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enchantedblackrose · 3 years

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Flesh Wounds & Somedays

Flesh Wounds & Somedays

Jay Halstead/Reader

¡!Warnings: Infant abduction/kidnapping. SIDS. Violence against women. Swearing. Fluffy ending.

Still unedited, hoping to have the nice version up soon. Sorry in advance! Happy New Year's Eve, everyone! Please be safe ❤

Upon exiting the very stereotypical "mom van" you're greeted with harsh Chicago air stinging your face and it instantly makes your eyes water. You hastily blink back the tears though it's fruitless. Instead you pull the knit hat you're wearing further down your head and pull your scarf tighter. You keep the door open, huddling near the inside of the vehicle. Anything to stay warm. You scan the parking lot for any sign of your suspect. Anxiety starts setting in. It doesn't matter how long you've been doing this. The moments leading up to a confrontation always send your stomach plummeting

"Easy now," Jay, sporting the store employee smock, whispers as he rolls a grocery cart by, indicating to your foot mindlessly tapping against the cement. Immediately you stop. You give him a small smile. He winks in response. You pretend to dig around in your purse, anything to give the impression you're distracted when in reality all your senses are in overdrive.

Voight's voice barks your last name through your strategically placed com. "Suspect approaching from the east. You know what to do. Everyone else, stand down for now! We don't wanna spook him."

You open the back passenger door before closing the driver's. Your fingers work quickly at unfastening the baby from the seat. You then drape a blanket over the baby for protection against the cruel elements.

It's subtle, but you cannot ignore the feeling you're being watched. The reality is you are. Your whole team is looking out for you. But this is something different entirely, something sinister. You suppress a shudder. Securing the blanket once more, you hoist the baby from the carseat and hold the infant against your chest. With a push of a button, the passenger door slides shut. You fiddle with the keys, making sure the van locks before tossing them in your purse.

You coo at the little bundle snuggled against your chest. Your steps deliberately appear hurried.

And that's when he emerges from a dark blue conversion van parked one whole row over. You spot him out of the corner of your eye and he is unmistakably walking towards you. But you stick to the plan. Your pace slows just barely, not wanting your target to sense the change. You also don't want to actually reach the store entrance and potentially bring harm to the public even with Al and Ruzek inside.

He suddenly appears in front of you, eyes frantically dart around before resting on you. He's disheveled. clothes are wrinkled and slightly stained. His greasy, unwashed black hair is plastered to his head. He smiles which unnerves you. But you return it anyway. His grin disappears. "Give me that baby. And you won't get hurt...much" He removes his right hand from his coat pocket and you notice the blade he's gripping. That's new, you think to yourself. He's growing desperate. Still, you have to get him to attempt an attack or abduction.

"No!" You pull the baby impossibly closer to you. "Leave or I'm gonna yell for help." The threat is feeble on purpose but still seems to evoke rage inside the man.

He lunges at you. His body weight sends you stumbling but you remain on your feet. He wildly pulls at your arms and at the baby, trying to break your grasp. He swings his left arm and his fist perfectly catches your eye.

"Son of a bitch!" You cry. Your foot slams onto one of his and you use that moment to headbutt him square on his chin. He lets out a primal scream before sticking the blade into your upper thigh and you can't help but yelp in pain. He tugs the baby out of your arms. The blanket drops to the ground.

You watch the changing expressions dance across his ugly face: anger, elation at his success, confusion.

"What the hell?"

It's the opening you need. Your weapon is drawn on him. "That's right, you stupid son of a bitch. The baby's fake. Chicago PD! Get down, face down."

Still in his stupor, he obeys. You kick the blade away just as Antonio and Jay come running from opposite directions. Antonio searches and mirandizes him. You return your gun to its inside waistband holster.

As your adrenaline begins to slow, you feel exactly how much pain you're in. It's evident that your eye has started to swell and there's a throbbing sensation in your thigh. You stagger a bit, but a pair of strong arms steady you.

He sighs and you look at Jay. "Don't start," you warn.

"I should have been there. I ended up carrying groceries for this old lady..." Guilt is written all of his handsome features.

"Did she tip you?" You joke, but he stares at you. "Stop. We knew this might happen. He had to attack me." The rest of the team appears and Jay drops his voice to a whisper.

"Yeah, attack like come at you, not actually harm you." He looks as if he's about to argue more when the sound of tires squealing interrupts.

You flash concern. "He wasn't alone." Your eyes meet those of your colleagues.

Voight breaks the silence. "Antonio, get that piece of garbage out of here.Halstead, get her to Med. The rest of you let's head back." You open your mouth to protest, but Hank won't even let you get a word in. "That leg's gonna need stitches. Now go." He stares at you until you move. Jay lends his support as you gently lean into him. It's not as needed as it is comforting.

You were seen and stitched in no time; the wound to your thigh was mostly superficial. Your swollen eye, which was now bruising, was being iced. You would have left Med sooner if your weirdly overcautious boyfriend hadn't insisted that his own brother see you before checking out. It took Will saying it, but Jay finally seemed to accept you were, in fact, fine.

You want in that interview room more than you've wanted anything in a long time.

"Absolutely not," Voight answers when you ask. "This guy doesn't respect women. I don't need you going in there so he can admire his handiwork." He waves a hand indicating to your black eye you're still icing. Hank returns to the observation window to watch Antonio and Atwater interrogate a very non talkative perp.

You remain in the bullpen with Adam, Jay, Mouse and Alvin to stare at that damn board some more.

Alvin recaps; all of you hoping to discover something, anything at all, that could help solve the case.

"Here's what we know. 2 or more suspects working to abduct infants. 1 in custody. Greg Jones. Couple of parking tickets, nothing too serious. Attempted three abductions, not including today's, in broad daylight, over the course of two weeks. Only one was he successful, if you call it that, but the infant was later abandoned at Firehouse 51."

You interrupt. "That baby left at 51, was a boy, right?"

Al double checks before answering, "Yeah."

"The other two attempts were on baby girls," Jay adds, possibly sensing where your mind is going.

You nod. "And today, I had a lavender blanket to cover the doll. One would probably assume it was for a baby girl. Just hold on a sec. Mouse," you holler over to him, knowing he'll pull up what you want faster than anyone. "Check hospital records and obituaries, plesse! Any infant deaths in the last month? Can you look into Jones' social media, too? Girlfriends and such." You've hardly finished the request and Mouse has the information for you. "How many of the babies that died were girls?"

"Two."

"Do you have the mothers' names? Any link to Jones?"

Mouse 's eyes scan the screen in front of him. "Tiffany Young...girlfriend of Jones according to Facebook, lost her baby girl last month."

You nearly hop up from your seat. "Text us her last known." You nod to Jay, asking without words if he's ready. Before you can walk away, Mouse calls your name.

"She was reported missing three days ago."

The whole team exchanges uneasy glances.

In a bizarre turn of events, Tiffany Young had reported herself missing. Jones and Young had been working together to abduct a baby girl with a plan to then flee the state. You and the team discovered that Young was conspiring against Jones going as far as plotting his murder to take place after a successful kidnapping. He would look responsible for her disappearance and his death would appear as a suicide. At least in theory.

It wasn't the best thought out plan, but in these situations they seldom were.

"I still don't understand," said Adam. You were all gathered around a large table at Molly's trying to relax after a long day. Well not all, Antonio made arrangements to see his kids. Al had also rushed off. "Why plan to off Jones?"

"She blames him for their daughter dying." You say taking a sip of your drink. "I read the report, even though it was SIDS, he was the only one there at the time." Everyone is quiet for a moment, presumably lost in their own thoughts. It takes Herrmann coming around, asking who wants another round for the conversation to resume.

Thanks to the refills and a few well timed jokes, the mood of the night has drastically shifted to a much happier one. An hour or so goes by when Jay lightly squeezes your knee under the table. You understand the gesture, surprised that he's waited this long to signal his want to leave. Jay hadn't really wanted to go out in the first place. "I'm gonna head out," you tell the group standing only when you've finished the last of your drink. There's a chorus of goodbyes. As you walk away, you hear Jay excuse himself to use the bathroom. You know he'll leave for your place afterwards. Neither of you know exactly why you keep the fact you're dating from your friends. Maybe the sneaking around is thrilling. Maybe it's just nice having something of your own. Regardless, it's the worst kept secret of the precinct, though no one has any proof and they ultimately leave you alone about it.

You've only changed into a tee shirt when a knock beckons you. You let Jay in. The door has just closed and he's ordered you to take your pants off.

"We need to work on your foreplay," you quip, but Jay's not laughing.

"I'm serious. I need to see again that you're okay."

You sigh, but shimmy out of your jeans. His genuine concern for you was slightly overwhelming in the best way, never having experienced anything like it before. Carefully, you pull back the adhesive bandage exposing your fresh flesh wound, still very bright pink and aggravated.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs.

"It's not your fault," you say, trying to reassure him.

"I hate that you were hurting and I couldn't do anything." He pulls you for a tight embrace while mindful of your thigh. He's completely still for a moment, breathing you in and finding peace in your arms.

Suddenly, he picks you up off your feet. It catches you off guard and you giggle. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't answer. Instead he takes you to the bathroom and sets you on the counter near the sink. He starts rummaging through your medicine cabinet, pulling out gauze, bandages, and rubbing alcohol. He grabs a clean washcloth from the towel rack.

You raise one eyebrow in question. "I thought I had Detective Halstead, not Doctor."

"Tonight you have both." You bit down on your lip to keep from laughing, but the misconstruction of his words hit him. "That came out wrong. That's not at all what I meant." Laughter escapes from you and Jay joins in, shaking his head and telling you to keep your mind out of the gutter.

"Mm, it's difficult when you're around." You give him a quick peck on the lips.

He turns the warm water on, letting it run for a minute. He tests it, making sure it's not too hot before soaking the wash cloth. He rings it out and looks you in the eyes. "I'm not sure this is going to feel all that great.'

You nod your understanding and Jay very gingerly begins to clean your wound. You talk to keep yourself distracted. "I can't stop thinking about the case. Clearly, they're competent for trial and I'm not justifying what they did, or tried to do. But I can't imagine losing a baby. Just the thought…" Your voice drops off. You wish you could leave work at work, and sometimes you can, but tonight when you're struggling to do so, you feel extra fortunate to have someone who truly understands.

Jay has almost finished cleaning your wound, allowing it time to breathe before covering it with a fresh bandage. "I know," he says. "I kept thinking about if that had been us and our baby, what would stop me from going crazy."

Your heart flutters a little faster, "Our baby?" It's the first time he's ever said anything like this.

He suddenly avoids eye contact with you. "Yeah? I mean someday...down the road if we are still...and that's something we...you want...maybe?" His cheeks are flushed and he glances at you, his green eyes full of hope.

"Jay Halstead," you offer him a big smile, "have you been thinking about our someday?" He nods, giving you a smile of his own. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him close to you. One of his hands rests on the countertop, the other lovingly brushes your cheek before you nuzzle into the spot just below his neck. You plant a kiss there. "Tell me more about your plans."

"Well they definitely don't include you getting stabbed again," he pulls away just enough to cover your thigh with the new bandage. A slight pout plays at your lips having not gotten the answer you wanted. Jay, seeing this, chuckles. "C'mon." He lifts you off the counter, carrying to the bedroom.

Gently, he places you onto the bed. You watch as he kicks off his shoes and strips down to his boxers. He catches you admiring his physique and shoots you a wink. But you pretend to still pout and cross you arms. It causes Jay to shake his head, bemused by you.

Pulling the covers back, he slides into bed and brings you to his side. He kisses the top of your head, fingers tracing a nonsensical pattern along your arm. "I see lots for us, love. So many ways things could play out, but it's always with you at my side."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yeah, definitely," and with that Jay launches into different versions of the future he's envisioned. Some are improbable, others imaginative, many seem possible, but all include you, just as he said.

#chicago pd #chicago pd imagine #jay halstead #jay halstead imagine #jay halstead x reader #jay halstead x you

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mor-beck-more-problems · 4 years

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Morning in Your Arms|| Morgan & Deirdre

Timing: The morning after the jail break at The Ring

Parties: @mor-beck-more-problems and @deathduty

Summary: Deirdre picks up Morgan from he hospital. Morgan makes a confession.

Contains: Discussions of murder

The sun was creeping up the horizon with bright yellow-blue fingers by the time Morgan was ready to go home from the hospital. She gave Deirdre another update on everyone, visiting and admitted, trying to lean into the pudding cup politics and the whereabouts of Nurse Denise so the whole part where they’d broken into an underground fighting ring that wasn’t above coercion and kidnapping might seem more like a wacky adventure from a CW show than the risk to their lives it had really been. Then she added “Come take me home? Please?”

As soon as Morgan saw Deirdre come through the doors, she lost all will for pretense. She ran blindly, bumping past orderlies, and launched herself into her arms, tears bubbling up in her eyes for the first time since they’d all piled into Blanche’s jeep. “I’m sorry,” she whispered into her shoulder. “We’re okay, we’re all okay.” Now that she wasn’t alone, now that she was held and safe and didn’t have to drive, it finally felt like it was true. “I need to tell you what happened. I did something. But I want to stay like this longer first just in case,” she said.

Prior engagements had kept Deirdre away from the rescue operation, not that she thought the destructive force of a banshee would have been much aid to them—or to avoiding burning the underground fighting organization down. Both of which she thought necessary, though counter productive to the general safety of others. The updates were integral as she labored through a tense meeting with her cousin, happily excusing herself when the final text came, and she imagined it was safe to stop pretending like Morgan hadn't been involved in something terrifying. Her drive to the hospital was uneventful (wrought with concern with white-knuckled grip on her plush leather steering wheel...but uneventful). She arrived at the hospital much the same way, finding Morgan with ease.

And though she suspected Morgan's texts hid the truth of her emotions, Deirdre's surprise caught in her throat—between relief and worry. She tightened her arms around Morgan, holding her harder and closer the best way she knew. "You're okay," she repeated, asserting the truth of it. "In case of what?" Deirdre asked softly, pressing a firm kiss to the side of her girlfriend's head, where she lingered, speaking with a gentleness she held only for Morgan. "We don't have to talk about it now, Morgan. We could go home first, you could let me share my relief at seeing you safe and we could tackle it when it's had time to sit." She pulled back just enough to look at Morgan, pressing another kiss to her cheek. "Whatever terrible reaction you're imagining I might have in your head, my love, I assure you I won't. We can stay like this as long as you want." Though it might have been better to do away from nosy staff and curious onlookers. "I love you," she said finally, having held the words back for as long as she could. "I was so worried."

Morgan nodded fervently to everything Deirdre said. She leaned into each kiss, clutching her tighter with no thought beyond feeling her against her body as much as possible. She only let herself be pulled away because there was so much comfort in the gentleness of Deirdre’s eyes. Morgan had been convinced of her softness from the beginning, but she also knew that it was laid bare this readily for so few people. Looking at her now, even through the blur of tears over her eyes, she believed for a moment that everything really might be as simple as going home and laying in each other’s arms. “You can’t know you won’t for sure. I mean I think you’ll understand, I hope you’ll understand or forgive me or at least—” she went on feebly before stuttering off into plaintive sounds. “Home. Home is good. I want to be home with you. I love you too, Deirdre. Oh earth, I love you too—” She might’ve gone on telling her that if the compulsion to kiss her hadn’t been stronger. She kissed her hard, begging her for safety with each moment. Don’t drop me. Don’t leave me. Just love me. Love me. Please still love me… “Home first,” she said with a hiccup when they parted. “I was kinda worried too.”

“I do know,” Deirdre assured steadily. The logic unfolded plainly in her mind, like a simple cube flattened to its net--each piece rising and folding to make its whole. Nothing could be clearer to her than the seamless well of understanding for Morgan, the way her love rose and folded and formed its place. It seemed incessant now to explain herself, yet allowing Morgan to carry that fear without rebuttal seemed worse--she knew well how her mind could disparage the enigmatic future. “When I say I love you, Morgan, I don’t just mean as you are now, doing the things you do now. I mean I love you for every action you take that I don’t know about, for every action you might take, or will, or might stumble into accidentally. I love you, your mind, and the way that it thinks, the logic of yourself. I love you, Morgan, and unless you mean to tell me that what you did wasn’t you at all then...well, it wasn’t you. How could I fault you for actions that aren’t even yours?” She sighed into their kiss, yielding as much sentiment as she could pull out from herself: the breadth of her love--as relentless and steady as an ocean, at its shore, all flow and no ebb---to the expanse of how deeply she cared, and how readily her understanding stretched and wanted to continue stretching---the wide sky, moving with its soft, shapeless clouds, expanded above the water. A world, carefully and deliberately summoned through kiss, held even as they parted and Deirdre gently tugged them along. “I promise,” Deirdre started, holding Morgan carefully to her side as they navigated out the hospital and into the parking lot. She considered calling a cab then, dreading the idea of parting from her girlfriend even just so she could drive appropriately. The gap of the center console of her car seemed like too much already, even if they hadn’t yet made it past the first block of cars. “I promise,” she reiterated, “that there is nothing I am more sure about than loving you.” Her car unlocked, and Deirdre opened the passenger side door for Morgan, transparently wishing to steal a few more moments holding the woman she loved. “But, yeah, home first, dramatic reassurances second. Although it might be more like: home first, get screamed at by Moira second. I’m beginning to suspect that cat might miss you when you’re gone more than I do.” And with a chuckle, she moved around and settled herself in the driver’s seat, easily fluttering her car to life and backing out and away towards their home. As she reached for her girlfriend’s hand and the early morning blurred passed them, she was left to wonder if there might be some space where Morgan’s mind might begin to trust Deirdre’s love more than it did its own tragedy---fear was so potent, and Deirdre struggled to fathom anything that truly could turn her away from her love.

Morgan clung to Deirdre the whole walk to the car. Her brow furrowed at Deirdre’s promise. Was this how she felt when Morgan made her same promises? This heavy, sinking feeling, this strain in two directions, a doubt that such things were possible, a yearning to be proven wrong, to hear yes, yes always. And then there was the weight of time. Each day brought them farther away from everything Morgan knew of being with anyone and into a space that had only been for her hopes and imagination. She knew she was loved enough to be afforded some middle ground between being with Deirdre and being entirely alone, but she didn’t want to learn how to make it, much less navigate it in the first place. She wanted to stay. To keep this. She reached over the console for Deirdre’s hand at the same time and took it tenderly in hers, playing with her fingers and dancing patterns on the little veins that peeked through her pale skin. She spoke little, murmuring to the songs that came up on Deirdre’s playlist, commenting on the traffic, and saying through the lull, “I have no doubt of loving you either. I promise that. Not ever once before, and not now.” That much she could depend on. And if Deirdre had promised so easily, maybe she was just being a destructive fool.

When they arrived at the house, Morgan stepped out and rushed quickly to Deirdre’s side, hugging her as if they hadn’t just been separated by a few inches a moment ago. She pressed her lips to her collarbone, lingering reverently a moment longer than she might have otherwise. She could have lingered in her arms longer, but Moira’s wails from the front window were loud enough to drive her inside. Morgan scooped the kitten up before she could scream herself hoarse with begging and let Deirdre take them somewhere to lay and talk.

It was these moments that Deirdre hated how large their house was. Even the simple act of moving through the foyer and into the great room was far too many steps to take, and too great of a wait to hold Morgan. The dreaded trek upstairs was worse, but necessary, as Deirdre conveyed silently when she gestured them up. Their bed was large, comfortable, and through various tests of cuddling and making out and innumerable other bouts of intimacy, was easily found to be the comfiest place to hold each other. With ample room for them to contort, the choice was easy...the walk less so. Just the couple of steps made Deirdre impatient, and she wondered if Morgan ever thought of simply turning all their flooring to plush mattresses as well. "Come," she beckoned, eager to bring Morgan tightly into her arms. With the desire to ease her pain never having faded—only renewed as the world continued to deal its cruel hand. And survivors didn't gamble, Deirdre knew this. So she brought her girlfriend in, careful not to squish the attention-seeking cat in her arms. "Tell me what you want," she commanded lightly, more a question than anything else. "Do you want to talk about it now or...?" Deirdre trailed off, absently tucking strands of Morgan's hair back until the urge to kiss her propelled her forward, capturing her lips just as Moira signaled her dismay. Deirdre pulled back, petting the kitten. "Sometimes I think she just likes to hear the sound of her own voice.”

Morgan settled onto the bed at once, crawling under the top blanket and piling the pillows behind them before she slid straight into Deirdre, Moira in tow. She stayed that way for several seconds, giving Moira scritches from head to tail until she fretted away and turned to her passtime of using Morgan as a climbing post. Morgan paid her no mind, only kissed Deirdre, gentle and soft. Then she settled into the crook of her neck and pulled her girlfriend’s arms tighter around her. “No, I should...I should say,” she groaned. “I would tell you anyway. I would want you to know…” And so she began with the preparation, and the particulars of the journey over, uneventful as it was. She and Luce were to cause a distraction and incapacitate any guards that came their way. Luce had her sword and her fire. Morgan had herself and the knives she had borrowed from the attic room. And that had been what happened, buying Luce time to set a good fire, improvising weapons from the gym weights to knock the guards out for the count. And then there was the bear. He was circling them one moment, then summoning an image of Remmy and Nell’s dead, beaten bodies for them to look at the next. “He wanted us to see them like that. To see what they were...what was coming. He could’ve just swiped at us or taken a bite or anything, but he...he made us look at that,” Morgan explained, her voice turning thick and hard. “We lost our shit. I...I jumped him, I didn’t care. He was awful, he was playing with us. I...didn’t manage to do much before he smacked me into a wall, obviously. Fucking bugbears. Luce took care of him, but it...it spent her. She didn’t cut off her magic so much as she just collapsed from it and then there was this woman, this woman was screaming at me, like how could we do this to whatever the hell his name was! Like she couldn’t understand. ‘We didn’t even bring them here,’ she said, like he hadn’t just been toying with us before going in for the kill, like they weren’t both complicit in this bullshit, like knowing there were people in cages and watching over them wasn’t bad enough already, like we were the ones who--” Her voice was rising with anger, strangling itself alongside the tension in Morgan’s body. She was still angry. She summoned that moment in her mind and all she felt was that snap of rage and contempt for that place, for all of them. Morgan clutched Deirdre tighter. “She started coming for me,” she said. “I went for her first. You can’t kill a zombie by trying to choke them out, or with whatever weapon she might’ve been going for. I didn’t even feel it. I…And I...I killed her. With my hands. And...when I saw there wasn’t anyone else, I picked up Luce and I carried her out, and I let the gym keep burning. But not until after I, um, I killed her.”

Deirdre listened, holding Morgan tighter and closer where and when she could, soothing with her hands when she couldn't. And she waited, anticipated the moment the horror would spill from Morgan lips. And she waited. And the room grew silent as she thought Morgan might have more to add. When she realized she didn't, Deirdre tried to comb through her recollection of Morgan's words. She drew nothing wrong out of them. She tried again, and again, wondering if her morality had become so skewed or if she really hadn't changed much from being unable to decipher people's problems. I killed her, rang in her head, repeated twice. "Murder is a great weight to bear…" she commented absently, mentally running through the story again until she finally gave up and thought to ask. "I don't get it," she said, adjusting herself to hold Morgan better, hoping her earnest confusion didn't seem insulting. "It sounded like—you seemed like you had something to say that might change my opinion of you. It's not—you know what I do. Why would I have an issue with—" Or maybe that wasn't the problem. "Are you...regretful of having killed her? Ashamed? I don't get what—" Deirdre grumbled as she combed through the story again, and once more drew no issues. "I know murder can be heavy. But you've done nothing wrong, not to me and not as I think of the world. It's—taking a life is a responsibility, surely, but what else were you going to do? I don't—I'm sorry. I don't want to make you spell out what part bothers you but I can't...see it for myself, exactly." She shifted again, betraying the confusion that pulled together her features.

Morgan looked up as Deirdre spoke and shifted. She realized that she had been considering a lot of possible outcomes, one or two that weren’t even disastrous, but confusion hadn’t factored into any of them. She shifted as well, looking up at her with a wide, mystified expression. There was no end to surprise, to the blows that simply did not fall. Could it really be...this easy? “But you told me you didn’t want me to… I know I told you I could never guarantee that, and that I’d hurt people before, and that I still might do what I did, I remember telling you that, but then we talked about other things after, and it never came up again and...I meant it. I was just...so done, and tired and there had already been so many of them and I couldn’t believe that she would even...have to ask, have the nerve to wonder at us and I…I don’t feel sorry for her. I don’t feel sorry for what I did. I feel numb and angry and frustrated and there’s this...this thing, this feeling like it’s on my back of something. And some of it is...I thought you might be angry with me, for taking what I did from her...killing her, I mean. Or disappointed, maybe. I don’t want to hurt or disappoint you, but it’s not just that, it’s just...I’m not even sure. Maybe I feel bad for not actually feeling as bad as I know I should or think I’m supposed to feel, maybe it’s something else, but you’re--you’re okay with...this? With me? You don’t think I’m bad? Or think less of me?”

"Morgan, I—" Deirdre reached out for her girlfriend, holding her face in her hands as she drew them close. One kiss faded into another, and another that then turned to mumbling against her lips. "I don't think you're bad at all. I don't think less of you." She pulled back with a small grin, "in fact, maybe murder makes you more cool." Deirdre laughed gently, moving her hands down to try and lift some of that weight off Morgan by way of firmly pressed touches and patterns. "I didn't say that because I would have thought less of you for commiting murder...just that I didn't want you to bear its responsibility. That will carry with you for the rest of your life, and it might not always feel so right. I thought it easier if you avoided that pain altogether. I said it because I care about you, about how that choice might harm you." To say she actually cared about whether or not the crime was committed was strangely humorous, given her own serial killing. But she imagined insecurity played that way, illogical and insidious. "I am concerned for you. Murder done in anger is usually never—" Deirdre trailed off, musing it over. "As I was taught, to kill is to take fate into your own hands. To accept responsibility alone for your actions. The power to end life is a strong one, it is to command fate, and so I was taught never to kill out of anger or boredom or passing thought. And yet, it's somehow worse in theory to be a person who kills without emotion." She sighed, "maybe my concern is just that I care for you, and I worry about what happens if you turn to find solutions in death. It is an unbalanced world. Complicated, harsh, so far devoid from right and wrong and bad and good. But I don't think less of you now, I wouldn't think less of you if you decided to murder some more. Whatever it is, I will be here, for you, for as long as you want or need me to." She smiled, "I love you, of that, I'm sure. My philosophies on death and murder, I'm less sure about. I could regale you with what my family says about it. There's a lot of 'humans barely count as life' and 'is it even murder if you don't scream'...so I don't think anyone has it figured out, really. But I love you, still. Always."

Morgan slowly lifted her hands to lay over Deirdre’s. The bed did not vanish from beneath her. She did not tremble except for in her chest where her dead heart seemed to swell against her chest and bend the arc of its cage. “You love me still,” she repeated in a whisper, leaning in as close as she could without losing sight of her whole face. “You really still...you love me just the same…” It wasn’t a question, for how could it be from the lips of a fae? From Deirdre, who had made herself sick the one time Morgan asked her to deny her feelings. She stared, searching Deirdre longer, resisting the urge to throw herself against her and remain, maybe for hours, maybe until the sun came again. “I just...what I did...it’s different from what you do, isn’t it? I thought you might...But you’re here. You’re here with me…” Morgan could resist no longer. She threw herself against her love, kissing her as her fear melted away as snow melts against live flesh. “Don’t worry about me,” she mumbled breathlessly, pausing only as long as it took to rush the words out before kissing Deirdre again. “Or do. Worry as much as you want.” She continued, dragging her lips down her jaw to her neck. Distantly, she wondered if this was some kind of brain fever. If she was going to be yanked back into the hospital and this was all about to go down differently, with looks of horror and words of dismay. But Deirdre was solid against her body. No matter how hard Morgan pressed their bodies together, she remained, constant as ever. “I’m probably not picking up a new habit or anything and I don’t even believe in moral binaries, I really do think we’re all too interesting and incredible for that but I know being ‘good’ matters to you, for yourself, and I’ll do whatever I can for that. No matter what else I do for myself, I’ll support you and help you and I already believe in you--I mean, I think you’re kind, and that counts for so much more to me, but I’ll--” She lifted her head, realizing she wasn’t kissing so much as rambling into her love’s throat by now. “I don’t take this lightly either, I hope you know that. Even if I’m not sorry, I hope you know it’s not a game or anything meaningless. I know it’s not meaningless, I do, I promise.” She squeezed Deirdre, smiling haplessly as her mind pinballed from one thought to the next. She looked hard into the gentle face across from her as the air around them seemed to rush and spin her sense of balance, the tumble of a great leap. But the vision did not shift. She was still here, still held and safe, impossible as it seemed. Morgan couldn’t help but laugh with relief and amazement. “Stars above, Deirdre, of course I want you with me. I love you. I want you to keep me always.”

"I've done a lot of murdering, Morgan. I don't think it's too far off to assume that—" Deirdre's sentence fluttered away as they kissed, forgotten in favor of the far more enticing sensations of Morgan against her, and Morgan kissing her. A chuckle bubbled in the back of her throat. "I love you, I think worrying comes with the territory." She breathed, tangling a hand in Morgan's hair, firm against the back of her skull. "Good matters to me only because you are. You are good. I want to be good, better, for you. For us, for what we have together. I want to be good, like you are…" Deirdre trailed off, her wide smile gave way to something smaller, coated with gentle affection yet marred with contemplation. Morgan already knew this, how much she cared and tried to be better. She moved back, trying to explain to her oft confused mind. "I'm not interested in 'bad', or an idea of 'good' fickle enough to fall away like that. You are good, Morgan. You will always be. I only want to be half of who you think I am. But you are always good to me." She leaned in, eager to kiss her girlfriend again but careful enough not to let herself get swept away by the action. "I just don't want to lose you, that's all. I have no qualms with murder." Yet she knew, even as logical as it was to assume the serial killer would be fine with murder, she knew Morgan's experience told her the worst. And there was nothing more than reassurance she could give for that, nothing more than slowly proving her anxious mind wrong. All that was left to do was hope that Morgan's fears of the worst never came true, and in some strange way, that they could keep each other as completely as they did now. "I am yours, my love. I know you've never had anything like this before—" Anything that stayed. "—and I will always, gladly, earnestly, tell you that I love you still. Thank you for telling me what was worrying you. Did you—were you thinking about anything else? I'm here, now or later, whenever there is something." She tightened her hold around Morgan, conveying her tangibility, her realness. Hoping that in some way, even just a little, Morgan could see past what her curse took from her to the reality of the love she possessed.

Morgan shook her head, tears welling up in her eyes. “No, I’m good,” she whispered, pulling herself in tight. “I’m yours, and you’re mine, and this is all okay. We’re actually...okay. And we...we make our own good, I guess, yeah? Because you’re good to me too. You are, murder and all.” Another laugh burbled out of her, wet and light with gratitude. “If something else comes to me I’ll tell you? But all I want right now is to be in your arms. It’s been the longest night, and I’ve missed you so much. As long as we’re together, everything else is cake.”

#morning in your arms #wr deirdre #wr chatzy #wr deirdre chatzy #wr #wickedswriting

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hannahhostofheaven · 6 years

Text

Grace Exchange Ch.2

Hannah does something drastic to save Castiel from his fading grace but it may end up costing her dearly. Trigger warning for torture, angst, dark themes, and sexual assault.

Castiel had had some time to stew over what had happened. When he walked to town, and back, he felt himself growing angrier the more he thought about it. Why did Hannah do this to herself? Why was it so important to her that he live? He was quite willing to die, he had accepted his fate, after all, he had done so many terrible things. He’d done the unthinkable stealing another angel’s grace before and now it was killing him, and he deserved it. And now, Hannah had forced him to do it again. To her. To someone he’d grown to trust, respect, maybe even… he shook his head. No, it was nothing more, he thought.

He felt humbled, in awe by what she did for him. He felt grateful, but he couldn’t explore that feeling right now. The other emotions were overwhelming him more. Anger, frustration, guilt. All of these feelings were so intense, yet he didn’t understand why.

When he had retrieved the gas and returned to the car, he found her still asleep in the back seat of his car. He opened the back door, and she nearly fell out of it, having been leaning her head against the door when he opened it. The sudden movement jerked her awake, and she sat up, blinking blearily at him.

“I was just making sure you were okay,” he said, curtly as he turned his attention to the car. He filled the tank with gas and threw the empty container into the trunk, and as he did that, Hannah silently got out of the car to face him.

“We’re ready to go,” he said, not looking into her face as he brushed past her and headed for the driver’s seat. “You can continue to rest if you wish.”

He was aware that he was abrasive with her, and he knew she’d picked up on it, but he didn’t care at the moment. He got into the driver’s seat and waited for her to walk around and get into the passenger’s seat. When she was safely inside, he drove off without a word.

The silence that passed between them was uncomfortable. He stole a few glances at her and caught her staring right at him, the whites of her eyes reflecting in the darkness. But each time, she’d look away quickly, suddenly finding the scenery passing out her window far more fascinating.

Finally, he couldn’t take it anymore. “I wish you hadn’t done what you did,” he said as he focused his eyes on the road. “I accepted my fate and you should have respected my wishes.”

There was a pause, and Castiel glanced at her to see if she had been paying attention to him. She was, but she hung her head at his gaze and focused on her hands. “I had to do something,” she said softly. Then she looked at him again. “Castiel, I don’t understand what I am supposed to learn by your death.”

“Consequences,” he replied sharply. “Not long ago you were willing to walk out on me for what I did, and you were right to do it. What I did was abhorrent. Taking another angel’s grace, it’s unfathomable and I feel disgusted that I could be brought so low. And now I’ve done it again.”

“I was willing,” she insisted. She winced, turning away as if in pain, but took in a breath and continued. “I know what I did before,” she said.

“It doesn’t matter that you were willing,” he replied as he drove, disregarding her apparent struggle with words.

“I couldn’t take it anymore, Castiel!” her sudden outburst, the emotion in her voice startled him. They had just arrived in town and Castiel glanced at her even as he was forced to pay attention to the road. “Watching you grow ill, and then you expect me to watch you die. If that’s what you really want then why did you drag me along with you?”

Castiel pondered that and said nothing in response. He drove on and finally parked in a motel parking lot. Their surroundings were a little sketchy; there were condemned buildings all around the motel and garbage littered the streets. Neither angels really took note.

Castiel continued to let the anger inside of him fester. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold back the rage inside him. He wasn’t used to this kind of intense emotion; he was having trouble containing it. And it bothered him that it was all directed at her. And he didn’t really understand why. Why was he so angry at her? He turned off the car and turned in his seat to face her.

“I never asked you to get involved,” he said, his tone biting. “You came to me for help with the rogues. Why do you care so much about it? Most in heaven would welcome my death.”

“And why won’t you face it?” she shot back with equal fervor. “You say you’ve found things down here on this planet. Things like love, hope, friendship. These human things. You speak so highly of these humans, your friendship with the Winchesters, what does it all mean, Castiel?”

The frustration was evident in her face. Her face flushed red and she heaved like she was gasping for breath. Castiel noted the weak, lethargic posture she held, slightly slumped against the seat, running on pure emotion. Even if he was angry with her, the lethargic demeanor worried him. He was worried about her and that made him more furious. Irrationally angry. She was making him go back on his own words.

“I have to get a room,” he spat out, forcing her to change the subject, abruptly. With that, he got out of the car and slammed the door with a force that he hoped made a point. He stormed to the reception office and made quick work of paying for the motel and taking the keys. He gasped, his breath coming out in white clouds as the temperature around them was chilly and cold. Ice had formed in the night, but the heat of his emotions had kept him warm.

Castiel had seen these emotions at work. He’d seen Dean take them out of Sam. He’d seen Sam take them out on Dean. He’d seen the power with which both brothers wielded their own words. He’d never considered words so damaging until now. He was an angel, after all, he was above such petty things like emotions, yet over the years, they’d crept slowly into his being, like insidious parasites. Perhaps it was being on Earth that caused them, perhaps not even angels were immune to the power of feelings once they’d opened themselves up to them. He felt powerless.

Hannah had gotten out of the car and was leaning against it when he returned. As he approached her, he winced as he saw how haggard she was beginning to look. She’d been confident, brave, full of life, now she slumped over, her skin pale. While he walked with the power of her grace. But as he felt sick inside at this thought, he began to realize what she had been saying. How she must have felt watching him deteriorate from being someone she admired, someone she considered her leader, her teacher, to an angel who was slowly fading away before her eyes. That familiar guilt feeling that Castiel had become accustomed to by now began to worm its way into him once more.

“I got a room,” he told her, deliberately brushing past her towards their assigned room. He heard her push off the car and silently follow him. He opened the door and held it opened for her as she sludged past him into the room. He watched as she lowered herself onto one of the beds, letting out a breath.

Castiel shut the door hard. They were alone again. He moved into the room and flicked on the light then turned to face her, frowning as she shivered slightly, crouching in on herself.

“You should get some rest,” he suggested. “You’ll need it to regain your grace. And food.”

She glanced up at him with a frown. “I don’t know what hunger is,” she said. “And eating… I’ve never done it before. It’s disgusting.”

“Well now you must,” he said with an irritated sigh. “You must do a lot of things. Human things. You are closer to being human now than to being an angel.” He worried at how true that statement was. He remembered how he struggled after Metatron took his grace. The first time he felt hunger, how it had reduced him to destitution, how he’d been utterly helpless at the mercy of this cruel world.

“When my grace returns, yours will wane,” she pointed out. Castiel sighed again.

“Hannah, you don’t understand!” his raised voice startled her, and he regretted it, but he couldn’t hold back any longer. He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake some sense into her. There was no way he was letting her do this to herself again. But to his surprise, she reacted in kind.

“You don’t understand,” she shouted back, surging to her feet. “I helped you because…” she swallowed, her eyes softening, brimming with moisture. “Because I care about you. I worried about you. I don’t even understand why I feel these things. They aren’t angel things but I feel them anyway. They make me sick inside. I tried everything to get you to care, I begged you, I was desperate, Castiel, and I don’t even know why. So I made a choice.”

“I told you not to let emotions distract you from the mission,” Castiel shouted, even louder, purposely brushing off the meaning behind her words. He didn’t want to face it. “Getting to Dean, finding the rogues, that is more important than me than you-”

He cut himself off when he saw the look in her eyes. Hurt. He suddenly wished he could take back those words but he couldn’t. She winced. “You’re right, Castiel,” she said, suddenly calm, though she visibly bristled. “The mission is more important than my feelings. Or than me. I don’t want to get in your way.” With that, she turned and hurried out the door, closing it before Castiel could stop her.

Castiel stared at the door, heaving. What had just happened? He sat at the foot of the bed and contemplated. Hannah was impulsive. It was something that was perhaps a strength and a weakness. It both frustrated and fascinated him. He’d seen it before when she provoked Adina, when she’d gone to Metatron on Castiel’s behalf. Hannah had passions that were unique to angels, it was something Castiel felt almost envious of her. She was complex, in a way, she reminded him of who he was six years ago when he first met Sam and Dean. And yet the one thing that had eluded him, in the beginning, seemed to come naturally to her. Like any angel, she didn’t understand these feelings, and he could tell that at times, she’d fought against them, clinging desperately to her rigid angel code, but she undoubtedly possessed them.

And thinking of this, Castiel couldn’t keep the guilt at bay. Hannah had done something no other angel would ever, in a million years, do for him. Just because she wanted to. Because she cared about his suffering. It was the one thing he’d found admirable about humanity, their capacity to show incredible acts of kindness and friendship, it was a trait that angels lack, but again, Hannah had shown herself to be a different kind of angel. Perhaps this is how angels should be. Hannah was a better angel than him. A better leader than him. With her bravery, her compassion, and the strict code of angelic conduct she’d always lived by, it caused her conflict, perhaps even doubt, but it was as if she’d taken the best traits of humanity and angels and managed to incorporate it within herself.

And Castiel had realized then how truly lucky he was to have met her. He’d only known her for a short time, and although he hadn’t thought of it, her friendship was the best thing that came out of the terrible events of the past few months. And now…

Castiel glanced up. The room around him was silent. He realized he’d sat there dwelling on his guilt that the hours had slipped by and it was now after three in the morning. Hannah had been gone a few hours. The wind howled outside, rattling the windows and Castiel clenched his jaw in concern.

Hannah may have begun to embrace her emotions and certain aspects of humanity, but she had seen a tiny part of this planet. And now she was out in it, graceless and vulnerable. He’d never thought to mention this world’s dangers to her because he never thought she’d need to know. She was powerful, invincible… at least she was until he took her grace from her.

Castiel swallowed. She should have been back by now. She had intended to come back, didn’t she? A thousand scenarios ran through his mind. It was cold outside, she was weak, and these humans… so unpredictable. A sickening feeling of dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

Castiel didn’t waste any more time and hurried out the door. He could still make this right somehow. He’d find her and tell her what he needed to tell her, what he should have told her instead of yelling at her, instead of brushing off her feelings, scolded her like an unruly child for the incredible thing she’d done for him. She’d be okay, he told himself… she’d be okay...

#Hanstiel #Castiel/Hannah #hurt/comfort #Supernatural #Grace Exchange

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castherebel · 6 years