meg-writes-things

[meg-writes-things]

Never Fallen from Quite this High

Fandom: Runaways

One-shot

Summary:  Gert wasn’t avoiding Chase. Really.  She just wasn’t not avoiding him.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

Gert wasn’t avoiding Chase. Really.

She just wasn’t not avoiding him.

In her defense, it wasn’t exactly like they’d had a lot of opportunities for conversation. Between running from their parents and scrounging for supplies and rescuing Karolina from the church, the hours since the dance had been pretty busy. Not that she’d want to have a conversation about what had happened, anyways; she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stomach it, especially without her anxiety meds. After weeks of keeping their parents’ horrible secret locked up inside, culminating with the confrontation the night before, she was feeling a little emotionally fraught. Not to mention, it hadn’t even been half a day since she’d said goodbye to Old Lace, and the absence had left a gaping hole in her chest that she wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to fill again.

Yet, every other thought seemed to draw her back to Chase. The weight of what they’d done, what they’d said, hung heavy between them every time they looked at each other, like a millstone around their necks, threatening to pull them under. She could see the kaleidoscope of emotions flash over his face every time they made eye contact, before he’d quickly tear his gaze away. He’d always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve. It was confusing, and her mind was jumping back and forth between worst case scenarios. He doesn’t like you the way that you like him and now you’ve made it awkward, it hissed, before its companion joined the fray with an equally dreadful possibility: he likes you, just like you like him, and now you’ve gone and pushed him away.

Readjusting her position by the fire, she stared ahead at the sunset burning a hazy red over the city she’d known all her life. Bright tendrils of color stretched through the sky, to be quickly extinguished by the approaching darkness. Beside her, Molly’s head slowly dropped to her shoulder, exhaustion threatening to take over. It had been a long day--weeks, really--for all of them, and Gert couldn’t fault her sister for crashing wherever she sat. Across the fire, Nico caught a glimpse of Molly’s slumping form and cleared her throat.

“I think we should call it a night.” She informed the group. Karolina, who had her head in Nico’s lap, sat up and let out a huge yawn, while Chase nodded, standing up.

“Probably a good idea. We've got an early morning tomorrow.” Chase assented, reaching up to stretch his arms. Risking a glance at Gert, his harried face softened when he saw Molly’s sleeping form. It made Gert’s heart pound, how he stared at her sister with so much fondness. For as long as she could remember, it had always been her and Molly against the world; always the odd ones out, always the misfits, even among their group. To see someone openly and unabashedly love Molly like he did was touching, and she quickly blinked away tears that were inexplicably rising to her eyes. Looking over at her sister, she gave her shoulder a gentle shake.

“Mols, get up, we’re going to move into the van to sleep.” Gert crouched and leaned forward, trying to wake Molly as gently as she could. Instead of listening, though, Molly just groaned, smacked away her hand, and rolled over to face away from the fire. With a sigh of exasperation, she tipped back onto her heels, only to find Chase watching them with amusement.

“What?” Gert snapped, a slight panic rising in throat. She hated how exposed she felt under his gaze. A flickering of hurt crossed his face at her tone, and guilt pooled low in her stomach.

“Let me carry her over; if she was able to fall asleep, there’s no reason to wake her now.” He said quietly, crouching down to pull Molly into his arms. She curled reflexively into his chest, seeming so much smaller in sleep.

“Thanks.” Gert muttered, trailing close behind him as he carried Molly to the van like it was effortless. As they walked, the dying firelight danced off the muscles in his back, sending shadows across his arms flexed tightly to carry the weight. It seemed like a lifetime ago that those same arms were wrapped around her, gently swaying with her in that empty room, slipping her dress off her shoulders, pulling her to the ground with him. Shivering slightly, she ran her hands up and down her arms to ward off the chill, but all it did was serve as a reminder of his hands doing the same thing barely a day ago, barely hours ago. She could almost still feel his touch; given that running away didn’t afford much opportunity for showers, she hadn’t yet been able to wash off the tingling feel of his skin against hers-

“Gert!” His earnest voice made her jump. Coming back to reality, she saw that he’d set Molly down and was tucking a spare jacket under her sleeping head. Behind her, she could hear the quiet hiss of steam as Karolina and Nico doused out the fire with water. “Are you okay? I lost you there for a sec.”

“Um, yeah.” She shook her head. “I’m fine.” He shot her a confused look, which she chose to ignore. Instead, she climbed into the van, trying to come to terms with the fact that all six of them were going to have to be crammed into the space. It was bad enough that she couldn’t bring herself to talk to him about what had happened, now she’d have to try and convince herself to sleep while he was sleeping just feet away from her. After what they’d done, after how she felt, it felt like an impossible task. Sleeping Chase had always been one of her favorite Chases. He wore a lot of masks--an effort to cover up his emotional vulnerability, she supposed--but in sleep, there was no need for them. He didn’t have to be the popular lacrosse player, or Victor Stein’s son, or even a member of their group. He could just be himself, with untroubled brow and a soft smile that turned up the corner of his mouth.

Crouching in the confined space, she worked around a silent Chase, who was rearranging the bags of spare clothes to make room for the group. Molly had curled up facing the front of the van, so after making sure she had a bag to cushion her head, Gert tried to settle down on the floor next to her. Taking off her glasses, she screwed up her eyes, listening to the faint rustling of Chase moving around the van. After a few moments, she heard faint conversation growing slowly in volume, and opened her eyes to see Karo and Nico approaching. To her irritation, the second Nico saw Gert and Chase, she stopped walking, putting a hand on Karolina’s shoulder.

“We're… going to take a walk.” Nico informed them, the casual tone of her voice far too forced. “See if Alex is back yet.” Karo made a move to question her, but she just grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the tree line.

Letting out a frustrated huff, Gert tried again to choke back the panicky feeling rising through her lungs. The situation was bad enough as it was; Nico trying to play cupid didn't exactly help. If she was anyone else, shoving her headfirst into an uncomfortable situation might have been the best way to resolve it. However, she was not anyone else; she was Gert Yorkes, and she’d never been one to handle uncomfortable situations with grace, even when she was properly-medicated Gert Yorkes. Even now, with the possibility of having to confront Chase about her feelings for him hanging heavy on the horizon, she could feel her lungs and chest tightening under a vice-like influence. Did the van seem smaller than before?

Her attention was suddenly drawn to him when he hopped out of the van with a slight grunt, ratty blanket in one hand and backpack with his fistigons in the other.

“What’re you doing?” She questioned, pushing up onto her elbows, eyeing the objects in his hands. “We need all the blankets inside the van. You know, for sleeping?” He tossed the blanket over his shoulder, not turning to look at her.

“I’m gonna sleep out here tonight.” His voice was tight, despite his effort to make it sound casual. “There really isn’t enough room in there for all of us to fit comfortably.” Gert stared at him for a moment, then spoke again.

“You’re joking, right?” She hissed, lowering her voice when Molly stirred next to her. “You can’t just hang out in the open, asleep and-and vulnerable. Other than being on the run from our psycho serial killer parents, who have apparently endless resources at their fingertips, there’s wild animals out there, and in case you’ve already forgotten, we don’t have a prehistoric guard dog to watch out for us anymore.” He winced at the words, though it didn’t bring the satisfaction that Gert hoped it would. Her heart was pounding even harder now; somehow, the worry of him sleeping away from her was just as bad--or even worse--than the worry of him sleeping next to her. Honestly, it was a wonder she understood her feelings for him at all.

“All the more reason I should be out here, then, instead of you, or Molly, or Karo, or Nico. Acceptable casualties.” He deadpanned, folding his arms over his chest. The edge in his voice was a little too much for her to handle, and she wanted nothing more than to reach out to him, let him know that nobody thought he was an acceptable casualty, least of all her. Before she could stop herself, however, she fell back into the protection of the dry sarcasm she’d employed so readily when she felt insecure.

“Oh, give me a break, Chase. I’m sorry that your chauvinistic world views have brainwashed you to think that you, a male, have to subject yourself to hardship to protect us females and our ‘fragility,’ but any one of us would be fine to sleep outside. Karolina and Molly literally have super powers. Besides, you don’t even need to, there’s enough room in here.” As if on instinct, she patted the floor next to where she lay. “You can fit right there, and that leaves plenty of room for Karolina and Nico on that side. And Alex, I guess, if he ever shows back up.” She finished with a huff. He was staring at her with wary eyes, unsure and unsteady. She couldn’t really blame him, they’d barely spent a moment alone all day, and now she was requesting--or demanding, really--that he sleep right next to her.

He hesitated for a moment, before climbing back into the van and shutting the door behind him. Shrugging off his jacket, he moved to where she was laying. For a moment, he hovered over her, mouth open slightly like he wanted to say something, but the moment passed and he was laying down next to her. She refused to look at him, but she could sense how rigid his body was. Swallowing thickly, she tried to breathe through her racing heart, but she couldn’t even tell if it was because she was panicking or because her mind was jumping back to 24 hours ago, when they’d been lying next to each other for an entirely different reason. Maybe it was both? Everything was so complicated, and, yep, she was definitely panicking. Screwing her eyes shut, she tried to block out her thoughts, the panic, the flashes of sweat-beaded skin, the overwhelming sense of feeling everything at once.

“Are you okay?” His voice cut through the fog in her head like a lighthouse. “You’re shivering.” Sure enough, she was, trembling from head to toe. How long had she been cold?

“Here, take my jacket.” He offered, sitting up, to remove it from where he’d balled it up under his head.

“Chase, you don’t have to do that-” She started, voice shaky, but he was already leaning over her, placing the jacket tenderly over her, tucking in the sides. It was so soft, and loving, and so very, very Chase. Heart still frantically beating out an irregular beat, she just watched him as he tucked her in before laying back down himself.

“Thanks.” She whispered, bringing the jacket a little closer up to her face. It smelled like him.

“Don’t mention it.” He muttered, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him fold his arms over his chest. “I don’t really need it. Being a human space heater is but one of the benefits of having a rockin bod’.” Gert could almost feel the smirk radiating off him, but all she could manage was a choked chuckle.

“Are you really okay?” He turned to look at her, she could feel his gaze on her. “You’re breathing really fast.”

“I just,” She panted. “I’m having a panic attack. Downside of leaving my meds at home.”

“Really?” He sounded startled, concern lacing his words. “Just...just focus on your breathing, yeah? Here,” He shifted closer, until their arms were almost touching. “Listen to me breathe and… and copy it. Okay?”

“Okay.” She choked out, an unwilling tear leaking out her eye down the side of her cheek. Trying to listen to him over the panicked beating of her heart, she concentrated solely on the sound of his breaths; deep, calming breaths that became easier and easier to replicate. Slowly, her heart slowed, and the vice around her chest eased up. The worries didn't disappear, they never would, but she felt more prepared to face them. Not that she needed his protection, but being with him had always made her feel safe. From the time they were little and she had scraped her knee and he reassured her while he sent Alex to get a band-aid, or when they were in middle and he’d stepped in between her and a furious Victor Stein with a scowl more determined than she’d ever seen, or even just a few weeks ago after they’d found Old Lace and he let her cling to him, he’d always been her protector. Her brother-in-arms. The thought brought comfort, more now than she would’ve ever thought it would.

“Better?” He whispered after what could have been an eternity or ten minutes.

“Better.” She assured him, risking a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He was staring contemplative at the ceiling, barely visible in the darkness. As she watched, he gulped, Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck.

“Gert, I think we need to talk. About...about what happened.” His quiet voice all but whispered from inches away. Gert swallowed thickly, heart beginning to race again.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” She managed, voice barely audible. Her stomach fluttered anxiously. She could feel the panic rising again, but this time it was different, the nervous energy combined with sadness and intense fondness. “It was a one-time thing, right?” She hated the words as they left her mouth.

He didn't speak for a moment, and Gert cursed herself internally. Why did she always screw things up? Why couldn't she just let herself be honest? She wanted so badly to tell him how she felt, but the wall around her heart was too strong a defense for even her to defeat.

“I don't think I want it to be a one-time thing.” He breathed, and her heart stopped. Frozen, mind racing, she watched as he lifted his hand hesitantly from his side, reaching over to grab hers where she'd slipped it out from under his jacket.

“You don't?” She whispered, forcing herself to look at him. He was already staring at her, eyes wide and full of emotion. She could feel his hand wrapped around hers, his thumb brushing soft circles on the back of her fingers.

“I understand if that's what you want,” He continued, his green eyes trained directly on hers. “That's fine, if you want it to stay a one-time thing. I just… our future is so uncertain, and I couldn't go any longer without letting you know how I feel.

“I really like you, Gert. I always have.” He finished, voice barely audible. He was always so easy to read, but she'd never seen him look quite so vulnerable. This was it, her favorite Chase: mask-less and soft, completely and unreservedly honest. Taking a deep breath, she plunged into the defenses blocking her heart.

“I don't want it to be a one-time thing, either.” She replied, and his face grew into a grin. “I'm sorry I said I did, it was just a-”

“Defense mechanism?” He finished with a smirk. She sent him a glare that didn't convey much irritation. In fact, a bubble of happiness was growing in her chest; small and fragile, but there.

“Right.” She smiled softly. “I just, I was so worried that it didn't mean to you what it did to me, and… I just couldn't deal with that possibility, because I really like you too, Chase. More than I care to admit.” His grin seemed ready to split his face.

“I really like you, too.” He grinned, pulling her fingers close to him, pressing gentle kisses on the back of her knuckles.

“You already said that.” She tried so hard to sound unaffected, she really did.

“I'm gonna keep saying it.” He smiled at her, so softly, resting their clasped hands on his stomach. “And I'm gonna mean it. Every time.” She managed an eye roll.

“Would you look at that. Testosterone-fueled popular-jock Chase Stein is a romantic.” She muttered, shifting slightly to turn on her side to face him. With the softest eyes she'd ever seen, he tilted his head forward to press a kiss like a whisper on her forehead.

“What can I say, you bring out the best in me.” He muttered, leaning his forehead against hers, and her heart soared.

Within minutes, he'd nodded off to sleep, which left her to watch fondly as he snored, her eyes drooping sleepily. Her anxieties still churned in her brain, always threatening to spill over. Yet, somehow, with this loving and ambitious boy at her side, she got the feeling that they'd be just fine. 

[meg-writes-things]

Only a Flicker

Fandom: The 100

One-shot

Summary:  Clarke knew the symptoms of radiation sickness: vomiting, fatigue, loss of appetite, fever, and if the fever is bad enough, hallucinations. She just never expected to experience that symptom firsthand.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

Clarke woke with a gasp, eyes flying open to stare at the ceiling above her. She lay there, for a moment, trying to remember what woke her up, before she realized what she was looking at. Above her, the ceiling was not the metal of the ark she was so used to, or even the open sky, but a light-colored plaster.

Sitting up so quickly she could almost feel her brain rattle in her skull, she took in the room around her with a panicked gaze. The walls were also plaster, one of them hosting a wooden door with a shiny knob, the other with several curtain-covered windows, soft sunlight filtering in through the thin fabric. The floor was covered in a strangely-textured fabric, akin to grass—carpet? Wooden furniture was placed carefully around the room, decorated with photos in frames, and with drawers and doors half open to reveal soft, clean clothes spilling out. The closest Clarke had ever been to being in a room like this was when she was trapped in Mount Weather, but even then, her hospital room hadn’t been nearly so… homey.

She’d seen pictures, back when she was on the Ark, of the times before the bombs, of what houses looked like, and she was sure they were pretty similar to this one.

Looking down, she realized she was sitting on a bed, tangled up in clean sheets, cushioned on top of the softest mattress she’d ever felt in her entire life. Her legs were bare, and her torso was covered in a thin t-shirt she was positive she’d never seen before. Lifting her arms to inspect them, she was shocked at what she saw: instead of the dirt crusted fingernails and bloody scars that frequented her skin, her arms were clean and healthy, the scars from her wounds barely visible. The gold ring that adorned her hand was also new, as well as the small infinity sign tattoo that graced her wrist. Hurriedly untangling her legs from the sheets that were suddenly too restraining, she found that they were in the same unnervingly clean state.

Breaths coming more and more rapidly, she started to panic; where was she, how did she get here? The last thing she remembered was laying in the ark’s sick bay, her mother pressing cool cloths to her fevered forehead, ignoring Clarke’s cries of pain every time she touched one of the blisters on her skin. Clarke had been having symptoms of ARS for days now, but refused to go into the sick bay until she’d collapsed in the floor of her office and Bellamy and Monty had carried her there. She definitely wasn’t in this room when she’d passed out on the cot, surrounding by the coughing, crying sounds of her dying people.

Suddenly, to her left, the pile of sheets shifted. Letting out a soft shriek and scuttling backwards so quickly she almost fell off the mattress, she watched as someone emerged from the blankets, then rolled over to face her.

“What are you doing up already?” The voice rasped sleepily, as Clarke’s eyes widened in recognition. “It’s a Sunday, Sunday’s are for sleeping.” Bellamy’s dark eyes met hers lazily across the mattress, and he smiled softly.

“I don’t—how’re we—what’re you—” She stuttered, watching as he stretched his arms above his head, releasing the muscles that had tightened during sleep. With wide eyes, she took in his bare torso, the soft drawstring pants riding low on his hips. His dark hair, curly and messy, was sprawled across the pillow under his head. Despite all her best intentions, her heart sped up at the sight. Desperately, she shoved the all-too-familiar feeling in her gut back where they came from. It was not the time or the place.

“Where are we?” She finally whispered, scooting a little closer to him. “How did we get here?” A look of concern crossed his face.

“We’re at home, princess.” He said softly, bringing his calloused hand to cover hers. “Did you have another nightmare?” She gaped at the term of endearment, at the gentle hand that rose to her face to brush a lock of hair behind her ear. When she didn’t respond, he moved his hand to her waist.

“C’mon, come here.” The gentle words floated around her as he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her into his chest. She went willingly, feeling her panic dwindle as he wrapped his strong arms around her. With a sigh of relief, she breathed in his familiar scent: pine, and earth, and sweat, and rain. Allowing herself to nuzzle her face into his chest, she felt the slow rhythm of his steady heartbeat under her cheek. The beat calmed her, as she felt her heart slow its panicked racing to match his. Sighing softly, she felt him press a soft kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re safe. I’m not going to let anything happen to you, ever.” He whispered into her hair, sending shivers down her spine and tears to her eyes. She was disconcerted by the sudden intimacy, but this safety had always been Bellamy’s specialty. Out of everyone she’d ever met, beyond Wells, beyond even her own parents, he had the brilliant capacity to keep her centered. To make her feel safe, protected. She knew that no matter what happened, she’d be okay if he was by her side.

“Thank you.” She whispered the words across his skin, and he pulled her in closer, nuzzling his nose into her hair.

“No need to thank me,” He muttered sleepily. “I’m your husband; it’s part of the job description.”

It took Clarke a moment, lying there in his arms to realize what he’d said, but when she did, her head reeled backwards. She took in the soft look on his face with wide eyes, gauging whether he was serious or not. He was.

“What-” She whispered in disbelief, when she suddenly heard a strange sound, what she could only assume was a door, just outside theirs. She felt Bellamy stiffen in her arms, and with brute force the panic had returned. Swearing softly under his breath, he untangled himself from her.

“What, what is it?” She hissed, as he fumbled around for something on the wooden stand next to the mattress, knocking several items off it in the process.

“Sorry, I thought we had a little more time, but,” He let out a great, heaving sigh. “Looks like they’re on their way.”

“What? Who is?” Clarke questioned, her voice rising in pitch, but he didn’t seem to notice. Noises grew from outside the door, all while Bellamy continued his seemingly fruitless search, for what, Clarke didn’t know. Finally, he leaned back over to her, slipping a pair of pristine glasses up the bridge of his nose. With a tired smile, seemingly ignorant of Clarke clutching the sheets to her lap in apprehension, he spoke again.

“Brace yourself.”

With his words, the wooden door flung open. Clarke tightened her hands into fists in preparation, but was surprised when she was greeted by two small bundles of noise and color and energy, entering the room with all the force of a whirlwind. They clambered onto the mattress, their voices excited and incomprehensible, and out of the corner of her eye, Clarke saw Bellamy’s face split into a wide grin.

“Oh no!” He cried in mock fear as the larger of the two bundles jumped onto him. “You got me!” Clarke watched as the tiny thing flung her arms around Bellamy’s neck, knocking him back onto the mattress. The little bundle, a young girl who could’ve been no older than six, giggled and screeched as Bellamy ran tickling hands across her stomach, retaliation for tackling him. She was adorable, with wild curly hair sticking out in all directions and a grin that revealed she was missing her two front teeth.

Clarke momentarily forget about the other child until she felt a weight on her lap. This one, a toddler, was tottering unsteadily across her lap, all smiles as he approached her. He giggled as he unsteadily trudged across the blankets towards her, and Clarke smiled as he finally reached her and fell into her chest.

“Momma momma momma momma.” He chattered excitedly, clapping his hands in front of her face. Clarke reeled backwards once again; momma? Wrapping her arms around the excitable child, she took stock of his appearance: piercing blue eyes, just like hers, and like the little girl, a halo of unruly, curly black hair. Hair like the man sitting next to her.

Bellamy’s hair.

With all the force of a bullet, a pang shot through Clarke’s chest. She wasn’t sure how it was so, but this was her child. No, her children, she realized as she caught sight of the girl’s ice-blue eyes. And Bellamy was their father. Her husband. It felt… right. And normal, and happy. Something she didn’t think she’d ever felt, especially not since coming to the ground. Not since the weight of the world had been shoved onto her shoulders, not since she became a leader, not since she became responsible for the lives of not only her people but the entire world’s. Yet, as she looked at the family—her family—surrounding her on the bed, she felt a joy she never thought she’d have. And it hurt, another bullet-sharp pain piercing through her heart.

She choked back a sob as she stared at the little boy on her lap, his fingers picking at her shirt contentedly. To her side, she heard the little girl stop giggling long enough to breathlessly resume the barrage of questions she’d entered the room in.

“What’re we gonna do today daddy?” She questioned, her voice soft and happy, bouncing up and down on Bellamy’s lap.

“Hmmm.” He replied, in over exaggerated thought. “How about… we go see Auntie Raven?” Clarke ran a gentle hand through her son’s hair as she heard her daughter let out a cry of excitement, listing the things she was going to do at Auntie Raven’s in a rapid-fire manner. Bellamy chuckled, moving a hand to Clarke’s back.

“Is that okay with you, mom?”  Clarke didn’t respond, running a finger over the boy’s chubby cheek as he babbled nonsensically. She noticed the faint spattering of freckles the peppered his nose and cheekbones.

“Clarke?” Bellamy asked quietly, his voice laced with concern. “You okay?” She tried to speak, but when she turned to look at him, his kind face and his gentle eyes, the words died in her mouth, and tears sprang to her eyes. Shooting her a worried glance, Bellamy lifted the girl off his lap and onto the ground next to the bed.

“Alright, Miss Persephone, why don’t you go QUIETLY check and see if the baby’s awake, and then I will make you some waffles.” Another child. Another bullet to Clarke’s heart. The girl ran from the room, screeching excitedly, the exact opposite of quiet.

“Wait, take your brother!” Bellamy called, crossing the room hurriedly to lift the chattering child from Clarke’s lap. Her arms felt empty with him gone.

“Come here, Jakey-Jake.” He muttered as he carried the child over to the doorway, letting him totter off after his sister. Her son was named Jake. Another bullet.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Bellamy questioned, moving back to sit next to her on the bed, wrapping her hands up in his. She shook her head, and he rubbed his fingers across her knuckles, the callouses on his thumb raising goosebumps on her skin. It was all too much, too much for her heart to handle.

“It’s nothing.” She whispered shakily, her voice unconvincing. Bellamy, his face layered in concern, removed his hands from hers, instead placing them gently on either side of her face. Clarke wrapped her hands around his wrists, clinging to them like a lifeline.

“Clarke whatever it is, I’m here for you.” He said gently, his breath brushing across her face. “Whatever we go through, we go through together, remember?” The softness in his eyes made her knees weak. She knew Bellamy cared about her—Bellamy cared about everyone—but the undying love etched into his expression made it almost hard to breathe. As if the universe was conspiring against her, Bellamy leaned forward, placing his forehead against hers. He went to speak again, but stopped when they heard a resounding crash from the next room, followed by a child-like cry of ‘uh-oh’. Bellamy closed his eyes and let out a sigh.

“I’m going to go make the kids some breakfast, and once I get them settled, we can talk if you want.” Clarke nodded, unsure of what to say. She wasn’t sure how to tell him that didn’t know how any of this could be real, while it was at the same time the realest she’d ever felt. It was confusing and painful and made her want to cry more.

In a swift movement, he brought her mouth to his, pressing a kiss against her lips. It was gentle and chaste, and the feelings Clarke had worked so hard to keep at bay finally spilled over. She’d been avoiding this for so long, trying to ignore how her once irritation at his presence had converted into deep affection, but here it was, all crashing down at once. As his lips pressed soft and warm against hers, the walls she’d so carefully constructed around her heart after Wells, after Finn, after Lexa, came crashing down.

The kiss was over too quickly, and as Bellamy pulled away, Clarke almost found herself going in for more. Instead, she contented herself with his forehead resting against hers once more.

“I love you, Clarke.” He whispered, his eyes filled with love so deep she felt she would drown.

“I… love you too.” She replied breathlessly, the softest of smiles crossing her face. He smiled back.

“Clarke.” His voice echoed oddly, pulsing through her ears. She could’ve sworn his mouth didn’t move, but it was definitely Bellamy’s voice.

“Yeah?” She replied, their noses brushing against each other’s’, but his face remained the same.

“Clarke!” His voice repeated, more urgent this time, with none of the same softness he’d had only moments before.

“What?” Her brows furrowed as his face remained unchanged, his expression frozen on his face.

“CLARKE!”

Her eyes flew open, and she was suddenly back in the sick bay. Metal ceilings, loud sounds, the smell of the sick.

It wasn’t real.

Tears blurred her vision, and it might’ve had something to do with the return of the searing pain that coursed through her body. To her left she could hear Bellamy calling at someone across the room.

“Abby! Abby, she’s crying, I think something’s wrong-” He called in a panic, half risen from the crate he’d dragged next to her cot to sit on. Her head pounded, her vision fuzzy. She felt too hot and too cold at the same time, her muscles sore and achy and her skin blistered and dry. Abby hurried over, placing a firm hand on her forehead, before letting out a relieved sigh.

“She’s doing okay, Bellamy, her fever is finally breaking.” Abby muttered, turning to grab a wet rag from a bowl on the ground. “There’s hope for her yet.”

“But she was crying.” He persisted, sounding mostly defensive and more than a little scared.

“She was probably hallucinating, with the fever so high. It might’ve scared her.” Her mother expounded. Upon seeing Clarke’s open eyes, Abby addressed her next question at her. “Clarke, honey, are you feeling any better?” Clarke nodded.

“Yeah… my mouth is a little dry.” She admitted. Abby went to speak, but Jackson’s voice called her from across the room, mixing in with the coughs and the cries of the sick.

“Get her some water, would you?” She directed her request at Bellamy, before hurrying over to another patient. Complying immediately he poured her some water into a small metal cup, before helping her sit up in her cot. She felt woozy and achy, but not as horribly so as when she had passed out. Closing her eyes, she took a sip of the water, trying to calm herself down. Just a hallucination, just a hallucination.

“You okay?” Bellamy asked, tearing her from her concentration. His expression was laced with masked concern. He was trying to be casual, but he was worried. Clarke nodded, raising a shaky hand to her forehead.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Just a little disoriented.” She assured him. It was almost too much, to be sitting next to him considering what she’d just witnessed.

“Were you hallucinating?” He questioned after a moments’ pause. “You were crying, and that’s what your mom said caused it.”

“I think so.” She told him, looking down at her hands. For a brief moment, she expected to see a gold band on her finger.

“Was it really bad?” He questioned “You seemed pretty upset.” He hesitated for a moment, hands hovering over his lap, before he reached forward and brushed a sweaty lock of hair off her forehead.

“No,” Clarke sighed, trying to ignore the way the brief contact made her heart jump to her throat. “It was really, really good, actually.” She croaked, her voice cracking at the end. She took another sip of water to cover the slip-up.

“A nice hallucination? Well aren’t you lucky.” He joked half-heartedly. “What was it about?” He muttered quietly. Turning to look at him, she took in his strong hands, his messy hair, the constellations of freckles dotting his skin. In a moment of bravery, she moved her hand to cover his.

“Hope.”

[meg-writes-things]

All That I’ll Ever Need

Fandom: The 100

One-shot

Summary:  Everyone at the restaurant confuses them for a couple, and when Bellamy forgets his wallet, he takes advantage of the mistake.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

“What did Octavia say?” Clarke questioned Bellamy as soon as he slid back onto the crowded bench next to her. The waiting area of the restaurant was crowded, far more so than they’d expected, and the two of them were squished together on bench in the corner, waiting for their reservation to be called.

“I’m sorry, Clarke, she’s picking Lincoln up from the airport and won’t be back until late, or else she would come.” He said exasperatedly, sliding his phone into his pocket. “She said congratulations, though, and that she’ll take you out for drinks sometime next week.”

“I forgot he was flying back in today.” Clarke sighed, her heart dropping a little bit in spite of herself. “Raven texted while you were on the phone, there was an emergency with one of her projects and she’s out working for the evening. Maybe we should just cancel dinner.” She concluded, leaning her head back against the wall. Bellamy shook his head, putting a hand on her knee. Clarke’s skin tingled from the contact, something she elected to ignore.

Keep reading

[meg-writes-things]

No Rest for the Wicked

Fandom: The 100

Chapters 2/?

Summary:  Clarke Griffin is the picture of a devoted detective, and has been hunting down a ring of art thieves- named The Delinquents- since she began her time as a cop. However, when she is approached with a startling offer from the leader of the very criminals she has been desperate to capture, she finds that maybe the law isn't as black and white as she'd always thought.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction??

Chapter 1

"Detective Griffin." A gruff voice said, and Clarke jerked awake, head shooting up from where she'd been lying on her desk. She hadn't even realized she'd fallen asleep. A memo stuck to her cheek as she looked around with wild eyes, trying to find who'd spoken to her.

"What?" She responded quickly, her eyes finally landing on the person who'd said her name. Her boss, Thelonious Jaha, was standing over her with his arms crossed over his chest, staring at her with disapproval. She immediately straightened her back and scraped the paper off her face.

"Yes, Captain Jaha." She cleared her throat, crossing her hands in front of her.

"Have you had any luck with those addresses yet?" He questioned, eyeing the mess of papers scattered across her desk. Her shoulders slouched at the inquisition, and she brought her hand up to her forehead.

"No, none of them fit the specs yet." She sighed, staring at the mess in front of her, suddenly realizing how exhausted she was. "I haven't made it through all of them, but I'm going to keep looking until I find a lead-"

"Clarke." She heard him say, and she stopped talking, looking up at him. He hardly ever called her by her first name. His gaze had softened slightly, a tinge of sympathy crossing his features. "You've been here for forty-eight straight hours. Go home, shower, eat, get some sleep." He said insistently, but Clarke shook her head.

"Sir, with all due respect, the longer we wait, the harder it'll be to catch them, and with Finn and the rest of the team out on foot, I’m the only one-" She tried to rationalize with him, but her boss was having none of it. He held up a hand to cut her off, and she stopped talking.

"Detective, you're not of any use to the case if you can't stay awake for longer than two minutes. We have no reason to believe this case is going anywhere for the time being; go take care of yourself, and I'll see you tomorrow." Jaha pressed. Clarke tried to argue, but he cut her off with another wave of his hand and strode to his office.

With a sigh of resignation, Clarke turned back to her cluttered desk to find her car keys. The stacks of papers loomed ominously on her desk. As much as she hated to admit it, the Captain was probably right; she’d been pouring over leads for almost two days, and still she’d come up with nothing. When she’d caught wind of rumors floating around that the Delinquents were planning another heist, she’d immediately jumped on the case and put her all into finding their base of operations. However, after hours upon hours of fruitless searching, she’d come up empty-handed. After all that work, she was exhausted and more than a little defeated.

She jumped as she suddenly felt someone’s hand on her shoulder, realizing that she’d drifted off again, this time sitting straight up. Blinking rapidly, she looked up to see a bemused Finn standing over her.

Rolling her eyes, she went back to her papers, straightening them into a neat stack and avoiding his gaze.

“Please tell me you went home last night like I told you to.” He said, and she felt the hand withdraw from her shoulder, knowing he’d crossed his arms in irritation. He was her partner, and as much as he annoyed her, she knew better than anyone what he did when he was irritated. She finished stacking her papers and put them in a neat pile on the corner of her desk, continuing not to look at him, and turned her attention to her still-missing keys.

“Well, Detective Collins, you do not dictate what I do with my life so, no, I did not.” She deadpanned, opening her desk drawers and searching for the familiar sight of her bundle of keys, complete with the tacky keychain Lexa had gotten her for Christmas several years ago. “There are more important things at stake here than the leading detective on the toughest case this department has seen in five years getting her beauty sleep.”

“You really shouldn’t skip out on the beauty sleep, Detective Griffin, you kind of need it.” He replied, amused, and she shot him a glare. He was wearing a smirk, but still looked a little concerned.

“You're quite the comedian, Finn.” She grumbled, finally spotting her keys in the trashcan she kept by her desk. “What are you doing back here anyways? I thought you went home.”

“I left my book at my desk, so I came back to get it.” Finn answered, sitting lightly on the edge of her desk as she gathered up the rest of her personal affects and shoved them in her purse. “Are you finally going home?”

“Yeah, the Captain ordered me.” She pouted, standing up and stretching. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a break, and the stretch in her muscles brought relief she hadn’t realized she needed.

“Good!” Finn said, fiddling with the completed Rubik’s Cube she left on her desk. It was one of their routines: he was supremely irritated that she could solve the cube when he couldn’t, so he would mess it up in the mornings, and she would have it corrected by evening. She supposed he was making up for the lost time he missed while she was pouring over leads. Irritably, she grabbed the toy out of his hand and set it back on her desk.

“Not good, Finn. I need to crack this case before they… before they…” Clarke tried to get out, but a huge yawn grew from her throat, cutting off her speech.

“Yeah, you’re definitely going home, right now.” He insisted, linking his arm through hers before she’d even finished yawning. She tried to protest, but she was too tired and he was too strong, so he just dragged her through the building next to him.

“Also, you’re definitely not driving yourself home.” He added, tugging the car keys out of her hands before she could react.

“Hey, those are mine!” She exclaimed, trying to snatch them back, but he just held them over his head as he continued to drag her through the nearly empty precinct.

“You don’t need to drive me, Finn, I’m fine.” She tried to explain but was cut off by another large yawn. Finn snorted and rolled his eyes.

“Right. Hey, Maya.” Finn said suddenly, and Clarke noticed their resident forensic analyst had entered the room while they’d been arguing. She looked up when Finn said her name.

“Do you think Clarke should drive herself home?” He questioned. Maya looked at Clarke for approximately a tenth of a second before she looked back down at her paperwork.

“No, someone else should drive her.” She muttered, immediately engrossed in the lab results she was holding. Clarke let out a huff of irritation, and Maya let out a little sigh in response.

“Clarke, you look exhausted. There’s no way you can safely drive yourself home.” She mumbled, not even looking up from her papers. Finn looked at Clarke pointedly, then grabbed her arm again and dragged her through the rest of the building to the front door.

“C’mon Finn.” She groaned, but he just shook his head.

“Absolutely not. Either I drive you home, or I call Wells to come pick you up.” He threatened, and Clarke’s eyes widened in horror at the thought of calling her roommate. They had very conflicting schedules, and the last time they’d talked, he was under the assumption she was going home every night. Her be furious if he found out that she’d spent three whole days at the precinct without coming home to sleep.

“We are not calling Wells.” She said forcefully. “Just give me my keys.” She pleaded, but Finn just rolled his eyes.

“No arguing, Clarke.” He told her. She didn’t listen; instead she complained and argued the whole walk to her car, and even as he was pushing her into the passenger seat. However, as soon as her head hit the headrest, she was out like a light.

Clarke liked to think of herself as hardworking, a word which many others would consider an apt description, but in all reality, she was just stubborn. She’d been chasing this case almost since she entered the police force, and the longer it remained unsolved, the more agitated it made her. Every time she heard a whisper, a rumor of the Delinquents movements, she jumped back into the overflowing file she kept in the bottom of her desk drawer. They were the most infamous art thieves and smugglers in a three-hundred-mile radius, and regardless of the fact that they stole incredibly valuable pieces of Roman and Greek art—art that included incredibly heavy statues and highly guarded paintings—they had never once been caught. Sure, Clarke and her fellow detectives had gathered small pieces of evidence: a picture here, a name there. Eventually, they’d even worked out a basic sketch of the group, with seemingly numerous individuals all working together under one leader to accomplish their heists. But no one had ever, in five years, found any solid evidence to indicate the thieves’ identities or their movements or even where they were stashing the art. It was infuriating to constantly have the group slip through her fingers, no matter how elaborate the heist. They were stubborn, just like Clarke; biding their time, planning out their heists, taking their time.

When Clarke had first become a detective, her and her partner Lexa had caught a huge break: they knew what piece of art the Delinquents had set their eyes on. The whole precinct had planned for weeks, setting up such an elaborate trap for the criminals that even the visiting FBI agents assigned to the case had been impressed. The night of the heist came and- nothing. Not a single move was made to steal the painting, and the same thing happened the next night, and the next night, and the next. Eventually, the rest of the force had deemed the tip a false alarm, and had abandoned the set-up. However, Lexa wasn’t convinced, and she and Clarke had staked the place out the very next night, against the Captain’s orders. Just as the pair had suspected, the group struck that night, moving with such fluidity and power to accomplish their task that even Clarke couldn’t help but feel a little bit of admiration. Lexa, however, felt nothing but rage at the criminals, and charged in after the group while Clarke called back-up. After a lengthy chase through the art gallery they were robbing, Lexa thought she caught a glimpse of a Delinquents and chased after them, gun drawn and ready to fire. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a Delinquent: it was the back-up SWAT team Clarke had called for, and they shot immediately at the sound of gunfire. Lexa had died on route to the hospital, Clarke sobbing next to her the whole way, while the criminals had gotten away with their painting. Ever since the incident, Clarke was hell-bent on avenging her partner’s death. Logically, she knew it wasn’t any of the Delinquents faults; as far as she knew, none of them were even armed during their robberies. But if they hadn’t planned the robbery, and Lexa hadn’t been so determined to catch them, she would’ve still been alive.

After the incident, the group went inactive for about a year, but Clarke never let the case go. When she heard rumors of the Delinquents coming back to the surface about six months after Lexa’s death, she dragged her new partner through all the motions to find them, but had come up empty-handed. They continued to pop up from time to time, always getting away, and though the pain surrounding the case lessened over time, it was always nagging in the back of Clarke’s mind. When her new partner was paralyzed during a shoot-out with a gang war, she almost gave up the case completely, but she met her new partner and suddenly she was pursuing it with a new frenzy. Finn Collins, charming and passionate, had lost his girlfriend to the group; she'd broken off their relationship and joined the criminals for no plausible reason. Clarke and Finn worked well together, and even tried at a relationship for a couple of weeks, but when she found him cheating on her, they’d gone back to being just partners, bound together by their zeal to catch the criminals that had stolen their loved ones away.

Clarke suddenly felt the car jerk to a stop beneath her, and she woke with a jolt, disoriented. Turning her head, she caught Finn’s lingering gaze on her; he was watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest, and Clarke immediately oriented herself. Finn drove me home. I’m in front of my apartment. She laid there for a moment, seeing if he would shift his gaze, but he didn’t, so Clarke just rolled her eyes and reached for the seat buckle. He jolted to awareness, as if coming out of a trance, a blush creeping to his cheeks.

“Clarke, I’m…” He tried to speak, but Clarke just held up her hand to cut him off.

“Don’t. You already know what I’m gonna say, so let’s just skip this.” She shouldered her purse and climbed out of the car, Finn following suit. He had the good grace to look embarrassed, even if the longing was still there.

“How are you gonna get home?” She asked him when she reached the sidewalk leading up to her apartment door. “Didn’t you take your car to the station?”

“I’ll just take the bus, there’s a stop right around the corner. My car’s in the shop, so I just took the bus to the precinct.” He said, his hand slung in his pockets. Clarke rolled her eyes, shivering slightly in the chilly night air.

“It’s back in the shop again?” She exclaimed, crossing her arms over her chest. “You really need to get a new car, Finn. Your repairs are costing more than the car is worth at this point.” Finn laughed.

“Hey, don’t disrespect a classic; my dad drove that car in high school!” He responded in amusement.

“That is exactly my point.” Clarke sighed, smiling at him.

“It’s a relic, Clarke. I can’t exactly abandon it.” Finn explained in mock exasperation. Clarke just sighed.

“Obviously this discussion is going nowhere, again. Goodnight, Finn.” She chuckled, heading up the walk toward her complex. “Thanks for driving me home.”

“Anything for you.” She heard him say, and she could hear the faint smile in his voice. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

As much as she hated to admit it, it really was in her best interests to have gone home when she did; she was so tired that she slipped and fell getting out of shower and almost cut her head open on the bathroom floor. Luckily, she’d caught herself in enough time to prevent serious damage, but she’d hit her shoulder on something on the way down, and she was definitely going to have a bruise in the morning. She was surprised the noise hadn’t woken up Wells. As it was, she barely managed to stumble into an oversized t-shirt and collapse onto her unmade bed before sleep overtook her completely.

Unfortunately, it seemed her night wouldn’t last very long. She woke late the next morning to the obnoxious ringing of her phone. Cursing who she assumed was her mother for calling her at such a god-forsaken hour, she stabbed in her phone’s passcode and answered the call.

“What.” She growled, her voice gravelly from only recently waking up.

“Good morning sunshine.” She heard Finn’s voice say through the receiver, though it was surprisingly stoic for such a cheery sentiment. Clarke let out a groan; if Finn was calling her it meant that there was a problem at work. “Get ready and get dressed; I’ll be at your place in twenty minutes.”

“Why.” She growled, rolling over on her bed to flop onto her back.

“There’s been another heist, Clarke.” He said solemnly, and it took a few moments for the words to register in Clarke’s still-muddled brain, and she shot straight up into a sitting position, suddenly awake.

“You mean-” She started to say, but Finn cut her off, impatient.

“Yes, I mean the Delinquents. They need us at the station. I’m coming to pick you up; I’ve got bagels and coffee from The Ark.” Clarke let out a sigh of gratitude; she didn’t like being woken by demanding phone calls in the morning, but coffee from her favorite café certainly helped. “Twenty minutes, Clarke. You better be ready.” Finn reiterated, then hung up.

Clarke scrambled around her apartment to gather her things, suddenly full of energy, and was pulling on shoes when she heard Finn’s horn honk outside. Dashing outside and into his car--he must've picked it up that morning--she pulled her hair into some semblance of decency while Finn peeled out of the parking lot and sped onto the road.

“So what’s happening?” She questioned him through the bobby pins in her mouth as they flew down the roads to the precinct. His hands were gripping the steering wheel tightly, his body tense.

“I don’t know all the details; Captain Jaha called me about an hour ago and told me there’d been another heist and that we needed to get to the station as soon as possible.” His jaw was tight; he was grinding his teeth together in frustration. Anger welled up in Clarke.

“That’s all he said?” She questioned.

“That’s it.” He responded. Clarke leaned back against the seat, munching on the bagel Finn had so graciously thrown at her when she’d climbed into the passenger seat, relishing in the fantasy that, with this case, she'd finally bust the Delinquents and throw them all in jail.

They tore into the precinct parking lot several minutes later, and dashed inside to see the Captain and several other detectives standing in front of an evidence board. The two of them started throwing out questions at the exact same time, and Captain Jaha held up a hand to stop them.

“Here’s what we know,” Jaha started, cutting right to the chase. “From the reports we’ve received, The Delinquents robbed Mt. Weather last night during a guard shift change.” Clarke’s eyes widened; Mt. Weather was a privately-owned, highly-secure art gallery in the nice end of town. As an artist herself, she frequented the place quite often, so she had seen firsthand how hard it would be to rob the place. Sensing her onslaught of questions, the Captain kept talking before she could respond.

“They weren’t caught by any of the security cameras, and the guards didn’t see them enter or leave. Nobody was hurt, and as far anybody can tell, no property was destroyed. No biological evidence has been gathered from the scene, so we’ve still got nothing on that road. They got away with two paintings and a highly valuable statue. As always, they left their signature mark at the scene.” Jaha finished, but the way his words were left hanging in the air, Clarke knew there was something else.

“And?” She prompted irritably. “If there’s something else, you need to tell me.” He looked hesitantly at the ground, then turned around to pull a picture off the evidence board.

“They left a note this time.” He said quietly, handing her the picture. Clarke’s blood boiled as she read it, the taunting words scrawled in loopy, painted handwriting on the dais where the statue had been standing.

Our Regards to Detective Griffin

Shoving the note into Finn’s hand for him to read, she turned to glare at the evidence board, taking in the scant evidence, the pitiful theories they’d come up with, the sloppy stars and moon they painted at every crime scene, the few names and faces they’d gathered in their desperate attempts to catch the criminals. The Delinquents had been the bane of her existence since she'd started her time as a detective. They’d cost so many people unnecessary pain and trouble. She had to find them. She had to bring them to justice. As she stared at the evidence board, Clarke curled her hands into fists, determination growing in her with every breath.

Clarke Griffin was going to catch Bellamy Blake and his merry band of criminals if it was the last thing she did.

[meg-writes-things]

She Sees Me

Fandom: Stitchers

One-shot

Summary: When I see Kirsten standing at the bedroom door, my whole world freezes. Cameron's point of view from episode 4, when Kirsten sees Cameron's scar.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

The hot water cascades down my shoulders, doing wonders to the tension there. Today has been a long one, and so was last night, and the day before. I'm more than a bit drained; all the worrying about Kirsten, and the moments I shared with her the past two days, combined with breaking into an apartment, stopping a human trafficking job, and almost getting run down by a van, has been pretty taxing.

Rolling my neck, I let the drops of water pound into my back, trying to relax. The case is closed, and it has a hopeful ending; I shouldn't be this tense. Yet, the feelings persist, and, as usual, I'm drawn inexplicably to my memories of Kirsten. Her enraptured face as she explained how watching people so vulnerable was intoxicating. The way her face clouded had punched a hole in my heart when she watched the video of Marta. The worry I felt when I sent her in for a second stitch. Her stubborn face in my mind, insisting I trust her the way I want her to trust me. The ghost of the smile that crossed her face when I called her remarkable, and the closeness we felt when we made our promises, to keep her safe, and free from secrets. Watching her in awe and bemusement as she tapped along the apartment wall, and then taking a fire extinguisher to the drywall. The moment of horror I felt as the van was speeding towards her determined frame in the middle of the alleyway, terrified that I wouldn't be able to get her out of the way in time. The way her thin form felt pressed up against my arms and my chest, and the small moment of victory I enjoyed when she didn't pull away.

I close my eyes and tilt my head under the water, letting the memories of her wash over me with it. Even though she has no idea how I feel about her, and regardless of the fact she'll probably never feel the same, I can't help but bask in every second I get to spend with her. Obstinate, free-spirited Kirsten, who has even the iron lady Maggie Baptiste bending to her every whim. And then there's me, wrapped around her finger, following her everywhere, making sure she's safe. She's forever branded into my heart, never to go away.

Turning off the faucet, I grab a towel off the rod and pat my face dry. I step onto the cold bathroom floor, padding bare-foot over to the steamed-up mirror. Wiping the condensation off with a free hand, I try my best to ignore the reflection of the bumpy line going down the middle of my chest. I mop the water off my skin, taking some comfort in the happy voices I can hear in the kitchen. I'm sure the wine has been broken out by now- we definitely deserve it- and knowing Linus, there'll be a toast soon. Sure enough, as I'm wrapping the green towel around my hips, I can hear the clink of wine glasses.

Scratching the back of my neck, I move out into my bedroom and make my way to the dresser. It's much cooler in here, and though I enjoyed my warm shower, the air feels nice against my skin; I can feel a few missed water drops on my shoulders cooling down. Rifling through my shirts, I wonder absentmindedly what color Kirsten likes. I've never thought to ask her. Finally deciding on a green button-up shirt in my predictable plaid, I head toward my desk, where I remember throwing a pair of jeans earlier. Without really understanding why, I glance up at the door, and everything freezes.

I'm aware of about a million things in that brief moment. My bedroom door is partially slid open, and standing in the gap is Kirsten. I tense my shoulders, and I'm suddenly embarrassed and mortified and creeped out and shocked and a little smug at the sight of her standing there staring. Questions run through my mind faster than the speed of light: How long has she been standing there? What all did she see? Did she see me naked? No, I had my towel on before I left the bathroom. Why is my door open? I'm pretty consistent about keeping it all the way shut when I'm showering. Did I forget to shut it, or did someone open it? And why is Kirsten standing there? I can hear Linus and Camille in the other room, laughing about something, but she's standing here, in front of me. Why would she look inside my room? Why didn't she call out for me? I know she thinks watching people is intoxicating, but I can't imagine me being included in that. I'm suddenly hyper-aware of how bare I am, how low my towel is slung around my hips, how messy my hair is. She's staring quite intently into my eyes, her lips parted slightly.

I drop my shoulders a little, and her gaze moves from my eyes to my chest. With a sudden shock of embarrassment and defenselessness, I realize my scar is in plain view. Looking down at it, I know its significance, but I know she doesn't. Bracing myself, I look back up at her and raise my eyebrows in a sarcastic "What're you lookin' at?", but considering how vulnerable I feel, I'm sure it doesn't come off as such. She looks at my scar for a millisecond more, then meets my eyes again. For some reason I can't understand, she can't look away from me, frozen in her spying position.

Looking down again, I take a few steps towards the door. I hear her faintly suck in a breath, and when I look up, her shoulders have tensed up a little bit, and her eyebrows have shot up slightly. Not breaking eye contact, I keep going until I reach the door. We stare intensely at each other, and something unsaid passes from me to her. I am defenseless in this situation; she's caught me at an incredibly private moment, and I already feel weak, but the scar makes me feel ten times more vulnerable. As we keep our eyes locked on each other, I try to silently let her know that I am not weak, that my scar will not define me, like my parents had ensured it had my whole childhood.

Tightening my lips, I pull the door handle and shut the door. Kirsten's mouth opens like she's about to say something, but the wood shuts firmly before she can. Waiting, frozen, I listen for her receding footsteps, but it takes several moments before they sound across the wooden floor. I hear her re-enter the kitchen, the happy tones rising for a moment at her return.

I shuffle over to the end of my bed and sit heavily on it, slipping on my clothes. The intense vulnerability I felt is receding, bit by bit. When it is mostly gone, I go over what just happened. It's only then that I realize that Kirsten- who is never surprised- was staring at me in awe. I'm suddenly aware of just how she was looking at me, like she couldn't take her eyes off, and wouldn't even if she could. She definitely appreciated what I try to keep hidden under my long-sleeved shirts, even if my scar had marred that a little. A shiver runs down my spine as I think of her slightly open lips, her appreciative gaze like a spotlight shining over me. I smirk slightly to myself, knowing that she thought I was attractive, at least on some level, and then push the moment to the back of my mind. At this point, Kirsten has definitely already moved on from what happened, and so should I. Taking a deep breath, I head out into the kitchen, hoping I can make it through the evening alive.

[meg-writes-things]

Diamond Connection

Fandom: Stitchers

One-shot

Summary:  Kirsten and Cameron have a deep connection, one that will endure a lifetime.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

The nightmares started not long after he died. Maybe it was because of the seven minutes of that horrible flatline, maybe it was because of the way he screamed when he was finally shocked back to life. Maybe it was because while he had lain there for those torturous 427 seconds, filled with her shrill screams and that screeching heart monitor, she had been thrown into her own eternal living nightmare, her own waking hell that would never end. She had never felt so terrified in her entire life. She hadn’t known; how could she? But then she knew. Oh, how she knew. And, for the first time in her life, she was scared to loose someone.

When his intelligent hazel eyes had finally flown open after her eternity in darkness, she had never felt so happy in her entire life. Her hands flew to his terrified face, soothing his strangled scream, whispering assurances and staring straight into his wide-eyed gaze. She only managed a few seconds of touch, according to Camille, but those seconds had been enough. Never would she forget the limitless love and compassion she saw in his beautiful eyes. He had been opened to her entirely, his beautiful thoughts and exquisite emotions spilling over her, and she drank in every drop of it like a woman dying of thirst. Something had been acknowledged in that moment; the thread of connection between them turning to diamond.

She didn’t know, she didn’t know. But she was beginning to realize, maybe he didn’t either.

Ayo kept him bedridden for 38 infuriating hours after he’d woken; she couldn’t make him stay still longer. And she couldn’t keep Kirsten away any longer than that, either. After his horrid heart monitor had resumed its quick beeping, Linus and Alex had to physically pull her body off of his so Ayo and Kelsey could tend to his injuries. He had burn marks all over his chest from the defibrillator, the state of his heart was of grave concern to the two doctors, and he was in shock from his stint to the land of the dead. However, once his immediate maladies had been addressed, he was determined to get back to the case. He refused to be a patient, to be treated as though he was weak, but Maggie threatened to kill him herself if he so zealously refused his treatment. So he sat in the infirmary bed, Kirsten waiting in silence for its entirety. Once Maggie had finally relented and let him walk, he walked straight to Kirsten, pulling her tight into his arms.

She held him back just as tightly, feeling the comforting reassurance of his heartbeat pressed against her cheek.

They both felt the diamond connection between them, sometimes manifesting itself through silent glances and brushed elbows and knees. Kirsten was beginning to understand the steady rhythm of emotions, passion and anger and fondness quietly working their way into her life. It was small, but noticeable: the bout of sadness after stitching into a teenage boy who’d been the victim of a random hit-and-run, the flutter of her heart when Cameron beamed proudly in her direction after solving a seemingly impossible case, the involuntary clenching of her fists when Maggie dodged questions about a once-again absent Les Turner.

But the diamond connection came with an iron wall, an iron wall in the shape of a small plastic syringe. New to Kirsten as well was the concept of trust, and that little object seemed like a large hurdle to jump over. It seemed to grow higher and higher every day, any mention of it permeated with heavy silences and hurt and angry looks. It grew and grew until one day in the lab, the odd pair came hurling at it with sledgehammers and blazing guns. A quiet, passing mention of his death sent her spiraling over the edge, and it didn’t occur to either of them until what was happening until their shouts filled the crowded lab, didn’t occur to either of them what everyone else had known for months, didn’t occur to either of them that they were both so hurt because they cared so much for each other, each in their own loving, over-protective way.

Then the nightmares came.

She would wake up screaming, the shrill flatline ringing through her head, her fingers scratching against sheets to find a non-existent pulse. At first, she would curl in a ball and scream until Camille ran in, until she finally called Cameron and he sped over in pajamas and glasses, until she could feel his heart beating under her hand. When cases ran long and he was too tired to drive her all the way home, she’d spend the night in his apartment, and often in his arms. Nothing calmed her faster than his chest rising and falling to the pace of her own. His strong arms would wrap tighter around her in the night, as if he were worried it all would have been a dream. She was his comfort just as much as he was hers, and every morning, she’d wake to his contented smile. It wasn’t long until she had a drawer in his dresser, a toothbrush in his bathroom; until, fumbling and clumsy, her lips found his.

After that, they announced they were finally a couple, and everyone just laughed and said they’d known for months. Years. It was an inevitable event, two soulmates ripped apart and, like magnets, pulled back together. They grew better, together. He taught her what it was to feel. She taught him what it was to live. They became entwined in every way, never to separate again, their diamond connection holding them together.

So when their diamond connection manifested itself on Kirsten’s hand, it was as if it had always been. 

[meg-writes-things]

Work Song

Fandom: Stitchers

One-Shot

Summary:  Cameron Goodkin is a man of many talents, but when Kirsten wakes up to him singing one morning, she is taken by surprise.

Read it here: Ao3 // fanfiction

It didn’t matter how much Camille teased her, Kirsten would never get over how much she liked spending the night at Cameron’s apartment. For one, it was free of Camille and Linus’s frequent escapades, and Cameron always had food when Camille forgot to go shopping. His heater hardly ever went out, unlike their rickety old house from the seventies, and he had a nice view of the city at night time. They weren’t the most important reasons, though. When the nightmares would hit—and did they hit hard after Cameron’s stint with death—his presence brought her comfort the way nothing else could. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat under her cheek, the weight of his strong arms wrapped around her waist, his contented and sleepy little smile as they lay there together, these were the reasons she stayed.  

Her favorite part was the mornings. Cameron would wake first, going out for a quick run before making breakfast for the both of them while she slept. Then her alarm would go off, she’d roll out of bed in her pajamas, and he would give her food and coffee until she woke up fully, his cheery morning demeanor counteracting her irritation of having to be awake. It had become their daily routine, and she loved having a little regularity in her life.

Normally, he’d go about his business in silence to let her sleep as long as she could, but this morning was different. As her eyes slowly opened, blinking and bleary, Kirsten wasn’t entirely sure what woke her up. Turning to face the alarm clock, she noted that it still had half an hour to go before it went off. Early morning sunlight was streaming through the window in the corner, and per usual, Cameron was in the kitchen, soft music trickling through the bedroom door that was slightly ajar. Nothing seemed amiss, not that she could sense. Rolling off of the mattress with a groan, she straightened her pajama bottoms before crossing the room to retrieve a sweatshirt from one of his drawers.

As she slipped the fabric over her head, she froze, suddenly realizing what had woken her up. Drifting in from the kitchen was the soft tones of quiet music, and as she got closer to the bedroom door, she realized the noise was coming from Cameron. Furrowing her brow, she slipped quietly out of his room and into the apartment.

He was in the kitchen, pouring pancake batter onto a pan, and swaying absentmindedly around the room. Still in his workout clothes, he had his headphones in his ears and his eyes closed, engrossed in his music. He didn’t hear her pad into the kitchen, and Kirsten prepared to snap at him, irritated that he’d woken her up earlier than usual, but then he started singing.

My babe would never fret none

About what my hands and my body done

If the lord don’t forgive me

I’d still have my baby and my babe would have me

It was a low earthy sound, full of passion and melody; she’d never heard singing quite like it. His sensual voice soared and lilted with the music, each vibrato and crescendo leaving his lips with beauty and clarity. As he sang, he stepped in intricate patterns around the counter, in his own little world of sound. The pancakes lay forgotten on the stove, getting browner by the second.

When I was kissing on my baby

She put her love down soft and sweet

In the low lamplight I was free

Heaven and hell were words to me

His voice, low and quiet, made her freeze where she stood. She knew a lot about Cameron—how he took his coffee, what time he called his sister every week, where he hid the Nutella to prevent her from eating it all—but she had no idea he could sing like that. Like every fiber of his being was humming and vibrating in perfect melody to the notes slipping from his lips. An unconscious smile was playing over his mouth, and Kirsten had never seen him so serene.

When my time comes around

Lay me gently in the cold dark earth

No grave can hold my body down

I’ll crawl home to her

Kirsten sucked in a sharp breath as his voice grew, those words playing over in her head. She was enraptured, watching in awe as he stepped lightly around the kitchen. His body and soul moving to the music. It was a side of him she’d never seen before, and it was beautiful.

Seeming to remember the pancakes, he suddenly opened his eyes and flipped them over, only then noticing Kirsten standing there, staring at him in awe. He startled, pulling out his headphones and accidently dropping his spatula.

“Kirsten!” He exclaimed, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “How-how long have you been standing there?” He scratched his neck awkwardly, his voice a higher pitch than normal.

“I didn’t know you could sing.” She replied, cutting straight to the point, and padded over to one of the barstools. Cameron blushed harder and turned back to the pancakes.

“Oh, I don’t sing. Definitely not.” He mumbled, his back to her. She smirked slightly.

“Well, you definitely dance, then.” She replied fidgeting with the strings of the jacket she was wearing. He whipped around, his hazel eyes going wide.

“You saw that too?” He exclaimed, looking more than a little mortified. Kirsten just smiled.

“This is really embarrassing.” He muttered putting his face in his hands, once again ignoring the quickly blackening pancakes on the stove.

“It would be embarrassing if you weren’t so good.” She deadpanned, hopping off her stool to attend to the food. “Why didn’t you tell me you were so musically inclined?”

“I just don’t like to talk about it, I guess. I took lessons after my surgery…” He faltered for a moment, and a tinge of sadness brushed across Kirsten. “So… I guess it just kind of reminds me of how weak everyone thought I was.”

“Well, you should sing more.” She told him. “It was worth your time; you’re absolutely amazing.” He was silent for a moment, and Kirsten looked back up at him. He was smiling softly, looking at her appreciatively.

“Thanks, Stretch.” He said quietly.

“Any time, Twinkletoes.” She winked back.

[meg-writes-things]

Laila 

Fandom: The Host

Chapters 6/?

Summary:  It's been over twenty years since the events of The Host. The humans have grown in number and strength, but so have the Seekers. When a young, ambitious Seeker finds herself in the custody of the humans, she discovers that all she knows about them may be wrong.

Read it here:   Ao3 // fanfiction

Chapter 1: Dreamt

The first thing I notice is something warm and soft against my lips.

This confuses me. I have never felt anything like it before.

As I become more aware, I realize I am lying down, cushioned all underneath me, especially under my head. I come to the conclusion that I am lying on a mattress and pillow. This makes more sense. The last thing I remember before the pressure on my lips is trying to fall asleep.

I also notice a heavy weight on top of me. A blanket? No, much too heavy for that. Slowly, I begin to feel another pressure, this one moving up and down my sides, my back, just as soft and warm as the pressure on my mouth.

The softness against my lips has transformed into gently moving patterns that still press against my mouth. This excites me, for some unknown reason.  I am very confused. My brain doesn’t seem to be working properly, or it is simply refusing to tell me what’s happening.

I am still working through my bewilderment when the pressure on my lips, which had been growing more pronounced every second, moves down my jaw, down my neck.

I gasp and my eyes fly open.

I have correctly assessed that I am in a bed, though most definitely not the one in my room. Instead of my ceiling being above me, there is nothing but the open night sky and billions of stars. On the ground, desert sand stretches out as far as the eye can see in every direction. However, off the foot of the bed, in the distance, lies a group of sandy mountain peaks.

But I do not focus on this.

Instead, I focus on the mop of hair, seemingly spun from pure gold, that tickles my chin and the soft pressure, which I now recognize as a pair of lips, brushes against my collarbone.

I gasp again, and the head lifts up to look at me.

My mind rushes to absorb every detail. Strong jaw. Straight, small nose. A slightly puckered, slightly swollen pink mouth. But most of all, beautiful sapphire blue eyes inlaid into ivory skin. Eyes that seem to go straight to depths of me. Eyes that hold so much intensity I can barely control the butterflies in my stomach.

Eyes that hold no silver reflection that a soul’s should.

Every instinct, all the knowledge that I have, screams at me to run, to get away from this human boy hovering over me. But my heart, silent until this point, whispers reassurances. It tells me I have nothing to worry about, or to be afraid of. This boy means me no harm.

Seeming to sense my internal struggle, the boy smiles- a beautiful, heart-stopping thing- and leans down to kiss me once more. My hands come up and twirl in his hair, on instinct.

Then he whispers something soft and gentle and barely audible against my lips.

I love you.

 I sit bolt upright in my bed, gasping. For a moment, I look around, trying to orient myself- I am safely back in my room. Then my stomach jumps, and I barely have time to scramble out of bed to the restroom before my stomach heaves its contents.

After the nausea subsides, I shakily stand up, flush the toilet, and stumble to the sink. I rinse my mouth out, then splash water on my face, trying to calm down. Pressing my hand to my chest, I can feel my racing heartbeat. It is going the same tempo that it was in the dream. Perhaps it is still desperately trying to send a message, to communicate with another heartbeat pressed against it…

I shiver and splash more water on my face, trying to forget. I am somewhat successful. Already the details are starting to fade. There is little I can remember: a starry night sky, warm skin, a dusty mountain range, a handsome face, gold and sapphire and ivory…

I splash water on my face once more, pushing the last few memories to the back of my mind, though I do not get rid of them completely. Perhaps I will visit my new Comforter today. He will want to know these simple details. They may, in turn, help him help me.

Sighing, I glance through the doorway to the clock on my dresser. It reads 3:47 am. I still have a few more hours to sleep.

I rinse out my mouth again and climb back into my bed. For a long time, I lay there, trying not to think. Yet, as my eyes drift closed, I find myself thinking about the odd dream, and whether or not it will recur. As sleep overcomes me, I pray it will not return, but almost hope that it will.

 Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeep.

I roll over and turn my alarm off, checking the time as I do. 7 am.  The same time I get up every morning. But this morning, it’s different. I feel refreshed and completely rested, and a warm, tingling feeling has settled in my stomach. This is strange, even for the morning person this host is. I shouldn’t feel this good after having an unsettling dream that caused me to throw up at 4 o’clock in the morning.

Sighing, I push back the covers and pad bare-footed to my closet. Searching through my clothes, I finally decide on a white, button-up sweater, white skinny jeans, and my favorite tan, high-heeled, tie-up ankle boots. My long, auburn hair goes up into its traditional high ponytail. As I’m applying my simple make-up, I glance over at my clock. It’s only 7:15, and I realize if I forgo breakfast until I get to the office, I can probably visit my Comforter before I’m needed at my Calling.

Just in case, I call my coworker, Damian, and tell him I might be late. He politely asks why, and I tell him I need to visit my Comforter, and he tells me he will spread the word. I thank him, and the moment we hang up, I grab my keys and climb into my shiny silver car.

When I arrive at my Comforter’s house, I am unnecessarily nervous. I have only been to talk to him six or seven times since I was transferred from London. My mother was very resistant for me to leave, considering how young I am, but the only reason she approved was when she read about my Comforter. If he can be accepted by my over-protective mother, he is good enough for me.

I raise a shaky fist and knock on his door. The door opens almost immediately, and I am greeted with my Comforter’s kind face.

“Good morning, Laila! What brings you here this morning?” He smiles heartily. I take note of his loose shirt and pajama pants. I bite my lip nervously.

“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment, but if I’ve woken you up, then-“

“No, I was already up. Won’t you come in?” He asks. I nod, and step into his house. It, as always, is incredibly tidy and smells clean. I go into his living room, and he goes into the kitchen. I take my usual chair: the cushioned love seat in the corner. As I settle in, I already begin to feel better. This soul, Sings to the Sky, is most definitely born to be a Comforter. His calming demeanor radiates through his home. Though I miss my old Comforter in London, Sings to the Sky has been good to me.

After a moment, he brings in a tray of drinks and muffins and sets it on the coffee table in front of me. I pick up a poppy seed muffin and one of the crystal glasses, and smile as I recognize the contents.

“You made lemonade? And muffins?” I ask him as he settles in his favorite seat across from me: an elaborately carved armchair. He smiles warmly at me. I take a small bite of the muffin and set it aside for later. Then, picking up the glass of lemonade, I take a sip. Just as usual, it tastes fantastic. Not too sour, not too sweet. It’s room temperature- the only unfortunate thing about it. I think it tastes best when it’s ice cold. I don’t comment on this to Sings to the Sky; he does so much for me already.

“Of course, Laila. I know they’re your favorite.” He grabs a glass of his own.

“Thank you, Sings to the Sky. You are very thoughtful.”

“You’re welcome. Now, what brings you out here this morning?”

“Well, Comforter, I had a very unsettling dream last night, and I hoped I could speak with you about it.” He nods, and I take a deep breath before beginning.

I tell him the basic idea of it- I was kissing someone- and the few specific details I do remember. A blush creeps into my cheeks as I speak of the odd feeling it sent spinning through me. I also tell him how I woke with a start and almost immediately threw up. He is silent through most of my tirade and occasionally smiles sympathetically at me.

“I just don’t know what to think, Sings to the Sky.” I finish with a sigh. “It was such an unsettling dream. I’ve never had one so vivid before.”

“Would you like to hear my theory?” He asks politely.

“Of course. It’s why I came to see you.” I reply. He takes a deep breath and begins.

“My guess is that your host’s body is simply calling out for a partner. As you know, a human body through certain changes at this point in life, making a mate more desirable, and-“

“Yes, I know. “ I cut him off, the blush coming back. I don’t want to have this discussion with him; any mention of it makes me terribly embarrassed.

“Have you pursued this kind of relationship yet?” He questions.

“Well… yes, but nothing ever felt quite right.” I reply glumly, thinking of Damian’s friendly face. Sings to the Sky smiles at me sympathetically.

“Don’t worry Laila. You are still so young; there is still so much time for you to find a partner.” He assures me, and I smile vaguely. Patience does not sit well in this host. “Now, since you’re here, let’s talk about how you’re adjusting to living here. It’s been about two months since you’ve moved in, am I correct?” He questions. I nod.

“Yes, two months and a week and a half.” I say automatically.

“And do you like it here?” He asks

“Yeah, I do. It’s a lot warmer here.” I smile. “Although, the way your hosts talk is odd.” Sings to the Sky chuckles.

“It does take some getting used to.” He smiles. “Have you spoken to your family recently?” My smile slides off my face. The homesickness and being away from my parents has been quite hard on me the past few weeks.

“Yeah, I called them last Thursday. It was my mum’s birthday, so I thought I’d give her my love. I sent her a snow globe from one of the souvenir shops in town as a present. She collects them.” I say.

“How nice.” Sings to the Sky says. “Maybe next year you can have them come visit you for her birthday instead of sending Arizona to her.”

I nod and smile vaguely, taking a quick glance at the clock. With a jolt, I realize I have to leave right away to get to my Calling before I’m very late.

“I’m sorry, but I have to leave now.” I apologize.

“Alright, I’ll escort you out. And Laila, I would suggest going to a Healer today, just to make sure you aren’t sick.” He says as we walk out of his house to my car. I thank him and wish a good day, telling him I’ll go to the Healing facility after work while I’m climbing into my car and starting it. As I drive away, watching him wave at me from his driveway, I get the sudden sense that I will never see him again. This feeling is followed by two contradicting ones: an urge to turn right back around and hole up in Sings to the Sky’s house, and an overwhelming sense of relief. Shaking all of it off, I head in the direction of the Seeker’s office.