better. Not even Isabelle, who had a tendency to be very observant and nosy.

Without a word, Alec stood and walked over to his husband, wrapping his arms around his waist. Keeping the fact that the kids could come running back into the room at any moment in mind, he pressed a brief kiss to Magnus' lips, lingering for just a few seconds before pulling back with a smile.

"Merry Christmas," he whispered in a suggestive voice, and the quiet laugh that Magnus gave in return was the best present Alec could ever receive.

---

"Alexander, you are not going to pregame this dinner," Magnus said, yanking the beer out of Alec's hand and setting it on the kitchen counter. "It's going to be fine."

"One beer wasn't going to hurt anyone." Alec pouted, ignoring when Magnus rolled his eyes. He looked stunning, in a fitted red silk shirt and tight black pants. He had toned down the makeup for the occasion- Alec hated that his husband felt the need to appeal more to his mother's standards whenever they went to see her, but he had to choose his battles- with thin black liner and pink eyeshadow. Alec never got tired of marveling at how absolutely gorgeous Magnus was, and in that moment, with the multicolored lights from the tree shining across his body, reflecting in his eyes, he looked otherworldly. Alec reached out and intertwined their fingers, allowing a smile to spread across his face. "I know it'll be fine. You'll be there."

Magnus glowed brighter than the lights as he smiled back, and just as he opened his mouth to reply, a voice sounded from behind them.

"I think dad and papa are flirting again, just like Aunt Izzy said," Max said, failing miserably in his attempt to stay quiet and go unnoticed. He had his hand cupped around one side of his mouth- Alec wouldn't mention that it was the wrong side- as though he was telling Rafael a very important secret. Alec and Magnus exchanged an amused glance before Alec squatted down so that he was eye-level with Max.

"You know what that means, right?" He whispered mysteriously, holding back a laugh as he watched his sons' eyes widen. They leaned closer, curiosity evident in their gazes, and Alec smiled. "We have cooties," he finished, then reached out to tickle both of them, delighting in the peals of laughter that left their throats. They wiggled around, trying to escape, but Alec picked both of them up in each arm and balanced them on his hips, pressing a kiss to their heads and only cringing a little bit at the sensation of the gel that Magnus placed there in an attempt to tame their hair.

"Now, speaking of Aunt Izzy," Magnus said, his smile wide as his eyes shifted across each of their faces. "Who's ready to go see her?"

The boys called out, raising their hands, and Alec met Magnus' gaze as he set them down. He took a deep breath, letting his husband's warm presence calm him, and nodded.

He was ready to finally have the Christmas he had always dreamed of.

—

The expression on Isabelle's face when she opened the door to their mother's house was priceless, and as she leaned in to hug Alec, she whispered, "Wait until you see this." The words made anxiety ball up in his stomach, but his sister still seemed to be in good spirits as she greeted Magnus and the kids, so he figured that whatever it was, it wasn't bad, just surprising.

"Take off your shoes," he instructed right before Max and Rafael went to run into the house, and watched fondly as they shoved them off of their feet. He neatened up the boots quickly, and as they jetted down the hallway, Magnus following quickly behind, he turned back to Isabelle, raising his eyebrows. "Wait until I see what?"

"Go in there and you'll find out." She nodded in the direction of the living room, and Alec narrowed his eyes at her, stalling for another few seconds before wrapping an arm around her and kissing her temple.

"I've missed you," he said sincerely as they walked together down the hallway. "How is Maia-"

Every single word that Alec had swirling around in his head came to a screeching halt as he entered the living room. Jace was sitting on the floor, laughing as Max and Rafael jumped all over him, his little brother Max was in one of the chairs playing a game on his phone, and on the couch sat his mother, but she was not alone. Luke, a family friend of theirs, was sat beside her, and their hands were grasped together as they watched the scene in front of them. Magnus was standing off to the side, his expression carefully composed as he looked at the couple, and Alec forced himself to do the same before anyone noticed his presence.

Isabelle squeezed his arm gently, whispering, "I know, right? I never saw it coming, but they actually look good together." Alec watched for another moment, waiting for his pulse to return to normal, then he cleared his throat. Maryse turned to look at him, and Luke a second later, and they both smiled, standing up with their hands still linked.

"Alec," his mother greeted, walking forward and releasing Luke only to wrap her arms around her son. Alec hugged her back gently, still not entirely used to exchanging affection with her. It had been years since they decided to put their past behind them and start over, but there had also been many years where they didn't get along whatsoever, so he felt like he was justified in feeling a little bit uncomfortable sometimes. There was no one he loved more than his family, but even he had his limits. "I'm so glad you could make it. You remember Luke, I'm sure?"

She sounded nervous, her eyes flitting across Alec's face as she waited for his reaction. His mind flashed back to all of the Christmases that ended in his mother crying, locked away where no one could reach her, and compared it to now. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips tilted up in a small grin, and it was such a sharp contrast to how she had been before that he was struck speechless for a moment. He hadn't known, back then, why his mother distanced herself from him and his siblings, why she always seemed so cold, but he did now. His father hadn't given her much of a choice. He forced her to build her defenses thicker and thicker until she couldn't see past them anymore, and after he finally left, it had taken more than just a few conversations to get her to take some of them down again. She was happy now. That's all Alec ever wanted for the people he loved, and he certainly never wanted them to think otherwise.

"Of course," he replied, leaning forward to shake Luke's hand. "It's nice to see you."

Maryse practically beamed as Luke placed his hand on her back, and Alec felt warm, not because he was embarrassed or because he felt awkward, but because this was the first time in so long that he felt normal. He finally had everything he wanted.

Later that night, as they all sat around the table, eating and laughing and enjoying each other's company, Alec nudged Magnus with his arm. His husband met his eyes, tilting his head slightly just like he had when Alec introduced himself for the first time, and a wide grin settled on Alec's face as he spoke quietly.

"You were right, all of those years ago," he murmured, intertwining their fingers. Magnus only seemed to become more confused at this, and Alec let out a small laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. "You said it would be the year that things turned around for me."

Magnus looked taken aback at this, but pleasantly surprised nonetheless. He squeezed Alec's fingers, signifying that they would talk about it more later, and Alec squeezed back, his heart already pounding in anticipation.

Back then he had no idea just how much that unsuspecting man who was walking in front of him would change his life, but it was as though the second they collided- literally- Alec's entire world brightened. He had been lost for so long, unable to see light at the end of the tunnel he had been traveling inside of for years, but Magnus helped guide him out of it, helped him see that there was not only still beauty in the world, but also still beauty in himself. No amount of time or words could ever repay that debt, but he would try for the rest of his life if that's what it took.

Alec had always dreamed of having the perfect Christmas, but he realized in that moment, with everyone he loved in the same room, that this one occasion was no different than his every day, because no matter what, he was always surrounded by people who made his life brighter than any present or decoration ever could.

#jinellewarner #malecsanta17 #*fic17 #*gifts17

27 notes · View notes

countryole · 6 years

Text

Explain The Infinite

Read it here at Archive Of Our Own or over here at Fanfiction.net.

Title: Explain The Infinite Rating: T

"It terrifies him to think that in almost no time at all he will be a father, that they will be parents." Love is infinite, and all encompassing. Lorna and Marcos find out just how true that really is.

Marcos is exhausted.

The past week has been nothing but transport runs with John, ferrying refugee mutants to different stations outside of Georgia. They are taking them to safety, away from the heat of Sentinel Services and their relentless pressure to find the Mutant Underground in Atlanta. They were once a safe haven, a place of sanctuary, but with stations throughout the state failing, falling to Sentinel Service raids, it’s only a matter of time before they have to face the inevitable and fight back.

So for days on end Marcos has loaded broken families into tractor trailers to be smuggled across state lines, comforted crying children in the shadows of crawl spaces, all the while praying--desperately--that their effort is not in vain, that their lives will be saved.

He trudges up the HQ stairs to his and Lorna's bedroom, running a hand over his face, his weeks-unshaven beard scragglier than usual, dark circles permanently imprinted under his eyes. He hasn't slept enough, and when he can sleep he hasn't been able to. There's too much at stake, too much that could happen, for his mind to allow him the luxury of fitful rest. When he does manage to close his eyes the nightmares are there to greet him—monsters everywhere, rearing their ugly heads.

He slips quietly as he can through their bedroom door, his shadow stretching across the room, dancing along the far wall with the lamplight that glows from their bedside table. Lorna leaves it on for him until he comes back. Above their bed the art he'd made for her greets him, a metallic aurora, vibrant and bright. She's curled up on the bed below it, burrowed into the pillows on his side, peacefully asleep for the first time in months. Marcos sighs, thankful for small mercies.

He strips out of his clothes in the bathroom, quietly washes his face, forever being watched by the man in the mirror across from him. Marcos balances his hands on the unsteady sink, staring back at his reflection. He looks older, or at least he thinks he does, as if the last seven months have aged him faster than they should have. He contemplates shaving, wondering if it will make him look less tired, less wild. He decides against it, like he often does, choosing to save what little energy he has for anything but himself.

"Hey, I tried to wait up for you."

Marcos turns, finding Lorna propped against the door frame. Her green hair is mussed and messy as she stretches her arms and smiles, green eyes sleepy and warm. The t-shirt of his that she's wearing is doing very little to hide the visible rise of her stomach. At almost thirty weeks, it's obvious now that she's pregnant, though still small by most standards according to Caitlin. Marcos has done nothing but marvel at the way her body has changed, and even now he can't help but stare at her openly, forever enchanted by the most beautiful thing in the world.

"I didn't mean to wake you up," he reaches for her hand, and she comes to him, happy to oblige.

"I'm glad I did," Lorna yawns, stepping into his arms and resting her head against his chest. She hums in contentment when he tangles one hand in her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, "I missed you."

When they were first together, being separated for days or weeks at a time was the norm, but the closer they've gotten to the baby arriving, the harder it's gotten to withstand any sort of physical distance. Lorna's been put on the equivalent of house arrest, something they all agreed to for her safety, as well as the safety of everyone else. It kills her not to go with him when he leaves, forced to stay behind, being on the sidelines of the action synonymous with her version of hell. There's also the ever looming worry that every time Marcos leaves HQ for a supply run, for a refugee transfer, for medical supplies, there's a chance he might not come back.

"Were you sick today?" He asks. Her eyes drop, and her lips twist down in a frown.

"A little," she admits, "mostly just dizzy. Cait checked on me all day though."

"You're sure everything's fine?" Marcos' brow knits in worry, and Lorna reaches up to touch his face, trying to reassure him. She’s struggled more in these later months than she did in the early parts of her pregnancy, much to Marcos’ and Caitlin’s dismay.

"Everything's fine.”

Lorna's conviction lacks it's usual surety, her words laced with worry instead. Uncertainty is uncharacteristic of the fearless, frightful woman known as Polaris throughout the Mutant Underground. It's a sign weakness, and weakness is something Lorna hates. Admitting to it is something she hates even more.

"Let's go to bed," Marcos worries his thumb against her neck, "we can sleep in tomorrow, for once."

"You might—“ Lorna laughs, wrapping her arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his mouth “—your kid? Probably not."

"Not even born and already a trouble maker? Sounds suspiciously like her mother."

Without warning, but with great care, Marcos reaches down and lifts Lorna off her feet. A shrill, surprised noises squeaks past her lips as she clings tighter to his neck, and it turns into another laugh, warm against his ear as she tucks herself against him. He delivers her to their bed, gently laying her down before crawling in beside her. They assume their regular position of tangled legs and arms, Lorna as close as possible, her head resting against his chest, her hand over his heart.

Between them, without warning, the colorful lights of an aurora start to glow and spin and twist. The more time that passes, the closer they get to the end of the pregnancy, the more frequently they appear. Lorna beams at Marcos through the darkness, and the unborn child moves in answer between them, butterfly kicks he can feel against his own ribs where Lorna is pressed close.

"I forgot to tell you," Lorna yawns, closing her eyes and nestling closer, "but Caitlin said she has a surprise for us tomorrow."

"A surprise?" Marcos murmurs, sleep threatening him, "You always used to tell me you hated surprises."

"I did, but that was before."

"Before what?"

"I found you."

Marcos wakes up to sunlight streaming through the beaded curtains of their bedroom window, and an empty space where Lorna should have been.

His first reaction is to panic, immediately shocked out of the heady haze of sleep. He rolls over in bed, swinging his feet onto the floor, and that's when he sees the note on the bedside table next to his burner phone. With a little more composure he grabs it, bringing it close to read.

Down in the garden with Sonia. Love you. xo

Marcos sighs, falling back into the bed, his feet still planted firmly on the ground, the note crumpled in one hand. He gives his heart a moment to regulate the breakneck pace at which it's currently racing, using his other hand to shield his eyes from the sunlight. Once his pulse is no longer galloping inside his head, he sits up again, and slowly makes his way to the shower before getting dressed and resolving to return to the real world below.

He passes familiar faces on the way down. Shatter and a few new recruits are carrying more cots up the stairs, and Zingo trots by on the ground level without a passing glance, on a mission in the direction of the kitchen for breakfast scraps. Marcos heads to the back of their destitute building, to the small garden Sonia managed to create on the large stone steps leading to the courtyard, long ruined by whatever devastation once touched this place.

When he steps outside, the spring weather greets him, crisp and cool. He immediately spots the two women among the wooden crates scattered along the steps. Sonia is pruning overgrown green vegetation, and Lorna follows behind her, her own set of gardening clippers floating in the air above her, spinning around in lazy figure eights without achieving much of their intended purpose. He can vaguely hear them chattering as they move, accompanied by the occasional sound of laughter.

He tries to think of the number of times he’s seen Lorna like this, relatively free of worry, genuinely happy, smiling in earnest as if their world weren’t on the verge of falling apart around them. He takes a seat on the broken steps, content to watch her until she spots him. It never takes long for her to find him when he’s close by. She jokes that she has a special sixth sense reserved just for him, but it’s true, and seconds later she turns in his direction. Their eyes meet from across the garden, and her face lights up when she smiles at him.

She grabs Sonia’s arm, leaning forward to whisper in her ear, but she's still looking at him, grinning. Marcos watches with narrowed eyes and mock suspicion, but he grins too, chin is his hands, his face bright with boyish mirth as she starts to make her way toward him.

“Buenos dias,” Marcos watches the way the sunlight hits her hair just so, the dimples of her face when she grins at him, “you look beautiful.”

“Good morning,” Lorna stops on a lower step in front of him, running her hand though his messy hair he did not take the time to comb, smoothing it back out with a shake of her head, “I see I’m not the only one who forgot to brush my hair this morning, sleep good, huh?”

The question is posed in jest, but he can't bring himself to answer. Despite the fact that they both know a lie of omission is still a lie, it’s easier than admitting that neither of them ever sleep very well these days. She doesn’t press him, but her eyes are sad again. Marcos grabs her wrists, pulling her closer, and she leans forward to kiss him. This kiss is longer than it needs to be, soft, yearning, and Lorna has to force herself to pull away.

“Sit with me?”

Lorna shakes her head, and a new full-fledged smile breaks at the corners of her mouth.

“No, I need you to get up and come with me.”

Marcos tilts his head, curious, releasing her from his hold. She waves him up insistently, and with some effort he clambers back to his feet, wincing at the process. Lorna can’t help but chuckle, watching him with mild amusement. She refrains from making any jokes about him getting old, or saying "now you know how I feel", an unusual mercy for her to grant him. The lack of torment on her part gives way to real suspicion on his. Once he’s up, she grabs his hand, lacing her ringed fingers through his.

“Caitlin’s surprise is ready,” Lorna explains as she pulls him back up the steps to go inside. Marcos follows obediently, having completely forgotten. Lorna’s excitement is palpable, her expression openly cheery, a rarity for the fellow mutants they pass in the hall that are mainly familiar with her scowl.

“Do you know what it is?”

Lorna grins at his question.

“I might have found out,” after the admission, Lorna makes sure to add emphasis absolving her of any crimes, “but by accident.”

“Aha. I’m sure it was an accident,” Marcos raises an eyebrow, “and I’m sure that you didn’t accidentally go out of your way at all to accidentally find out.”

Lorna tugs his hand in retaliation at his less than subtle insinuation of her guilt, her scowl making a brief appearance, but her eyes remain bright with exuberance. Marcos quickly realizes that they’re headed in the direction of their makeshift delivery room, the place where Caitlin spends most of her time these days pouring over human variant medical journals and textbooks, in preparation for the midwife she’ll have to be in the weeks to come.

Marcos almost blanches at the thought. It terrifies him to think that in almost no time at all he will be a father, that they will be parents. He steals a sideways glance at Lorna, and the flare of fear abates in her presence, the wayward, doubtful thoughts assuaged by the feel of her hand wrapped in his. He has nothing but adoration for her, and it swells in his chest, makes his throat tight with emotion. Lorna has been fearless throughout all of this, despite being sick the majority of the pregnancy, despite the doubts and the uncertainties they’ve both battled. It doesn't surprise him though, because Lorna has always been that way—resolute and determined, fierce in ways he's never been able to be himself.

Marcos is certain he cannot love her more, but Lorna never fails to find new ways to prove him wrong.

“Well? What is it?”

Marcos’ question hangs in the air between them as they come to a stop at Caitlin’s closed door. Lorna pauses before opening it, quickly leaning over to kiss his cheek. She gives a slight flick of her wrist, the door swinging back, green currents of energy twisting in and out between her fingertips.

“Trust me, you’re going to love it.”

Lorna watches Marcos' intently as they enter the room, more eager to see the look of surprise on his face than she is the actual surprise they’re here for. Weeks ago he and John had worked endlessly to restore this room on the lower level to functioning order, reworking the plumbing for running water, rewiring the electric and fixing the floor and walls.

He hasn't seen it sense their part of the project was finished, and now he stands beside her, marveling at the transformation. It's a miniature hospital room, complete with the proper medical storage Caitlin has needed for months, cabinets full of supplies they've collected, a proper exam table, a hospital bed. The collection of items are used and worn, sent from different sympathizers all over the state, but they feel new given how long they've desperately needed a set up like this for the underground.

The best part is that it has Cait's touch, and instead of feeling cold and sterile, the room is warm and welcoming. The windows face west, where they'll let the evening light in, and artwork from Cait's school kids already decorate the wall above a small desk in the corner along with the shelf that houses her growing book collection on human variant medicine.

"What do you think?"

Cait appears from a small utility closet on the far side of the room, blonde hair tied back and eyes crinkled and bright. Esme appears behind her, carrying a small box of supplies. Cait has taken the telepath under her wing, training Esme to assist her in various tasks, studying under her as an apprentice of sorts. She nods in acknowledgement at Lorna and Marcos, blue eyes gentle and kind, a soft spoken hello passing between them as she steps around and goes to sort the contents of the box into the cabinets.

"I don't know what to say," Marcos' eyes roam over the room, part in wonder, part in relief, "it's wonderful, Caitlin. It’s perfect, thank you."

"You're welcome, but it wouldn't have happened without you and John," Cait grins, appraising the small medical paradise now at her disposal. Lorna has Marcos' hand captured in hers, holding it so tightly he has to wiggle his fingers to make her loosen her grip. She dips her head in apology, but her eagerness leaves no room for real remorse.

"Lorna's already figured out the surprise," Cait's tone is motherly and reprimanding, but she’s amused at Lorna’s childlike excitement, "I'm assuming you'd like to know what it is too. Esme, are we ready?"

"Ready," Esme replies, no longer putting away supplies. She's in the corner of the room, rolling something toward them, coming to a stop at the side of the exam table. It's covered by a sheet, almost waist high, and all three of the women are smiling suspiciously between one another. Caitlin waves Lorna over, patting the exam table for her to sit. Lorna pulls Marcos with her, trying to ignore the brief wave of dizziness that often accompanies her anytime she moves too quickly these days. Marcos' sense are so finally in tune with her, he doesn't miss the way she takes a deeper breath than normal, and he gives her his classic look of concern as he helps her take a seat. He knows better than to ask her out loud, knowing how much she hates when he frets in front of everyone, but she squeezes his hand to reassure him.

Esme removes the sheet from the mysterious object, and Marcos becomes very, very still.

"Is that a--"

"An ultrasound machine," Cait finishes with glee, leaning against the unit and patting the top of the computer monitor proudly, "a Combison 310, to be exact. It's an early 90s model, but it works."

"Wait, so this means—this means—" Marcos can't even complete the sentence, words lost in light of the realization as it hits him.

"We get to see the baby," Lorna replies, "we get to see our baby."

Marcos laughs, the sound pure and good and perfect it's as if it lights up the room all over again. Lorna cherishes that sound more than anything, she lives for the look of pure bliss on his face in moments like this, and she does her very best to commit both sound and sight to memory. He pulls her hand to his mouth, presses a kiss to the back of it, the exhaustion from the past week erased from his face by overwhelming, unadulterated joy.

"But how did you manage to get it?" Marcos stares at the machine, floored, fingers reaching out to touch it in reverence, "This kind of equipment costs thousands of dollars, maybe more."

"I spent one of my rotations in nursing school under an OB/GYN that went private practice after the mutant laws went into affect, I reached out to her a few weeks ago and found out she's retiring this year," Cait uncurls the power chord and hands it to Esme. "I explained as much of our situation as I could, and she wanted to donate to the cause. We'll be able to use it for a lot here, but this," she smiles, gesturing at Lorna and Marcos, "this is why I really wanted it."

"But why?" Marcos wonders aloud, "Why would she do that?"

Following Marcos’ question the air becomes still and heavy. Cait looks to Esme, the two women exchanging forlorn glances. Lorna pulls Marcos' hand to her stomach, letting it rest there with her own, their baby just beneath their entwined fingers. Something simmers in the green of her eyes, a flash of anger Marcos knows all too well, and his brow knits in worry, though he forces himself to wait for an explanation.

He can feel the baby kick, a restless flutter. Could it be that their unborn child could already feel it’s mothers rage? Or understand it? His heart aches at the thought.

"Her son passed away during on July 15th,” Lorna’s words are quiet, somber, spoken from between clenched teeth, “he was a mutant."

There is a moment of silence that swallows the room, and every reason, every injustice he's ever witnessed, every abuse he's been privy to his entire mutant life comes racing back to him in a heartbeat. Fathers and mothers, sons and daughters, all victims of this war they've been fighting against each other—blood on blood on blood. Marcos stands frozen beside Lorna, now clinging to her hand like an anchor. He thinks about the streets of Bogota where he spent his childhood, about the stories Lorna has told him of her own, and the scars they both carry as a result. He thinks about the lives he's taken to save his own, and to save Lorna. He thinks about the lives he would take to protect his own child.

Would it ever stop?

Would he ever be able to keep them safe?

Caitlin’s hand finds his shoulder, pulling him out of the darkness of his thoughts.

“For what it’s worth, we are going to make this world better,” Cait rolls the ultrasound closer, “but we can’t do it by living in the past, we have to do it by living for the future. Now, let's look at this kid."

Marcos sits on the end of the exam table, next to Lorna’s feet where they dangle off the edge. She’s reclined against the headrest, attempting to wear her best poker face as she watches Cait walk Esme through the steps of prepping the machine. Her eyes are what give her away, a mixture of worry clouding them, dampening the animated excitement that had been there before. He knows she struggles in these moments of vulnerability, in giving parts of herself to other people, a fine tuned fear of the uncontrollable and unknown.

But Marcos can see what Lorna can’t. It’s during these moments that she is bravest, and that is when he loves her most.

“Ready?” Cait asks over her shoulder, one handing holding the part of the machine she had called the transducer, the other making adjustments on the monitor.

“Here,” Esme hands a nondescript squeeze bottle to Marcos, before glancing at Lorna with a small grin, “that’s the ultrasound gel, you’ll want to make sure you cover you entire stomach pretty well. I figure Marcos can do the honors. It’s kinda cold, just so you know.”

The telepath turns away, busies herself consulting Cait on the preliminary ultrasound readings in attempts to give them what little privacy she can. Marcos looks up at Lorna, and she nods in permission, carefully pulling up the hem of her sweater above her round belly. This part, the baring herself to the world, having to share something that has been so private, is difficult. She does it with as much grace as Lorna Dane can possibly muster, a feet in itself. Pregnancy and all it’s handicaps have not suited her; being fawned over and treated as fragile have only served to make her more irritable, much to the dismay of those in the underground who were unfortunate enough to cross her on a bad day.

“What if something’s wrong?” Lorna looks at Marcos, suddenly anxious, hugging her arms closer.

“I don’t think we have anything to worry about,” Marcos muses aloud, carefully coating Lorna’s pale skin with the clear gel, and she scrunches her nose at the chill of it, “at worse she’ll come out kicking and screaming, looking for a fight, just like her mother.”

Lorna jerks her knee into Marcos back, and his smile turns into a grimace.

“I was kidding.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“Fine, I was mostly kidding.”

Lorna’s eyes are narrowed in faux exasperation, but it’s short lived. She reaches for Marcos’ hand after he hands the gel back to Esme, the worry on her face returning. He laces his fingers through hers, and Cait turns to face them, transducer wand in hand.

“Ready?”

Lorna’s grip on his hand tightens, and she nods.

Cait steps forward, and with great care she places the flat surface of the transducer to Lorna’s skin. She runs it gently over the slope of Lorna’s stomach, lips pressed in a thin line of concentration, moving with calculated precision. All eyes are on the ultrasound monitor, unmoving. The room is completely silent except for the gentle whirring of the machine, and the next few seconds feel like hours, until Marcos sees it.

The screen, once a blank void, materializes first into an unrecognizable, grainy black and white landscape. Then the flat image starts to take shape, coming into focus, so clear, so real, Marcos feels like he could reach out and touch it. He’s frozen, as is Lorna, their eyes locked on the little curled fists and tiny feet that materialize, the outline of a nose, a face, a mouth that yawns. The tiny owner is already bored with entertaining them, kicks out with both feet, visibly announcing disinterest in the the gathered crowd.

Noise fills the room, a steady endless echo that beats in time with the flutter of movement on the screen.

“Is that—”

Marcos chokes up. He can feel tears at the edges of his eyes. He sways, dizzy with emotion, one hand clinging to Lorna, the other gripping the bed to keep himself upright.

“It’s her heart.”

Her heart.

Marcos sucks in a breath, a gasp for air, and next to him Lorna’s laugh sounds more like a cry of relief as she covers her mouth.

Her heart.

Strong and beating, inexplicably real, undeniably alive.

“It’s a girl?” Lorna asks softly, her own cheeks already damp, her eyes failing to contain the tears.

“From what I can see, it’s definitely a girl,” Cait confirms, her grin the widest in the room. “Her heart rate is normal. Here and here,” she points at the screen, “these measurements around her head, how long she is, all normal. I’ll make sure we save stills of these shots, for us to study, but she’s perfect.”

“Aurora,” Marcos murmurs, still fiercely gripping the bed, his head spinning, the sound of his daughters heartbeat flooding the room, and his head, “her name is Aurora.”

“Aurora,” Esme repeats, her voice soft and musical in time with their daughter’s heartbeat. Esme is studying the ultrasound monitor as she speaks, and the image wavers, disappears and comes back, the baby’s miniature hands move as if in answer. Marcos turns to Lorna, and then Cait as she adjusts the transducer again. Once more the image flutters, disappearing and coming back into focus.

“Is that normal?” Lorna asks, “what the screen is doing?”

“Yes and no,” Cait replies, watching the monitor carefully.

“Wait,” Esme reaches out, touches Cait’s shoulder to still her, becoming very still herself. Cait glances at the telepath, eyebrow raised in question. Esme’s brow furrows, and she turns from the screen to Lorna and Marcos, her mouth open as if to speak, but the words are caught in her throat. Her blue eyes are filled with a mixture of shock and disbelief.

“I have to ask,” Esme touches Lorna’s shoulder, as if to ground her from whatever she just felt, “may I look at your thoughts?”

Marcos holds his breath at Esme’s request, and looks to Lorna to gauge her reaction. The infinite landscape inside Lorna’s mind is unexplainable, impossible to imagine. She has spent her entire life trying to control it, and Marcos has watched her struggle, as well as succeed, at conquering the monsters she lives with. What Esme is asking is the most someone could ever ask of the woman lying on the bed beside her. No one else has ever actually seen the things Lorna sees, the demons she lives with, the fears that she carries, not even Marcos. She would never ask that of anyone. She would never want to subject them to the chaos of the daily war she fights inside her head.

Lorna and Esme exchange glances, something passing between the women that Marcos can’t explain. Lorna is torn, the corners of her lips turned down in trepidation. Closing her eyes in resignation, she nods.

“Ok.”

Esme bows her head, and takes a step closer to the bedside, her hand finding Lorna’s shoulder. Cait kneels down beside them, readjusting the transducer, eyes still on the flickering screen. Esme’s eyes shift and change, brilliant and blindingly blue as she stares into the unknown.

The screen darkens and reappears again, but Aurora’s heartbeat seems louder, stronger than before.

“It’s not you,” Esme shakes her head in wonder, peers intently at Lorna, and then at the rise of her stomach, and the child hidden inside, “I thought it was you.”

“What do you mean?” Marcos asks, confused at Esme’s vague explanation. The telepath is at a loss for words, and as she continues to stare, eyes distant. They begin to glisten, clearly overwhelmed by what she’s witnessing in the visions beyond the world they can see.

“It’s not you I hear,” Esme holds tight to Lorna’s shoulder, “it’s her.”

Marcos stares at Lorna, a new wave of emotion flooding his veins with warmth, constricting his chest. The feeling rises into his throat as a broken laugh, a cry of disbelief, somehow working it’s way into the open. Lorna is desperately trying to contain herself, but her composure is long broken, her expression indescribable.

“Esme,” Cait cautions, seeing that she’s struggling to remain composed, “are you ok?”

“She’s so clear, she’s so loud, never in my life…” the bright light of Esme’s eyes fade, and she reels from the effort, steadying herself as she sways.

Lorna reaches for Esme’s wrist, and the gentle touch brings the telepath back to them. She is crying.

“What did you hear? What did she say?”

“She knows that you love her, and she already loves you. She loves you so very much.”

She knows that you love her.

Marcos is sprawled across their bed, Lorna’s arm draped lazily across his chest, skin to skin. She is warm, perfectly curled into his side where she is meant to be, the swell of her stomach nestled between them. Every now and then Marcos can feel the baby kick, and his fingers stroke the skin of Lorna’s stomach to pacify her. He murmurs, soft whispers no one can hear, and she falls still again.

She knows. The thought still sits at the forefront of his mind, at the revelation they’d had in the delivery room. He’s struggled to contain the flood of emotions he’s had since then, as has Lorna, both of them crying and laughing and tangled in each other’s arms in private once they’d returned to their bed.

Lorna’s hand traces lazy circles across Marcos’ chest, her eyes closed. Marcos grabs it, curls her fingers up in his. He presses a kiss to her knuckles, and then the top of her head, breathing her in, wishing they could stay here forever just like this.

Their nights have often been spent in hushed conversation, fears of the future voiced to one another, forever wondering if bringing a child into this world was something they could do—wondering if they would fail as parents, if they could give their child everything it would need to thrive in the insanity of their world. Tonight they find solace in silence instead, for once not worried about the unknowns of parenting that lie ahead.

Despite their fears and their worries, despite the chaos and the danger of what might lie ahead, they have an unborn daughter who is already aware of the most important thing she’ll ever need to remember for the rest of her life.

That their love for her is infinite.

If that’s the only thing they get right, it will be enough.

#eclaris #the gifted #lorna dane #marcos diaz #ALL THE FLUFF #writing #fanfic: the gifted #fanfic: mine

12 notes · View notes

ellanainthetardis · 7 years

Photo

We have a long night ahead of us today! I hope you enjoy this chapter! Please do let me know!

[FF] or [AO3]

Chapter 20 : Dead Man Walking

On the third night of Training, Haymitch woke up damp with sweat.

He was sitting, panting hard, eyes searching the dark corners of the room for… What? Danger. He gripped the handle of his knife harder, ready to jump at any possible threat. Ready to…

“Haymitch.”

He blinked as light flooded the bedroom.

He didn’t understand at first.

Effie was standing there in the crumpled tee-shirt he had worn all day, staring at him with uncertainty, her hands up in the air in a gesture of peace. His eyes darted around, surprised to find himself in her bedroom when he had been so sure he was… there.

“It’s alright, Haymitch.” she coaxed slowly. “It was just a nightmare.”

There was nothing just about his nightmare.

For her to have gotten out of bed – and thank God she had gotten out of bed before he could stab her – it must have been a bad one.

He looked down at his hand, expecting his fingers and the handle of the knife to be covered in blood…

There was no knife. There was no knife because he never brought it to her room at night exactly in case this sort of things happened. Her hairbrush was trapped in his fist.

He had all the pain in the world letting go.

His breathing wasn’t calming down and he felt dizzy. His ears were ringing, his stomach was churning and he bolted out of bed and to the bathroom before he could be sick right there.

He kneeled in front of the toilets but it wouldn’t come out.

It wouldn’t…

He was aware Effie was hovering nearby, hesitating to approach yet.

He was shivering badly and, coupled with his short breathing, it was making it very difficult to remain conscious. He wanted to throw up, somehow confusedly thinking it would make him feel better. His stomach hurt and he gagged a few times but couldn’t actually manage to puke. He slumped on the open toilets without any care for how pitiful it must have looked. He was hot, too hot, like he was running a fever.

Images kept flashing in front of his eyes.

Effie’s voice was coming from very far away.

She must have tossed caution to the wind because next thing he knew, there was a damp towel patting at his nape. He flinched when her hand grabbed his shoulder but he didn’t lash out. He was too weak to lash out.

He collapsed back against her. It took her aback and she almost overbalanced. She managed to keep them both steady though, as steady as they could be when they were sitting on the bathroom’s cold tiles in the dead of night.

The damp towel on his face was a relief and he clung to that feeling. He clung to that feeling with all his might and tried to ignore everything else. Block the images. Swallow back the panic.

The cloth left his cheek to run down on his throat, the back of his neck…

The shaking didn’t ease but the dizziness slowly receded, the nausea calmed down enough that he could try to work on his breathing. It wasn’t easy. It came out as loud heavy pants and every intake of breath was a painful whizzing punch to the chest.

“C… Cold.” he stuttered after a few minutes.

He wouldn’t have been able to sit by himself and she must have realized that because instead of fetching something warm, she simply shed her – his – shirt and slipped it over his head, guiding his arms in the sleeves like one would have done with a child.

It wasn’t exactly a rampart against that cold that came from within but her body was warm enough and he burrowed into it. She discarded the towel and wrapped herself around him like an octopus, apparently getting the idea.

If anyone else had seen him like that, he might have been mortified.

Effie… It wasn’t the first time. It was hard to be mortified with her when she had cleaned him up after he had been sick on himself more times than he could count. It was hard to be mortified when he had drunkenly ranted his pathetic life story to her enough times for her to know it by heart. It was hard to be mortified when she had seen him at his lowest point.

Sure, the lowest point wasn’t too far from this moment, because having panic attacks in the middle of the night didn’t rank high on his list of good times but…

Slowly, painfully, he managed to get his breathing back under control until it came out in slightly heavy puffs.

“Do you want to try and go back to bed?” she asked, detached.

She wouldn’t make the mistake of sounding commiserating. She knew him too well. He didn’t want sympathy and she wouldn’t give it. She would give affection and fondness and… that word that still terrified him sick but that he was becoming accustomed with because he was going to die so it couldn’t be the death sentence it used to be, could it?

He shook his head hard at her suggestion though.

There was no way he was lying back down, no way he would close his eyes again. Not without a bottle or two. Not without…

“Alright.” she agreed easily. “We can get up. I will have some tea brought for us in the living-room. We can play chess.”

“You… You suck at chess.” he pointed out through still chattering teeth.

“Poker, then.” she retorted. “You cannot beat me out at poker.”

“You wish.” he joked, for her sake more than his.

She helped him up and he tried not to feel too humiliated by that. She made sure his legs would hold before letting go, not meeting his eyes. She was naked now and he briefly entertained thoughts of funnier activities than a game of poker but he dismissed it quickly enough. He wasn’t in any shape to do that.

He checked the clock while she got dressed in silky blue shorts and a top. It was only three a.m. He knew she was tired from all her days of walking around on high heels and courting sponsors. He used to mock her for that but he had eventually understood it took energy to be so cheerful and bubbly all the time.

“You should go back to sleep.” he suggested half-heartedly.

She tied her silk dressing gown around her waist and picked up the sweatpants that had somehow gravitated to her room from the dresser. “I was not sleeping. I had a nightmare of my own. Truly, you are making me a favor by keeping me company.”

He wasn’t sure if she was lying or not but the perspective of killing time on his own until dawn rose was too daunting for him to insist. He put on the sweatpants and went in search of the stash of board games and cards that were stocked somewhere in a cupboard in the living-room – in case the tributes were in the mood for more games, he figured. They had used them occasionally when other victors had stayed for a late night drink.

He grabbed a few boxes of Effie’s favorites as well as the cards and the chessboard.

The living-room was cold, dark and empty and it made him shiver. He turned the lights to the maximum, as bright as they could go. There were flashes of colors from outside and he wandered to the bay window, wondering if the Capitol ever slept. It was a stupid question. He knew the answer to that, naturally.

He had always hated the Games parties but he would have taken them over being forced to get up for Training now.

He hated being back on the other side. The routine… Waking up at a designated time, sitting through advices during breakfast like he was a rookie and the boy had all the wisdom, heading down on the dot because Effie was obsessive about being on time and it wasn’t worth a fight, waiting for at least a good hour alone with Two’s victors for everyone else to show up, training in itself…

Katniss hung around the mostly empty stations, stuff that the other tributes dismissed to focus on weaponry. Sometimes Haymitch stuck with her because he wasn’t in the mood for socializing. Sometimes he made an effort to mix with the others in an attempt to find out more about their weaknesses.

He had trained in hand to hand combat with Chaff that day. Eleven’s victor was swifter than expected but Haymitch was stronger and he had pinned him down in a couple of minutes, his arm wrapped tight around his friend’s throat in a move that could have been deadly. He could have snapped Chaff’s neck.

The instructor had congratulated him. Chaff had joked it off. The few who had stopped to watch had turned away with a new information to keep in mind: he could fight.

He had hated every second it.

The knowledge that it could so easily become real in a few days.

Johanna and Finnick were avoiding him and he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He loved those kids but… He supposed putting some distance between the three of them wasn’t the worst idea. Mags had come to him a few times but their conversations had been mostly superficial aside for one or two vague exchanges about what had happened to make the rebellion collapse. People covertly came to him about that as if he had any answer.

He was envious.

He was envious of the boy who got to go to the parties, drink the booze, joke with their escort…

It didn’t help that he had grown so dependent on the comfort Effie could provide. It was pathetic, really. He was a grown man, not a teenager, and yet he behaved exactly like Katniss.

Effie and Peeta had stayed out late the previous evening. It was probably sad how he and Katniss had lingered in front of movies neither of them had been watching just because they couldn’t go to bed by themselves. At least, Katniss could acknowledge that she was scared of having nightmares without Peeta there. Haymitch had muttered an unconvincing excuse about wanting to know how they had fared with sponsors.

He had never thought he would miss the city but being trapped in the Center really was doing nothing good to him. He missed the freedom most of all. He would have given anything to be allowed out in the streets, to breathe the air that never felt pure to him, to be free to wander all he wanted without Peacekeepers behind his back.

“I ordered teapots.” Effie declared, interrupting his musing. “I thought it would be easier than going back to the kitchen every five minutes.”

They had barely settled down on either side of the coffee table – and he wondered what the kids would have to say if they got up and stumbled on them sitting cross-legged on the expensive rug like overgrown children – when the redheaded Avox girl whose sight had upset Katniss the previous year rolled a cart with two steaming teapots in the room.

“Thanks.” he mumbled automatically.

“Thank you, I will pour.” Effie said distractedly. “You may go back to bed. I will ring if I need anything else.”

The girl gave her an obedient nod and disappeared back in the dark corridors.

He swallowed back a remark on the way she treated Avoxes. She was more polite than most as it was and it always led to an argument anyway – because to her eyes they were criminals – so he let it rest. He didn’t have the energy to get into that tonight.

She was still so prejudiced on certain things…

She poured them two mugs while he dealt the cards.

They played two rounds, betting stupid things like oral or different sex positions… It was mostly for fun since neither of them was keeping tracks. Haymitch couldn’t quite focus, his body felt heavy like often after a panic attack, and Effie was far too good at bluffing. She was seriously kicking his ass but he didn’t mind. His favorite herbal tea went a long way into soothing his fray nerves. It would have been better with some whiskey in it but… He guessed you couldn’t have everything.

The smell of Effie’s strawberry tea was comforting too. Familiar.

She probably would have preferred white wine.

His eyes lingered on the only piece of jewelry she had on. The iris shaped ring was taunting him. It looked like she never took it off. She wore it to bed. She kept it in the shower. She kept it under her delicate lace gloves…

It wasn’t that she liked the ring so much, he figured, the diamond was too small compared to the huge rings she favored and the crafted petals and leaves were too discreet for her flashy tastes. It was the fact that he had given it to her. He had meant this as something she could sometimes take out of her box of memories and… Recollect.

If he had known she wanted some actual jewelry to wear…

The ring was inconspicuous because it was so simple. Nothing was ever so plain and simple in the Capitol. He would have gotten her a shiny pink gemstone or something.

His own train of thoughts took him aback.

She was wearing that ring like some sort of proof of commitment. She was wearing it on her left hand. She was never taking it off. She was treating it like a wedding band. He had never intended it like that. He had asked nothing. He had never claimed strings were attached to the gift. Granted, she had never mentioned or requested anything but the way she wore the ring was enough. She was treating it like a wedding band.

And his only reaction to that was wishing he had gotten her a proper ring?

He was a dead man walking. He had nothing to offer her. Anything they would do would have no long term meaning.

And it was dangerous.

Except…

He was a dead man walking.

What does the Capitol care about who he slept with? It didn’t matter anymore. They had no reason to hold anyone against him. They were done with him.

“You want to have a toasting?”

The question passed his lips before he could hold it back.

He couldn’t get a real ring and it was probably for the best. That ring was simple. Like him. It wasn’t fake or…

Maybe he could give her something else anyway.

She had been studying her cards and she choked on her mouthful of tea. She coughed hard into the back of her hand, her bright eyes riveted on him.

“My apologies, what did you just say?” she asked.

He was considering suggesting they played it at poker when the scream echoed throughout the penthouse.

Katniss.

He was on his feet in seconds, heart racing in his chest, suddenly hyper-aware of his surroundings, hands patting at his waist for a weapon that wasn’t there. He would have rushed head first deep into the penthouse if Effie hadn’t planted herself in his path, hands wrapped tight around his forearms.

Her lips were moving but it took him a few seconds to actually hear.

“She is fine. It is just a nightmare.” she promised. “Haymitch. She is fine. Peeta is with her.”

He eventually accepted the words as truth. It was a minute or two before he relaxed though.

“She died.” he said flatly.

“I beg your pardon?” she frowned.

He swallowed hard and reached for her elbows. Their hands trailed down their forearms until they found each others. “In my nightmare. She died. They all died.” Only thinking about it was enough to make him nauseous again. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, defeated. His voice broke. “I can’t fail her.”

“You won’t.” she promised immediately. She stepped in his space and cupped his cheek. He leaned in her caress, not quite comforted by that oath. Her voice became tentative. “Haymitch, you will do everything you can to keep her alive, I know this. Peeta knows this. She might not but she is…”

“An ass.” he finished for her in a snort. He wasn’t sure Katniss was totally aware of what the plan was. She treated the whole thing as if they were both aiming to get out of there. He suspected it was too much for her to accept what he was willing to do for her. It was alright. He could live – and die – with that.

“Quite.” Effie approved, her thumb retracing the line of his cheekbone. “But… You know as well as I do that Games are never predictable. You will do everything you can but if she doesn’t survive…”

“No.” he spat, storming away from her and to the bay window. “No. She needs to win this, you understand? She needs to…” His voice faltered. “I can’t fail her. I failed everyone else. I can’t fail her.”

She didn’t ask who he was referring to. She was smart enough to understand.

His mother. Hayden. Mabel.

His family gone in smoke.

It was all a mess in his head. He was a mess.

He flinched when she wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her face between his shoulder blades but he didn’t push her away.

“Not dying for her is not failing her, darling.” she whispered carefully. “I am simply saying…”

“Well, don’t.” he snapped.

He waited for her to argue but she kept her peace and it made him feel… He had never expected her to accept this whole thing so easily. She was selfish. Always so selfish. Shouldn’t she be begging for him to get out no matter what? To throw Katniss and everyone else to the wolves and…

How horrible a man was he to want her, to need her, to say those words?

They had made a pledge, long ago. It had gone unvoiced and unacknowledged but it had always been implied that if they ever won, they would do everything they could to protect their victors. He had never thought it would be like this. He had thought it would be the classical stuff: the prostitution, the Capitol’s usual threats, the own stubborn stupidity of every new victor… What they hadn’t bet on was caring so much for those kids.

They might as well have been their own.

They shared them.

He wasn’t just going to save Katniss for his own conscience. It was for her too. For Peeta.

It was a noble sacrifice but, unfortunately, being noble had never been of any comfort to him. Dead was dead. It didn’t matter how it happened or how noble it had been.

Dead was dead and he didn’t want to die.

He really didn’t want to die.

He wanted someone to want him to not die too.

Was that so wrong?

Was that so wrong to want someone in his corner?

Was that so wrong to want someone to choose him?

Was that so wrong to want someone to love him as much as he loved those children?

“What are you even saying that for? You’re rooting for her anyway.” he accused bitterly. It was unfair maybe. Probably. He had asked her to accept it, he hadn’t given her a choice, he had told her…

She pressed a kiss over the fabric of his shirt, moving her hands up from his waist to grab his shoulders from behind, plastering herself even more to his back.

“It kills me, you know.” she said softly. “The thought of the two of you being tossed in there… The fact that I know only one of you will come back… Might come back… The fact that a part of me hopes it won’t be her…”

“Effie.” he snarled. He had been wrong. He didn’t want to hear those words. It felt like betraying their victors. Like…

“I know.” she chuckled. “I am a terrible person. The worst is… I love her. I do. But you… Haymitch, you…”

“Never meant to be.” he reminded her in a sneer.

“You do not believe in fate.” she retorted. “Stop hiding behind it. What does this even mean… Meant to be. We were. We are. I maintain it is enough.”

“It’s easier if…” he sighed.

“Nothing about this is easy.” she cut him off. “I love Katniss. I will do my best to help save her and so will you. But if we do not succeed, if she does not survive, I won’t sit here and give up. I will get you sponsors. I will do everything I can to save you. Katniss comes first but do not ask me to watch you die without a fight. I will fight. With all I have. ”

He briefly closed his eyes before turning around to hug her close.

“I don’t want to die.” he confessed in her hair. “But I’m not sure I’d know how to survive this, sweetheart. If it comes to that… Might be kinder to… let me go.”

“No.” she refused calmly and flatly. She was stating a fact, not having a discussion. “It is preposterous to speculate anyway. We won’t know until we are there. And when we are…”

“We save Katniss.” he finished.

“We try to save Katniss.” she amended.

She brushed her lips against his neck, brushed words against his skin.

He melt in those words even if he left them unacknowledged yet again.

He had forgotten how it felt to feel them. He had forgotten and now…

He leaned in to kiss her, to somehow try to pay her back in kind…

The sound of footsteps broke the spell and they jumped apart just in time not to be surprised by the two sleepy looking teenagers.

“Oh, this won’t do!” Effie clucked her tongue, self-consciously patting her bare blond hair. He wasn’t sure she had ever been caught without her wig by one of the kids. “You both need your beauty sleep and…”

“No.” Katniss refused with the same determination Haymitch had showed earlier, hugging herself.

Peeta’s arm immediately wrapped around her shoulders in a protective embrace. The boy gaze passed on them and to the abandoned cards on the table. “Can we play with you?”

Effie blinked - about to insist they should try to get some proper sleep, Haymitch was sure.

“Depends.” he shrugged, settling back on the rug and patting the empty space next to him so their escort would sit. “You know how to play poker?”

Unsurprisingly, they didn’t.

Teaching them was fun. Katniss was helpless at it and drank half the strawberry tea, to Effie’s dismay. Peeta caught up quickly and turned out to be good. Haymitch laughed more than once when it came to a battle between the boy and their escort.

Nobody could bluff like Effie though and so she won most of the rounds.

They moved on to a board game after a while.

Katniss ended up falling asleep with her head on Peeta’s shoulder a little after five. The boy carried her back to bed.

“You should try to get an hour or two of rest too.” Effie advised. “You cannot be tired during Training.”

“You know we mostly joke around and only throw stuff once in awhile, yeah?” he mocked, rubbing his eyes.

He let her drag him back to bed by hooking her fingers around his gold bangle though. He had known there was a hidden purpose to that thing.

She crawled on top of his chest and settled there like a warm blanket.

He coiled his fingers around her nape, slowly rubbing his thumb up and down her neck. She made her ring turn thoughtfully around her finger.

Neither of them slept.

Neither of them talked either.

#hayffie #effie trinket #haymitch abernathy #into that good night

18 notes · View notes

what-happened-to-agent-georgia · 7 years

Text

Promises Promises

I have returned from the Badlands, sun-burnt and ready for AngstTM!

For the RvB Angst War ( @rvbficwars ). Prompted by @secretlystephaniebrown: North Survives the Meta taking Theta.

Title: Promises Promises

Word Count: 2273

Pairings: None

Rating/Warnings: Teen; Canon-typical violence/language, Canonical-character death, possible non-canonical character death (if you believe everything PFL tells you...)

Ao3

It isn’t as painful as it is loud. Bright. Fireworks explode before his eyes, flashing blue and red and pink and purple.

Somewhere beyond the explosion of color there’s a scream. North thinks it might be his own, but it’s hard to tell because someone else’s voice is in his head, babbling the same phrase over and over.

<Don’t let go don’t let go don’t let—>

The wailing dies with a final burst of violet light. Black dots dance before his eyes, and for a moment North thinks he’s going blind. But as he’s tossed unceremoniously into the dirt his vision clears enough for him to make out the hulking, white mass towering over him, fidgeting with something at the back of their neck.

Maine?

No, North corrects himself. The Meta.

From where he’s sprawled, North can see his helmet several meters to his left—the visor’s cracked, and every now and then it sparks to life only to die seconds later. Further still is his sniper rifle. Hadn’t been much use anyway.

The Meta looks down at North, contemplating him for a few seconds while North tries to focus on his attacker’s orange visor. North isn’t sure what he hopes to find there, but he doesn’t find it.

With a growl, the Meta stands up straight and saunters off. Disoriented, North follows them with his eyes for a few seconds before he’s hit with a wave of nausea. He slams his eyes shut and waits it out, and when he opens them again Maine—the Meta is gone.

The Meta is gone, and North is still here—wherever ‘here’ is. It certainly isn’t Sidewinder.

The back of his neck itches, feels hot. North tries to reach behind his head but finds he’s unable to move, his arms heavy and weak.

There’s something missing.

Someone’s missing.

Theta’s

“You’re dead now. Remember that.”

North is still reeling from the sound of the gunshot, he almost doesn’t notice his sister crouched next to him. The ringing in his ears is so loud he’s surprised he can still hear Wash. Is he talking to North or to South?

Not that it would make a difference. None of this is real, is it?

It can’t be real.

North thinks he might be dead.

She wouldn’t leave him behind if he was alive.

The world fades to black as he watches her purple boots march away.

When he comes to, he is very much alive.

And he is very much alone.

The headaches are worse now why are they worse shouldn’t they be gone shouldn’t he be able to sleep now that it’s quiet oh God it’s so quiet it’s his fault he couldn’t protect him he couldn’t

He finds himself a hole to squat in and redresses the wound on the back of his neck. With his rifle at his side and nothing but a cave floor for a bed, he curls up—careful not to lay on the side his bruised ribs are on—and closes his eyes.

He tries to sleep.

Thought sleep would come easier now, without the pacing or the anxious questions, but his eyes can’t seem to stay closed. Instead of being kept awake by someone else’s presence in his head, he’s being kept awake by their absence.

There’s a void that’s taken up residence in his brain where Theta used to be, and even now, after several days, North still reaches out only to be met with his own thoughts. And his stomach will knot and his throat will close and he’ll bite back the tears.

Not that it matters, there’s no one here to see him cry. It’s just him, alone in a cave with his thoughts.

God, he misses the warmth—every nerve in his body on fire as he and Theta worked in tandem, sharing their thoughts, feeling their connection, becoming one. And now, because he couldn’t do the one thing he’d promised, he’s freezing his ass off in a pitch-black cave, craving something he’ll never have again.

It doesn’t help he’s had to leave his armor behind. Even in this state, North isn’t dumb enough to keep it with him. He remembers the Director’s anger at losing CT’s armor. You better believe they’ll be coming for North’s.

It occurs to him he’s a fugitive. That someone might be—probably is—following him. He’s been moving from place to place pretty quickly, and he hopes he’s made it difficult for whoever might be following him to track him. It also helps that the one perk of insomnia is he can cover more ground.

He wonders if they have his armor, and if maybe that’s enough. Who’s he going to tell? Who’s going to believe this sorry excuse of a soldier who only avoided dishonorable discharge by being snatched up by Project Freelancer? Who’ll probably be court-martialed if he’s ever caught?

Maybe they think he’s dead.

Maybe they don’t care.

Clouds of color—red and blue, colliding to make shocks of purple—swirl angrily before his eyes. <You told me they were your friends.> They are—that wasn’t his friend it… was something else. <You told me I would be safe!> He tried, he tried so hard, but there was nothing he could do—he wasn’t strong enough he—There’s a burst of thunder, lightning laces white hot into his skull. <You lied to me!> No, no he didn’t lie he just went and made promises he couldn’t keep, he never meant for this to happen. <You lied to me! You said you would protect me! You—>

“You’re dead now. Remember that.”

North gasps as he comes up for air, breaking free of his nightmare and tumbling into another.

Shuddering, sides heaving, he sits up and hugs his knees to his chest, trying to keep warm. He ran out of caves to huddle in, the hills giving way to grassland several days ago.

His nightmares have been few and far between. He might consider this a blessing if it wasn’t due to the fact he can count on one hand the number of hours he’s slept in three days. When you’re awake for 24, 29, 36 hours… not a lot of room for nightmares.

The sleeping kind, anyway, he thinks.

“That’s right, I’m still here.”

Her voice flows in on the breeze and he hears a bitter chuckle.

Shadows flicker at the edge of his vision. When he turns to look at them, all he finds are rocks, shrubs, clumps of tall grass.

“Too slow! Not so impressive without that fancy AI, huh?” she sneers.

North squeezes his eyes shut, presses the palms of his hands into them until he sees colors and shapes, and tries to think of something—someone—else.

As he tries to block her out, all he can think is how quiet it is. Alone in with his thoughts, with the mess in his head. The sad thing is, even though his mind is racing, it feels empty. Dull in comparison to what he had. What he lost.

He thought it would be a relief. When they told the Freelancers the AI were being scheduled for removal, North almost felt relieved. He could be alone with his thoughts, he could sleep—and he wouldn’t miss the headaches.

This, of course, was followed instantly by crushing guilt as he began to wonder who would take care of Theta.

He promised Theta he’d take good care of him, after all.

North rockets to his feet, eyes darting around the clearing. He checks his shoulders—first his right, then his left. There’s no one here, of course, he knows that. He knows that.

North runs a hand through his hair. God, he could really go for a nice, hot shower. And some food. The supplies he grabbed when he fled the ruins are beginning to run out.

Lowering himself back into a seated position, North waits for the sunrise.

North sees them coming before they see him.

Peering through his scope, he can see a Pelican in the air and a couple Warthogs, cloud of dirt and dust in their wake, headed straight for the cluster of trees he’s made himself comfortable in.

He’s not sure if he’s afraid or relieved.

Running seemed like a good idea before, but now he’s so tired and cold and hungry he’s forgotten why. Why run? Where can he go? Who can he trust? He can’t even trust himself, let alone those who once claimed to be his friends.

North is pretty sure there are showers in prison. And he could really go for a shower.

If he wasn’t so Goddamned sleep-deprived, he might have the energy to climb a tree and hide, but he’s not too bothered. Doesn’t want to hide anymore anyway. Setting his sniper rifle off to the side, North folds his arms and leans back against a nearby tree.

They don’t cuff him, like he expected them to.

Instead they hand him a blanket, and MRE, and a bottle of water as they usher him onto the Pelican. There’s a medic on board who takes his vitals, asks him where it hurts, tsks when he pulls back the bandage on North’s neck.

North scarfs down the MRE. Too fast. Stomach churning, he burrows into his blanket and prays the food stays down.

It doesn’t.

“Good thing you’re not wearing your helmet, huh?” North looks up from the trash can he’s keeled over and glances over at the medic.

“What?” he asks.

“I didn’t say anything,” the medic says, not looking up from his datapad.

“Promise me you’ll keep her safe, Andrew?” She’s looking at him with fear in her eyes, and he wants to laugh because if anything, Amelia will be the one keeping him safe. But he pulls his mother into a hug and whispers “I promise” into her shoulder.

He promised.

“Where’s South?” It’s the first thing he asks the Counselor when his face appears on the screen suspended in front of him. He’s in a hospital bed now, held in place by IVs and tangled sheets. The nurse just left, having checked the monitor, which beeps steadily beside his bed.

“It’s good to see you, Agent North,” the Counselor replies with a tight smile. “We were under the impression you were… no longer with us.”

You and me both, North thinks.

“Where’s my sister?” he asks again. The Counselor frowns.

“I’m afraid Agent South was killed in action a few days ago,” he says.

North goes very still, but the monitor betrays him.

“How?” he asks, ignoring the increasing frequency of angry beeps.

“Agent South… acquired the Delta AI from Agent Washington,” the Counselor says. “The Meta then tracked her down and she was killed in its attempt to retrieve the AI.”

Something shatters inside North, and he realizes he’s been holding on to the hope his twin was still alive.

Is it karma? He’s never believed in it, not really, but why else would the Meta leave North alive and kill his sister? Was it Theta? Did Theta realize who they were after, realize he had the perfect opportunity for revenge?

The Counselor is saying something to him, but North isn’t there. He’s home—shorter, younger, happier—calling out to his sister, who doesn’t show. He remembers being frantic, remembers tearing through the neighborhood to find her. And when he did she was fending off that one kid from school, and when North stepped in the kid bolted. She was so angry, why couldn’t he let her fight her own fights? He was angry, why couldn’t she stop picking fights?

He remembers when they were assigned to Project Freelancer. How they used to exchange smirks at the Director’s melodramatic pep talks, how they would have each other’s backs in training and, later, in the field. He remembers the first time he rose above her on the leaderboard. The smirks were less frequent after that. And when North got Theta, those smirks turned to sneers. She was sneering when she attacked him the day the MoI crashed. Shot to kill.

Stay safe, kiddo. Isn’t that what he said? North can’t remember, all he can see is that pissed off little girl with the fat lip and black eye. Stay safe.

“Can I see the body?” he asks. He doesn’t ask, ‘Can I see her’, because it would mean she’s actually dead. He needs to see first, needs to be sure.

”I’m afraid that after we acquired her armor, your sister was cremated,” the Counselor says. “We would have waited, but…”

“You thought I was dead,” North finishes for him. The Counselor nods and types something out on his datapad. “What about Wash?”

The Counselor sighs and tilts his head sympathetically.

“Agent Washington did not survive Agent South’s acquisition of the Delta AI,” he explains. “You are the only Freelancer left.”

The only one left.

He hears Wash’s voice echo in his ears (is it a memory a hallucination he doesn’t know anymore)—You’re dead now. Remember that.

But that’s wrong. It’s everyone else who’s dead, they’ve left him behind.

“The Meta is, of course, still at large.”

North’s eyes snap up to meet the Counselor’s.

“Is that so?”

“Would you say you have overwhelming feelings of anger and a need for revenge?” he asks North.

Maybe he couldn’t keep his promises, but he could destroy what helped him break them, starting with the Meta. And ending with the Director.

North grins. It doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“More than you know.”

#rvb angst war #rvb #agent north dakota #theta #canon-typical violence #canon-typical language #canonical character death #non-canonical character death #maybe #if you believe everything price tells you #project freelancer #h writes #rvb fanfiction

37 notes · View notes