#(I got a concussion from window blinds)

[tj-crochets]

I'm seeing that poison control post going around and I don't want to derail it with my one and only calling poison control story but I have called it and they were great! An excellent resource that saved me a trip to the urgent care I called it because I somehow fumbled using a syringe (no needle) to measure my dog's medication and put it in his food so badly that I hit myself in the eye with his medication. The very nice poison control guy very politely did not laugh at me and went over the specific medication and how it would interact with medications I was on (the answer was: it wouldn't but do try to avoid getting dog medication in your eyes in the future)

[whisperedmeg]

BLIND CONTOUR ―.✦ s.r. soft animal series ∘ part x

pairing: spencer reid x fem!nurse!reader

summary: an HR training forces her to reckon with how it all began — the softness she offered, the power she didn’t realize she held. then a prison lockdown leaves her bloodied, trembling, and safe only in his arms. he holds her like something he never wants to erase.

genre: hurt/comfort, smut

w/c: 3.6k

tags/warnings: post-prison spencer, discussion of power dynamics/imbalance, prison lockdown, mentions of blood/injury, sort of a hostage situation, shower scene, unprotected p in v (unprotected as in no condom but it’s established she’s on bc and don’t worry this isn’t a setup for an unplanned pregnancy trope I promise lmao), crying during sex, multiple orgasms, aftercare/cuddling

a/n: this chapter is kind of all over the place, but I think it’s an important one for a bunch of reasons. as always, I appreciate all comments/likes/reblogs more than I can even express! thank you sm to everyone who has followed the series so far 🫶🏼 part 11 is coming sometime next week. can’t believe there’s only 3 more chapters left 🥲

series masterlist

The PowerPoint projected onto the wall said Ethical Conduct in Correctional Health Settings, but it might as well have said This Will Ruin Your Morning.

I sat in the breakroom with lukewarm coffee and five other nurses while a representative from HR clicked through slides that felt vaguely threatening. Phrases like dual relationships and over-identification floated across the screen in dull font, all framed in neutral language that still made my stomach twist.

“Inmate patients often misinterpret kindness as romantic or personal interest,” the presenter said. “This can lead to inappropriate attachment behaviors, especially if boundaries aren’t clear.”

I stared at my coffee. It had gone cold.

The slide changed. Power Dynamics in Clinical Encounters. A list of bullet points followed — positional authority, dependency for care, zone of helpfulness.

And all I could think about was Spencer.

Not the version of him now — not my Spencer, folded into our shared Saturday mornings eating yogurt with the foil lid still attached. No, the version from Millburn. Hollow-eyed. Quiet. Clever, even when he didn’t speak. The man who used a chessboard to communicate and didn’t smile often, but when he did, it made me weak in the knees.

I thought about the first time he beat me in Scrabble. He used words like flybys and zymurgy and quixotic so casually, as if that was something normal people did during a concussion screening. I thought about how I’d smiled at him like a secret. About how he’d looked at me like I was oxygen.

I’d always let him stay in the infirmary longer than he needed to. I’d played games with him, let him talk to me, given him back a piece of control over his time, his choices. It had felt harmless. Gentle, even. But the truth was, I had been the one holding all the power, even when I thought I was just showing him kindness.

He hadn’t been allowed to decide anything about his own life back then — not what he wore, or when he ate, or where he slept. So I let him decide whether we played chess or Scrabble. I let him talk to me like he was a person instead of a number, and I told myself that meant we were equal. But we weren’t. I was the one who got to walk out at the end of the day. I was the one with the badge, the authority, the agency.

I wasn’t ashamed of loving him. But for the first time, I realized how much of that love had started when he had no other choice but to trust the only softness available. I wasn’t wrong to care for him. But I hadn’t seen just how deeply the system had narrowed his options — or how easily love can grow toward the only open window, like a tiny plant stuck in the shadows, stretching desperately towards the sun.

The session ended. Someone made a joke about how none of us had time for “romantic inmate drama” anyway. Everyone laughed. But I felt sick.

—

When I got to Spencer’s place after my shift, he was on the couch, legs tangled in a blanket, a book open on his lap. His glasses had slipped down his nose and his curls were in full rebellion.

“Hey,” he said, looking up. “You okay?”

I dropped my bag by the door and kicked off my shoes. “Yeah. Just work stuff.”

He watched me cross the room and then set his book aside. I sat down and curled in beside him, resting my head on his shoulder.

I thought about how people — people like Spencer — study faces. I’d spent so many hours trying to read Spencer’s back then, trying to interpret the distance in his gaze, the calculation in his stillness. And now, watching him beside me, I realized I wanted to be read, too.

After a moment, I said, “Will you draw me?”

He blinked. “What?”

“Like in an art class. Blind contour. You don’t look down. You don’t lift your pen. You just draw what you see.”

“Baby,” he said, trying not to laugh, “I can’t draw.”

“I’m not asking for a masterpiece, Spence. I’m asking for an absolutely terrible line drawing of my face.”

He tilted his head. “Where is this coming from?”

I hesitated. “I think I just want to know how you see me. Not the polished version. Just… whatever comes through. Plus, it might be funny.”

He looked at me for a long beat. “Okay,” he said finally. “But only if I get to keep it.”

We rummaged for pencils and a sketchbook. He sat cross-legged on the couch, turned towards me as I sat against the other end.

“No peeking at the paper,” I warned.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

For the next few minutes, he was completely focused. Every now and then he’d mutter things like, “I think this is your eyebrow, but it might be your nose,” or “I might’ve accidentally given you a third eye”

I couldn’t stop smiling, and his eyes never left my face.

When he was done, he turned the pad around.

It was tragically awful. My right eye sat closer to my chin than my forehead and I was pretty sure I counted four nostrils.

I laughed. “Wow. That’s even worse than I imagined.”

He grinned. “It’s strange how hard it is to get something right when you’re trying desperately not to mess it up.”

The words landed differently than he meant them to. I swallowed. “My turn.”

—

Drawing him was harder than I thought it would be. Not because of the exercise, but because of what it brought up. His face had changed since prison — softer in some ways, older in others. But there were pieces of him I still remembered vividly. How angular he looked in fluorescent light. How his hands trembled when he’d first get brought in by the COs.

I traced the curve of his nose in my mind. Let the pencil follow.

When I finished, I looked down at the paper and burst into laughter. I’d drawn his eyes almost on top of one another, so he ended up looking more like a cyclops than a human. His ears were so crooked you could barely tell I’d even intended for them to be ears. I handed him the monstrosity, still giggling. “It’s so bad,” I said. “And somehow also completely you.”

He held the page gently, as if it was fine art.

“I love it,” he asserted with a wide grin.

After a long moment of silence, I raised a quiet question, my mind still stuck on the HR slides from earlier. “Do you ever think about how little choice you had?”

Spencer looked at me. “What do you mean?”

“When we met. I could’ve walked away. You couldn’t.”

He blinked. His posture shifted, like he wasn’t sure whether this was a memory or a minefield.

“I sat through a training this morning,” I explained. “They were talking about power dynamics. About how inmates might misinterpret kindness. About how health care providers can become too emotionally involved. And all I could think about was you and me.”

He was silent, listening.

“I remember every time I let you stay longer in the infirmary. Every game of chess. Every smile you gave me like it was something you weren’t supposed to hand over. And I realized — even when it felt mutual, it wasn’t.”

He opened his mouth to speak, but I kept going.

“I always saw you as my equal, but you weren’t. Not really. I didn’t realize how unfair that was to you until today.”

Spencer took a slow breath.

“I’m not saying what we have isn’t real,” I added quickly. “God, Spence, I know it is. And you didn’t ever misinterpret anything. You didn’t misread the signs I was giving you. But I still can’t stop thinking about how little agency you had. How I might’ve inadvertently taken advantage of the position you were in, flirting with you when you didn’t have anywhere else to turn.”

His gaze held mine. “You were the only person in there who treated me like I wasn’t broken. If there was a power imbalance, it didn’t come from you.”

“But it was there,” I said. “And you still fell in love with me.”

He reached across the couch, resting his fingers lightly on my knee.

“I didn’t fall in love with you in prison. I survived because of you in prison. I had a crush on you, of course. But I fell in love with you after. After you showed up at my apartment and didn’t look back.”

Tears stung my eyes.

“You made me feel like I was worth knowing again,” he said.

I leaned forward and pressed my forehead to his.

“I’m still sorry,” I whispered.

“I know,” he said softly. “But you don’t have to be.”

Later that night, we curled up on the couch, a blanket tossed over our legs. Our hideous drawings sat side by side on the coffee table.

He traced slow circles on the inside of my wrist.

“We should frame them,” he murmured.

I laughed. “Seriously?”

“They’re terrible,” he admitted. “But they’re honest.”

I smiled, watching the curve of his mouth as he looked at the drawings.

“They’re us,” I whispered.

“Exactly.”

—

I went back to work the next day, giggling at the sight of the drawings on the coffee table before I left his apartment.

It was a normal shift at first — charting, two medication rounds, a sprained ankle from rec time. Spencer had kissed my forehead that morning like nothing in the world could go wrong.

But it happened fast. A snapped broomstick turned into a shiv. A hallway scuffle flared into chaos. And then everything locked down.

Sirens screamed overhead as the COs bolted every entry. The intercom crackled something about securing infirmary staff, but I was already on the wrong side of the door.

I’d stepped out to grab more gauze from the supply room. One second I was rounding the corner near Block C, and the next, I was face to face with an inmate I didn’t recognize — bleeding from the forehead, shirt torn, wild-eyed and twitchy like he hadn’t slept in days.

He had a sharpened toothbrush in one hand.

My mouth went dry.

“There’s nowhere to go,” he said, voice too calm. “They locked us in.”

I didn’t run. I couldn’t. My body was all instinct and slow breath. I raised my hands.

“Okay,” I said softly, carefully. “Let’s sit. I’ll help you with that cut, alright?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared — eyes glassy and unpredictable. I registered the tremble in his hand, the way the makeshift weapon hovered at his side. He wasn’t threatening me, not directly. But he wasn’t stable either.

“I’m a nurse,” I said. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

A long beat passed. Then, slowly, he nodded.

I sat cross-legged against the wall, heart thudding in my ears. When he crouched beside me, I fought the urge to flinch.

I didn’t have gloves. I didn’t have anything but the gauze I’d been holding. I pressed it gently to his temple. Blood welled beneath it, and it soaked through quickly — onto my hands, into the cuff of my sleeve. I just kept applying pressure, steady and firm.

“What’s your name?” I asked, voice thin.

A pause. “Tony.”

“Hi, Tony. You’re gonna be okay. Just keep breathing.”

We sat like that for what felt like hours — no clocks, no guards, just distant shouts and the thunder of fists on bars. I could hear the static of CO radios, barked orders, the sound of something heavy slamming into steel. Somewhere, someone was crying. Somewhere else, someone was laughing — manic and unhinged.

Tony kept the shiv in his lap. I tried not to look at it.

Every few minutes, his hands would twitch. Once, he stood up suddenly, pacing a few feet before crouching again. I didn’t move.

The second time he stood, I braced for the worst — and then he just sat back down with a sigh and pressed the gauze tighter to his head.

“I didn’t mean to be here,” he muttered. “I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“I know,” I said, even though I didn’t.

Eventually, a CO found us and barked for Tony to stand. He dropped the toothbrush without protest. I watched them zip-tie his wrists and haul him down the corridor, blood crusted at his temple. I still don’t know what he’d done. I just knew he didn’t hurt me.

But he could have.

That’s what stuck.

My hands didn’t stop shaking, not even when I scrubbed them raw in the infirmary sink. I could still see the red stain of his blood on my scrubs, dried now, crusted at the seams. And I couldn’t get the image of that plastic handle out of my mind — the way it had gleamed under the flickering light. The way it reminded me, viscerally, that kindness doesn’t always protect you.

I wasn’t able to check my phone until I was cleared to leave two hours later.

Twelve missed calls. Seven texts. Three voicemails.

All from Spencer.

—

When I finally got to his apartment, the door opened before I even had the chance to fumble with my keys. Spencer stood there in the doorway, looking panicked and sleep-deprived and like he’d run through every possible worst-case scenario a thousand times.

His hands flew to my face like he didn’t believe I was real. “God, are you okay?”

I nodded, barely.

“I saw it on the news. You weren’t answering. I—I couldn’t reach you. I had Garcia hack into Millburn’s internal system. She got me CO radio traffic and timestamped movement logs, but we couldn’t find anything about you, there was nothing—” His voice cracked. “I thought—I thought something had happened to you.”

“You shouldn’t have done that. You could’ve gotten in trouble with the Bureau for abusing their systems,” I whispered, too shocked and touched to mean it.

“I don’t care,” he said firmly. “I had to try and find you.”

He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me to his chest so tight it almost hurt. I felt the tremor in his shoulders before I heard the heavy breath he sucked in.

I closed my eyes and let myself shake.

—

The shower was his idea.

“You’re covered in someone else’s blood,” he said gently. “Let me help.”

We undressed slowly, almost clinically. He reached for the faucet, tested the water with his hand, then stepped aside, waiting like he was afraid to rush me.

The moment I stepped under the spray, I broke.

Not loud. Not sobbing. Just a quiet, unstoppable unraveling — muscles trembling, jaw clenched, eyes burning. The adrenaline was gone, and all that was left was fear, thick in my throat.

Spencer stepped in behind me. His arms wrapped around my waist like a bandage pulled snug. He didn’t say anything. Just held me, chest pressed to my back, hands splayed over my ribs like he was trying to count each one and make sure none had splintered without him noticing.

I leaned into him and let the water wash over us.

When he reached for the shampoo, his fingers threaded through my hair with tenderness. He massaged my scalp slowly, carefully, like he was afraid I might flinch if he moved too fast. I stood still while he rinsed it out, then turned to face him.

He cupped my jaw and kissed my forehead. Then he reached for the washcloth, lathered it between his palms, and began to wash my body — my arms, my shoulders, my chest, down to my stomach, my legs. Gentle, thorough, like he was scrubbing off the fear and replacing it with his love.

“I was so afraid something happened to you,” he said finally, voice ragged.

“I know,” I whispered. “But it didn’t. I’m right here.”

He exhaled shakily, something cracking open in his expression.

“I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost you,” he said. “I kept thinking, what if I never got to touch you again? What if I didn’t say I love you enough?”

My throat tightened. I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together under the stream. “You did. You do.”

There was a long, trembling pause.

Then came the shift. Like something soft giving way under the weight of too much feeling. He let the cloth fall and leaned in to kiss me — slow, steady, and full of ache.

There was no urgency — not yet. Just the quiet gravity of skin and memory. His hands found my waist, and mine threaded into his damp curls. We kissed under the spray until the water went cold.

When we stepped out, he dried me gently, then himself. We made our way to the bed wrapped in towels, in silence, in something close to reverence.

He laid me down like something precious. Crawled over me like he didn’t want to miss a single breath.

“I need you,” he said softly. “Need to feel you.”

I nodded, brushing a curl from his forehead. “You’ve got me. I need you, too.”

His hand went to the nightstand for a condom, but I stopped him.

“You… you don’t have to,” I said softly, and Spencer looked down at me like a deer in headlights. “I’m on the pill. You know I take it religiously. I’m okay with it if you’re okay with it.”

He froze. “You’re sure?”

I held his gaze. “I’m sure,” I whispered.

His face shifted — awe, want, disbelief. Then he kissed me again, deeper now.

When he pushed inside me, it felt like coming home. He moved slowly and carefully until we were fully joined then stilled there, breath shaking. We both gasped — even after everything, this closeness still had the power to undo us.

He pressed his forehead to mine. Our noses brushed. Our hands found each other and held tight.

We started to move together, slow at first — long, deep strokes that made my body arch into his without thinking. My legs wrapped around his waist, anchoring him to me.

He groaned against my mouth, kissed me hard. “You have no idea how scared I was,” he said, voice broken.

I whimpered softly, fingertips digging into his back. “Shhh. I don’t want to talk about that right now. Just focus on this,” I begged.

We moved like that — like we were rediscovering each other, like every thrust was a tether, pulling us tighter. The pleasure built sharp and slow, pulled from something deeper than just sensation.

His pace quickened, just slightly. His lips traced my jaw, my throat, the shell of my ear. “I need you to let go for me,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

I moaned, body trembling. “Touch me,” I breathed. “Please.”

His hand slipped between us, thumb circling just right. I broke with a gasp, hips bucking, body clenching tight around him.

“That’s it,” he murmured, holding me through it. “God, you’re so beautiful when you come.”

My breath caught in my throat. My eyes stung. I didn’t even realize I was crying until he kissed the tears from my cheek.

“Hey,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He shifted slowly, gently guiding me onto my side and curling around me from behind. He slid back in with a low groan, burying his face in the curve of my neck.

This angle — this closeness — was unbearable in the best way. He moved deeper, slower, like he needed to feel every inch of me, like anything faster would be too much.

“You’re okay,” he whispered, hand over my heart. “You’re safe.”

I turned my head just enough to kiss his cheek, and it was then I noticed the glistening tear streaks running down his face, too. “Only because you’re here.”

He moaned softly, his arm tightening around my waist, his rhythm stuttering as I pushed back against him. His fingers found mine again and held tight, grounding us both. The pleasure unfurled once more in my belly, deeper this time. A slow rise toward something bright and breaking.

“I love you,” he said hoarsely. “More than anything.”

“I love you too,” I breathed — and then I was coming again, shuddering around him, everything inside me tightening and releasing in slow, rolling waves. My back arched, my breath caught, and I felt him everywhere.

He buried his face in my shoulder and let go with me. His whole body shook as he came, a raw, wrecked sound tearing from his throat. I felt it — the pulse of him deep inside, the heat, the staggering intensity of it.

He clung to me like he might fall apart without something to hold, and I held him just as tightly.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away. He wrapped the blanket around us, tucked his body close, kept himself buried inside me like he couldn’t bear to be anywhere else.

“Promise me I’m never going to lose you,” he whispered, still shaking.

“‘M not going anywhere,” I replied softly, my voice loose and sleepy and in love. I reached for his hand and looped our pinkies together. “Promise.”

We lay there for a long time. Quiet. Still. The worst of the day behind us. The fear, the waiting, the helplessness.

Now there was only this — the warmth of skin, the hush of steady breath, the outline of two people who’d almost come undone.

Not perfect. Not polished.

Just two messy shapes drawn in unbroken lines — holding each other together.

ᝰ.ᐟ

part xi

[amsgrey]

Clouds

resquested by @rainechase45

warnings: descriptions of a car accident/crash, reader sustaining mild injuries in said crash, mention of blood and broken bones (not in-depth), description of hypothermia + hypothermia-related symptoms, reader really just going thru it in every way, metaphors for death, very bad metaphor writing

Authors Note: I got about 2000 words into this before i remembered that americans have different cars to kiwis. Hopefully, any mistakes are fixed but if they're not, it's because kiwis drive on the left side of the road not the right. 

When you first got your driver's permit, Will and Jay wouldn't let you drive without them. Even though you had completed the course and passed the driving test, they still didn't want you driving alone. Which wasn't an issue really, when you didn't have your own car anyway.

Now you have had your license for almost ten months. Will let you borrow his car from time to time. Today was one of those days. A friend from school lived outside of the city and Will had let you borrow his car to go see them. The drive was only about 45 minutes, not too long with your music blasting. Will and Jay were both working late, so you stayed for dinner with your friend and then started the drive home. It was 7 pm at least by the time you hit the road. The temperature was already 8 °F and only grew colder.

You always hated driving at night and in the rain, but both at the same time was a nightmare. It wasn't just rain now, sleet came down so hard and fast your wipers hardly had time to keep up. Driving in these conditions was dangerous, even for experienced drivers. So you slowed down, turned down the music and tried to limit the distractions. If you crashed Will's car he would never let you drive ever again.

Even with the wipers at full speed and your high beam lights on, the sleet made it near impossible to see. There was no one else on the road, at least, not in front of you. There was an SUV behind you in the left lane, you caught glimpses of its shape through the sleet every now and again. They were going much faster than you were, steadily becoming a larger shadow in your mirror. Eventually, you could see their lights fully in your mirrors. You let out a grumble as you realized they too had their high beams on. Flipping the tab on your rearview mirror didn't change the fact the wing mirrors were blinding you too.

"What on earth," You groaned, the only other car on the road, the only one you had seen in the last 20 minutes was burning holes in your eyes.

Everything changed so quickly. The SUV was speeding up, gaining speed even against all the wind and sleet. Then the car was hydroplaning on the ice and sleet on the road, it swung out of control, swerving from their lane and into your own. You couldn't look away from the mirror, watching in horror as the car kept spinning out of control. It slammed into the side of your car, hitting hard against your door as it pushed you off the road. Both of your cars slid down a bank, only coming to a stop when there was nowhere else to go.

You could feel the seat belt cutting into your chest, you wanted to claw it away but it wouldn't budge. The glass from the now smashed window was cutting through your skin, on your face, your arm, even a few pieces had cut their way through your jeans.

The cold was what kept you conscious. It flooded into your car, breaking the bubble of warmth and ripping away any sense of comfort you had seconds earlier. You weren't sure if it was tears or blood running down your face, but either way, you tried to clear your mind. There was a first aid kit in the glove box, one Will had made, if you could reach it you could help yourself. 

You forced yourself to go through the checklist Will ingrained in you. Starting with your head, you made note of the concussion you likely had, then your neck, whiplash for sure. Your chest next, which was in pain from the seatbelt, but nothing else you could tell for now. Your left arm was broken, but that was a problem for another time. Your legs were squished, but you should move your feet and toes without any pain. That was as good as it was going to get, you had to get out of here. The longer you stay in here, with the sleet soaking through your clothes, the longer you put yourself at risk. 

With a bit of wiggling and stubbornness, you managed to unclip the seatbelt. It didn’t move much, but with it not so tight you could now push it away from you and start the process of wiggling out of your seat. You climbed over the center console, taking your time to avoid smashed glass or hurting yourself further. Once in the passenger seat, you pulled open the glove box, dragging out the kit and rummaging through it. You ripped open one of the gauze packets, pressing it to the left side of your forehead, the sting causing you to hiss. You continued anyway, forcing yourself to open the plastic package with a sling in it. You forced the knot over your neck. Sucking in a deep breath you forced yourself to move your arm into the sling, clenching your jaw in until the pain subsided. After ten minutes of breathing through the pain, you decided enough was enough. You had to move, even if you didn’t want to, you had too. 

Throwing open the door, you forced yourself out into the weather. The first aid kit stayed tucked under your arm so that you could help the other car. Walking up the incline was harder than getting out of the car, the pain from your arm and the other scrapes and bruises weighed you down. One step at a time. One foot after another. Eventually you made it to the driver's door. The windscreen was smashed, webbed cracks making it impossible to see through. You reached for the handle on the driver side, using it to steady yourself the last few steps then yanking it open. Inside, the driver was hunched over his steering wheel. 

“Hey,” You tried to shake his shoulder, but he didn’t respond, “Please, no.” 

You took a deep breath, then placed two fingers to the man's coritod, trying to calm the sound of your own heartbeat to feel the man. 

10 seconds passed. 

20.

30. 

Nothing. No Pulse. No Signs of Life. 

You pulled your hand away slowly, as if not to disturb him. 

“I’m so sorry,��� You pulled away, stumbling a few steps back. 

By now, you could guess it had been almost half an hour. Half an hour in the sleet and rain, with no coat, no dry clothes. No one would be able to see you from the road, there was no barrier or break in a fence. No one could see you.  You were at risk, you knew any longer out here would kill you. You had to call for help. Forcing yourself to walk back down the slope to your car was hell. Your entire body shook, every time you took a step, your legs shook and you had to take extra time to steady yourself. When you finally got back to where you started, the passenger side door, you used your right arm to pull yourself back into the car. You had left your phone in the holder on the 

 There were no lights on in your car, nor the other one, so you had to search with light from the moon and strained eyes. You patted down the floor of the passenger side, nothing. Leaning over the console you tried the driver side. Avoiding the mangled parts was hard, no wonder your leg was scratched up and sore. Eventually your fingers found an irregularity, your phone face down on the ground. You yanked it up, pulling it to your face and trying to turn it on. With the screen facing you, you could see the damage. It was like it had been through a blender, the only intact part of the phone being your case. It was useless. A glorified paperweight. 

“Fuck!” 

40 minutes in these wet clothes. You had never been so cold in your life. It was as if there was no heat left in the world, the comfort of warmth was a fleeting memory. The aggressive shivering was making it hard to do anything, but you were more worried about what would happen when you stopped shivering. Growing up in Chicago, with a doctor brother, meant you heard all about how hypothermia could sneak up on a person. Most people didn't see it coming, didn’t know the signs. You were painfully aware of them. 

The racing heart. Tachycardia. 

The cold white fingers. Your body pulling blood from your extremities to protect your core.

Next it would be the brain fog, shock, the feeling of being overheated. There was no telling when it could strike. 

The other driver's phone. 

A lightbulb went off, literally. 

If you wanted to survive, you had to get back to the other driver. You had to fight. 

Finding the driver's phone felt like grave robbing. You could see it sitting in his cup holder. Some kind of miracle it hadn’t bounced out. You had to lean over the man to get the phone, trying not to move him or touch the blood that was staining his clothes. With the phone in hand, you gripped it with two hands to press the power button and activate the emergency call. You pressed the phone to your ear, it rang twice. 

“911, what is your emergency?” 

“I was in an accident,” You answered, “I need an ambulance.” 

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m not shivering anymore. I’m not shivering.” 

Your arm dropped, phone tumbling into the snow on the ground. 

“It’s not cold anymore.” 

“Dispatch, we’re going to need a Medevac.” 

“Hey kid,” The paramedic was trying to keep you alert, “Not far from a hospital, okay?”

“It’s too hot,” You slurred, strapped to the gurney in preparation of the Medevac, covered in foil safety blankets. 

“I know, love,” The woman was so nice, her voice was so soothing. “Just hold on a little longer, yeah?” 

You could hear the sound of the helicopter approaching, a steady rhythm. It grew louder and louder. it  felt as if it was taking the rhythm from your heart, as the helicopter got louder you could feel your heart getting quieter. 

The deafening sound and the wind that came from the chopper made you feel like you were hallucinating. The whole time as you waited for help, half conscious in the snow. It was nothing much at first, shooting stars, the moon glowing brighter and brighter. Then it was Will’s voice, Jay’s humming. All the things that reminded you of warmth, of that all encompassing feeling. 

Holding onto your own consciousness was like trying to hold onto a cloud. You could just see it, sense it, but physically touching it, holding it… it was nearly impossible. 

A moment of clarity had you reeling it in, forcing your eyes open. 

Inside the chopper was just as loud. But more hectic. A symphony of chattering radios, yelling voices and beeping machines. 

“My brother,” You croaked. 

“Don’t speak, kid,” The Medevac paramedic was a different man, older than the paramedic from before. He looked like a dad. 

“My brother, Doctor Halstead… Chicago Med.” 

The man's face was out of focus, but you could see the realization on it. He knew what you were asking. 

He turned to the other body in the back of the shopper, the one that was just a blur of blue shapes, “Get him on the radio now.” 

He looked back at you, “What’s your name kid?” 

You whispered it back to him, voice raw and mouth dry. You felt like you were drenched in sweat. Everything was burning. The clouds in your mind were getting further and further away, but you forced yourself to hold tight to consciousness. You needed to talk to Will. You had to talk to him. 

“My name's Tom,” The paramedic was placing headphones over your ears, adjusting the mic so that your voice might reach it, “I’ve got you, alright, kid? Just take it easy.” 

The other person was speaking, explaining something. You could hear the bass of his voice through the headphones, like he was speaking inside your head. But he might as well have been speaking another language, because nothing he said made any sense. Your eyes were so tired, burning from the lights inside the chopper, even though you knew they were as low as they could go. Light flares made it impossible to focus, everything blending and swirling in a sickening live painting. Nothing was peaking through those clouds now. They were dark, cold, and sinister. The ones that roll through right before a thunderstorm, before everything went haywire. 

But then there was sun, a beam of warmth that basked you in calmness. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” Will. The warmth that kept you safe. 

If you had been in your right state of mind, you would be able to hear the strain in his voice, the pure anguish. But you didn’t. All your brain could comprehend was that he was there. 

“I love you,” You whispered, not sure if it would be heard. 

Tom repeated your words, mumbling something about numbers or stats dropping. 

“I love you too.” Will replied, “I love you so much. I will always-” 

Will cleared his throat, it registered somewhere in the very back of your mind now. He was crying. 

“I will love you, forever. No matter what happens, sweetheart.” 

Will didn’t call you sweetheart anymore. It was always squirt. Sweetheart was what he called you as a child, the nickname that fizzled out when you turned 10 and having a hovering older brother was embarrassing. Again, that feeling of warmth returned. The feeling of lying in the sun after a swim, letting it dry you and warm you slowly. It was calm, gentle, nurturing. The warmth that made plants grow and flowers bloom. That you had spent your whole life with. Will was the sun in your family. Warm, nurturing and oh so loving. Always there, reliable and steady. If Will was the sun, then Jay was the moon. That Light that guided you through the dark. The one that brought coolness, serenity and wiseness. Jay was the one that kept you calm. Taught you to stand on your own two feet, to fight. The moon was always there, every single night. Sometimes it hid, keeping its light hidden, but it was always watching. 

Your brothers, your lifelines. 

The steady thrum of the helicopter was growing silent. Replaced with a ringing that pulled you into a clear empty and dark sky.

There were no more clouds. There was nothing. 

Will was on the roof as soon as he got word the chopper was getting close. The fear and anxiety that ran through his blood was making it hard for him to focus. He was standing by with strict orders not to intervene. When Goodwin had heard what was happening, she had made sure WIll knew that he could not be involved in treatment at all. No matter what, he could only watch. 

“I got this, Will,” Marcel assured Will. Marcel was a brother, he knew what it was like to worry over his sister. 

“I know,” Will responded, the words meant nothing. Nothing anyone could say would stop the thumping of his heart, the fear in his veins. 

As the chopper landed, Will watched Marcel and the trauma nurses run in, a practiced team. The hand-off was smooth as it could be, then everyone was running back inside, headed to the ED. Elevator rides with patients were always slow and nerve racking, now was no different. The Helipad was only a few floors above the ED, the distance was hardly far enough to feel as long as it was. 

“Baghdad's free” Maggie called as they barrelled into the ED. Marcel started barking orders, calling stats, medications. Will had done the routine before, thousands of times. Now, watching from outside the room,everything felt foreign and new. 

Marcel and Trinny cut off your damp clothes, replacing them with warm blankets and heat packs. 

“Temp check?” 

“61.2. Heart rates dropping. 62, 56, 43…” 

Maggie grabbed Will's arm, pulling him back as the monitors flatlined. 

“Get me an amp of epi!” 

"Epi’s in.” 

“Hold compressions…” 

“No pulse.” 

“Resume compressions.”

Will looked at his watch, the minutes were ticking by. 

“Alright,” Crockett switched with Asher on compressions, taking a step back, “Temps up to 63…” 

“It’s been ten minutes,” Asher said through compressions, “Should we try ECMO?” 

Marcel turned to Will, not for permission, but to see if he was following. THe face that Marcel saw was full of hopelessness. This wasn’t Will Halstead the ED Doc, it was Will Halstead the big brother. 

“Maggie?” 

“On it, Marcel,” Maggie stepped away from Will barking her own orders at nurses. 

How is this happening? 

Nothing else could take up space in WIll’s mind. Why was this happening? 

This morning when you had left, you showed Will the weather forecast, telling him it would be cold and rainy, that you would take your time and go slow. He knew you would too. You hated driving in the rain, so you were always alert. 

This morning, you had dropped him at work and yelled out the window, “Don’t kill anyone!” Before cackling and driving away.

You were so full of life when he last saw you. 

Now all he saw was a limp body that shared your face. 

“Will?” Jay's voice from across the ED. 

Will wasn’t just your big brother. He was Jay's too. At that moment, he knew Jay needed him. 

Will stepped away from the treatment room, intercepting Jay before he could get too close. 

“Listen to me,” Will pulled him aside, grabbing his shoulders, “You don’t want to see her right now. Marcel and Asher are working on her, they have it handled.” Lies. They were lies, or half-truths, either way, Will didn’t believe them. 

“How did this happen?” 

The Halstead brothers didn’t cry much, but now the both of them were tearing up. The fear of losing the light of their lives was weighing them both down. 

“That’s not important right now,” Will forced himself to say, “Right now, all that matters is she is getting treatment.” 

Jay nodded, he pulled out of Will’s grasp and turned to Hailey. She had watched the whole exchange, but Will hadn’t seen her until now. She looked like she might cry too. The same thoughts circling in the Halstead brothers minds were circling in her own. 

“She’s strong,” Hailey croaked out, “She’ll be okay. When she wakes up, she’ll have us, and she’ll be okay.” 

Will smiled at his sister-in-law. She really meant it, her belief giving Will something tangible to hold onto. If Hailey saw the way out, he would too. 

“I got a pulse!” 

The beeping of machines never sounded so sweet. A steady even beat. 

Will hadn’t prayed in so long, but he let slip, “Thank you, God.” A silent prayer followed. 

Where there was once nothing, now there was a wide blue sky, littered with meager clouds. They weren’t the ones that looked like faces or shapes, they were so small that they almost blended into the sky. But they were there. You could see them, feel them. God help you, you were going to reach them. 

The sun was out today too, a warm glow that set the perfect temperature. A spring morning with the first blooming flowers. The moon was there too, a watery reflection against the blue. It felt so serene here. The sun was calling to you, warming you in its embrace. You chose then, this would not be your goodbye to the sun and moon. 

Opening your eyes was the hardest challenge of the day. It was harder than walking up that slope, or staying conscious in the helicopter. Your body screamed for sleep, but you were too stubborn. You had to see the sun. 

“Will, Jay, get in here.” 

A warm hand on the side of your face, another one cradling your hand so gently. 

“We’re here, sweetheart.” 

“We’re not going anywhere.” 

This time they were real. When your eyes focused, there were your brothers. Your warmth on a cold day, the light on a dark night. When your eyes fluttered shut again, you knew they would watch over you, keep you tethered. You weren’t fearful of what would happen this time, they were looking out for you.

[briefinquiries]

Luke Alvez x Reader: Concussed

Request: do you think you could do some type of situation with luke where he has to clean a cut on your forehead or something? like that cute awkward moment 😭 (i hope this makes sense)

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: blood mention

A/N: Plsssss I miss him sm, enjoy!!

Every single day, you fought actual, literal bad guys for a living. The worst of the worst– the kind local police needed help handling. You drew your weapon more than you could keep track of and chased unsubs down the street at least once a month. 

And yet, it was the bird feeder that did you in. 

To be fair– you figured technically, it was the ladder that you were standing on in a feeble attempt to hang the bird feeder that was the real culprit. But as you sat in the grass with a bruised ass and ego, you figured the details weren’t really that important. 

Once the initial shock from the whole ordeal wore off, you slowly started to stand up– emphasis on the slowly. Because it became inherently clear as soon as you tried to move that you’d been hit in the head harder than you initially thought. 

“Fuck,” you hissed as soon as your fingers grazed the sensitive spot on your forehead. When you pulled your hand away, you were horrified to see the thick, crimson liquid coating your fingers. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” you winced, bracing your hands on your knees while you stood the rest of the way up. 

“You try to do something nice… like feed the fucking birds, and look what happens,” you muttered to the universe. “You fall on your ass and get concussed by a goddamn bird feeder.”

A concussion would definitely help explain the absurd amount of talking you were doing to absolutely nobody. 

With what little dignity you had left (which was practically zero) you picked up the smashed bird feeder from the ground and trudged across the lawn towards the open garage door. After setting it down near the overflowing trash bin, you dragged your feet the rest of the way inside. 

You made it about two feet before you heard a knock coming from the front door.

Frowning, you wondered who the hell would be knocking at your door at 11 o’clock on a Sunday morning. Your curiosity made you forget all about your almost-certain concussion, as you slid across the kitchen towards where the knocking continued. Because you weren’t a total idiot (bird feeder to the forehead aside) you peaked through the curtains cautiously, hoping to catch a glimpse of your visitor. Everything inside of you loosened the moment you laid eyes on Luke– the newest member of your team and your neighbor only four houses down (which you’d learned from a brief conversation with him only days ago). 

He was dressed in a plain, gray T-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts, his muscular calves on full display. You watched for only a moment longer, trying to control the butterflies suddenly flying rampant through your stomach. Luke had only been a part of the team for a couple weeks, but you were already learning that he had this sort of effect on you. Something about his smile– or the way he laughed, or the way he told the funniest jokes, and always knew what to say when someone was having a tough day– or the way he so obviously cared about the people you helped and was always so empathetic… Come to think about it, you adored just about everything about Luke. 

Before he could catch you gawking over him through the window like an absolute lunatic, you snapped the blinds closed and made your way to the front door. As soon as you swung it open, you were faced with arguably the most handsome man you’d ever met. 

“Luke, hi!” you greeted happily.

But his face went from excited to horrified to angry in the blink of an eye.

“Y/N, what the hell?

His beautiful, warm eyes went dark as they swept over the length of you. And that was the moment you remembered what you currently looked like–

With all the excitement of seeing Luke, you had totally forgotten that you’d fallen off a ladder and mauled by a bird feeder only moments ago. 

His shock quickly turned to anger as he took a step forward, so that he was standing right in front of you. “Who did this?” he asked, his tone solid and protective. His hand hovered near your jaw but didn’t quite touch you. 

“What?” you shook your head, and winced as soon as you did. “No–”

“Y/N, who did this to you?” 

“No one–” you said quickly. “I mean– I did. Not on purpose–” you clarified. “I fell.”

“You fell?” he asked in disbelief, his tone softening just the slightest bit. 

You nodded. “I was trying to hang the bird feeder, but the ladder slipped on the leaves on the lawn. It was stupid–”

“Jesus,” Luke winced as his fingers ghosted along the edge of your jaw. You couldn’t help the sudden, sharp inhale through your lips the second that you felt his touch graze your skin. “I could’ve helped you with that, you know. Why didn’t you ask–”

“Because I didn’t think bird suet would be the death of me today,” you admitted feebly. You hoped the dirt and blood from your fall was at least hiding the blush creeping up your neck and cheeks.

A soft chuckle escaped Luke’s lips, but the look of concern remained. 

“That’s a pretty nasty cut,” he said. “Let me help you clean it up.”

“Oh that’s okay,” you waved him away. “You don’t have to do that–”

“Did you even notice that you had blood all over your collar?” he asked, nodding slightly. 

You look down quickly and groan as soon as you see that your beige pullover was stained in a dark shade of crimson. 

“I think you’re probably a little concussed,” he added. “At least let me make sure you’re not dealing with anything worse. I used to help the medic sometimes in the field. Plus– I brought homemade muffins.” 

Your eyes widened at the sight of the plastic container being raised in Luke’s other hand. “You brought baked goods?”

“Muffins– yes.”

A wave of emotions washed over you. You didn’t have the best dating history– there was the guy who kept you a secret from his entire family (wife that you had no idea about included), then there was the guy who would cancel all your dates to spend time playing video games with his friends. And how could you forget about the guy who would conveniently “forget” his wallet every time you went out. 

And now here you were– standing in front of a man you’d known for only a couple of weeks and he was bringing you homemade muffins. 

“I–” you stammered. “I don’t– I can’t–”

“Woah,” Luke said, taking another step forward. “Maybe you should sit down. I think you’re more concussed than we thought.”

You shook your head. “I’m not concussed. Or… I probably am. But I mean, I’m just shocked–” you admitted. “No one’s ever done something like this before.”

“You said pumpkin muffins reminded you of home– and then you said later that day that you were feeling homesick. So–” his voice trailed off. You thought you might have detected a hint of embarrassment in his tone. 

Your eyes widened even more. 

“This is making me sound way creepier than I am–” Luke stammered. “I just… I was baking anyway, and I had a can of pumpkin just lying around... I didn’t go out of my way or anything in a weird way…”

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” you said, meaning it. “Seriously, Luke. Thank you. I don’t… I don’t know how to repay you.”

“How about letting me help clean that cut up?” he asked, throwing you a cheeky grin. 

The corner of your mouth curled into a smile. “Fine,” you agreed, finally stepping back to let him inside. After closing the door, you turned to find him setting the plastic container down on the counter. 

“Where’s your first aid kit?” he asked. 

“Uh, under the sink in the bathroom,” you said, still convinced you hadn’t processed any of this yet. 

“And the bathroom is…” his voice trailed off. 

“Oh–” Luke looked so damn natural standing in your kitchen, you forgot he’d never actually been here before. “Down the hall, last door on the left.”

“Got it. Be right back.” With that, Luke was taking his uncharacteristically long strides down your hall before disappearing in the bathroom. 

For the first time since answering the door, you raised your hand and touched your temple. Wet liquid still coated your forehead, despite how much time had passed since the accident. Maybe it was a good thing you were agreeing to let Luke help. 

He was back in an instant, holding a damp washcloth and the small first aid kit you’d ordered online months ago, but hoping to never use. 

“In here,” he nodded towards the kitchen. “The lighting’s better.”

You nodded, realizing he really didn’t have to explain. You and your concussed brain would follow him just about anywhere. Your eyes really widened when he patted the counter, indicating that he wanted you to sit on it. 

You didn’t even question his logic though. Instead, you swiftly slipped onto the lip of the granite counter and waited aimlessly while Luke fished around your first aid kit for what he needed. You were level with him now, your gaze trailing down the length of his thick, muscular body. You studied the lines and curves of his skin better. You noticed every crease– every laugh line, every freckle. God, was he always this beautiful? 

Out of nowhere a smirk spread across his lips. “You’re staring.”

Blinking harshly, you tilted your head towards the ceiling, the bright light hitting your eyes and making you wince. “Fuck,” you grunted, dropping your head and squeezing your eyes shut. 

“Shit, you okay?” he asked carefully, dropping the kit to cup your cheek carefully. You felt the pressure on your neck ease as you allowed yourself to lean into his touch. 

Carefully you opened your eyes and nodded. “Yeah– just the light.”

“You’re definitely concussed,” he stated, eyes traveling from yours to the cut on your forehead. “Did you hurt anything else besides your forehead?”

“Is the gash not enough?” you asked dryly, missing the feeling of his touch the moment he moved his hand. 

Luke chuckled. “Oh, the gash is plenty. Just checking, though. Here–” you felt his touch against your face again. This time, his fingers grazed along your chin, tipping it slightly. “Can you lift just a bit for me?”

You nodded and moved your head in the direction he gestured. “'Atta girl,” he said, your stomach churning at his praise. You felt him press the washcloth to your temple gently, swiping up dried blood. As he neared the actual wound, you found yourself tensing up. But when you gripped the sleeve of his T-shirt, Luke didn’t even mention it. Instead he traced his thumb up and down your jaw soothingly and whispered reassurances. “I’m sorry, I know, I know–”

“It’s okay,” you said through gritted teeth. “It’s my own stupid fault. Too bad you didn’t show up just a few minutes earlier, you might have actually gotten to see the show.”

“So remind me again how this happened– you fell off a ladder?”

“Well, sort of,” you explained. “I was trying to hang my bird feeder– on the tall branch. But the ladder slipped on the leaves, which I’ve been meaning to rake for weeks now… and when I fell the bird feeder sort of fell too… on my head.”

You dared to steal a glance towards Luke. The second you did, you noticed him biting back a smile. 

“You can laugh,” you said defeatedly. “It’s completely ridiculous. A little stupid, too.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said, composing himself. 

“We took down a six foot unsub last week,” you reminded him. “Yet the bird feeder is what does me in.”

“Well… when you put it that way,” Luke smirked. 

“If anyone at work asks, you have to lie for me,” you pleaded. “Tell them it was something heroic.”

“I’ll tell them you saved a baby bird from a tree. Instead of letting it fall to its death, you broke the fall with your forehead.”

“That makes me sound so noble,” you laughed. 

“Get ready,” Luke warned as he dabbed some alcohol on a gauze pad. 

“Shit,” you muttered, trying to brace yourself, not even thinking as you moved to grip his bicep. 

“Squeeze as hard as you need,” he said softly. “Ready?” 

You weren’t. But you nodded anyway. 

The stinging sensation ripped through you, causing an onslaught of swear words to escape your lips. You gripped Luke’s arm desperately, your fingers digging into his skin. If you weren’t completely consumed by pain, you would’ve noticed how strong his muscles felt beneath your touch. 

“Almost done,” he murmured, dabbing a few more spots before finally setting down the gauze. “There. Breathe.”

You nodded, your eyes still snapped shut as you attempted to inhale and exhale.

“Good job,” he soothed. When you opened your eyes, your breath hitched when you noticed how close Luke’s face was to yours. 

His jaw tensed, shadows dancing across his face, and you immediately wished you could lean forward and just kiss that look of concern right off from his lips. Your eyes lingered on them for a beat too long– because you heard Luke clear his throat and tilt his head back. 

Embarrassed, you looked down at your hands folded in your lap. 

“Last step,” he said quietly, pulling a large bandaid and some antibiotic cream from the first aid kit. 

You nodded, shaking yourself out of the desire before holding your head up to give him better access to your cut. Carefully, Luke placed the cream and bandage over your cut. “There,” he murmured softly. 

His hand shifted on its own accord, fingers moving to brush loose strands of hair that had fallen into your face, before traveling down the length of your jaw, chin and neck. 

God, he really was beautiful. 

Luke smirked. “Thanks.”

“What?” you whispered. 

“I think you’re beautiful, too.”

Oh, shit. Had you really said that out loud? And was that the concussion speaking or just this intense, surreal intoxication you felt for Luke?

Involuntarily, you sucked in a breath, and then you did something you knew you wouldn’t have been brave enough to do unless you really were concussed– you leaned forward and pressed your mouth against Luke’s without a second thought. It was a soft brush at first, testing to see if he wanted to pull away. When he didn't, you slid forward on the counter and wound your arms around his neck. 

Luke’s other hand, the one that wasn’t cupping your face like he was afraid you’d break, landed on your hip. His fingers dug into your side as he pulled you closer to him. Your body fit against his like it was made for kissing him. 

Your hands found their way to the nape of his neck, where you twisted your fingers amongst his curls. He moaned in approval, and you smiled into the kiss–  into him, and it was nearly devastating when he pulled away and didn't smile back. 

And then Luke was sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and taking a step back. “You’re concussed,” he said. “I’m sorry, this can’t happen– you’re… not in the right state of mind.”

Embarrassed, you slid off from the counter and wiped your mouth with your sleeve. “I’m sorry–” you stammered. “I didn’t realize you didn’t want to–”

Before you could slip past Luke– to run or hide or whatever the hell you could think to do– he shook his head and gently placed his hand on your hip, guiding you until your back collided with the counter. “I want to,” he said clearly, lowering his forehead so that it was pressed against yours. “God knows I’ve wanted to since the day I met you.”

It took a minute for his words to find meaning in your own brain. But as soon as they did, you looked up at him hopefully, your eyes widening. “Really?”

“Fuck, yes,” he rasped, his thumb wiping a tear you hadn’t even realized was falling. “Are you kidding me? I don’t just bring pumpkin muffins to anyone… That was my attempt at making a move.”

“Instead I got clocked with a bird feeder before throwing myself at you,” you groaned. You leaned forward and rested the non-injured side of your head against Luke’s chest. 

“If I didn’t think you had a pretty severe concussion, I would more than welcome you throwing yourself at me,” Luke assured you.

You scoffed. “The concussion may have given me the courage to throw myself at you, but I’ve been wanting to do it way longer.”

You felt his chuckle vibrate beneath you. “I’ll tell you what…” he began, his hand sprawling out against your back. “You still want me after you’re not concussed, and you won’t have to throw yourself at me ever again.”

A shiver ran down your spine– your body thrilled with the idea. “Deal.”

“In the meantime, how about I hangout here? Make sure no more bird feeders fall on your head.”

You smiled against his chest, unable to contain the feelings he elicited inside of you. “I’d like that,” you admitted. 

[juliaia]

Rainy Nights in Hell's Kitchen

—————————————————————

Summary: You’ve been dating Matt for about a year—you always sleep better when you’re with him.

Pairing: Matt Murdock x gn!reader

Warnings: Swearing, nightmares, fluff, overuse of em-dashes.

A/N: This is super short and sweet, but I wanted to try writing for Matty. Totally feel free to request stuff if you enjoy, but I post fics at random whenever the urge strikes, so I’m not like an “official tumblr fanfic person” or whatever—but I sure am here!

—————————————————————

It was a dark and stormy night—and usually you wouldn’t mind that. The rain is pretty peaceful, and with the windows open you can catch the cool night air and the smell of petrichor on the breeze.

But today has been long and tiring, and lately you’ve been having really vivid, unpleasant nightmares.

You’ve kept them mostly to yourself, tying them to the general stress of day-to-day life and maybe a dash of unresolved trauma—but they’re just nightmares. They’re silly, and you are definitely not afraid to go to bed tonight in your own room in the dark, with the occasional, startling boom of loud thunder in the background.

The fact that you immediately answer a much too eager, “yes”, when Matt asks if you want to stay over at his apartment is totally unrelated.

So now, you’re sitting in the bathroom with Matt, getting ready for bed.

He looks so damn pretty in the slightly dim lighting. His face is cast in a soft glow, his bare chest is looking like a very warm, very comfortable pillow, his sweats are fitting him very nicely and making his butt look exceptionally cute—but to be fair, he always looks sinfully good. You’re pretty sure you could watch him just exist for hours on end.

You see a grin creep onto his face as he feels your eyes on him.

“You’re staring, sweetheart.” He says, pushing his hand through his hair as he turns towards you and holds out a hand. You take it, and he leans in to kiss your forehead.

“Just watching you. You’re pretty.” You say. His grin softens to something less mischievous and more fond and sweet, and he leans in again, this time planting a soft kiss on your lips.

“You’re prettier.” He murmurs—he’s got this shamelessly lovesick look on his face. You chuckle and roll your eyes.

“Says the blind man.” He gives your hand a playful squeeze.

“I can still tell you’re pretty—ready for bed?” He asks. You hesitantly nod.

“Uh, yeah, alright.” He raises an eyebrow.

“…You’re usually more enthusiastic about sleeping.” You sigh, the two of you walking over to settle into bed on top of the cool silk sheets.

“I’ve just been having weird, bad dreams.” You explain. Matt’s face goes all soft and sympathetic.

If there is one thing Matt is, it’s protective. Which is usually sweet, but occasionally overdramatic to the point of hilarity. For example—two weeks ago, you got a papercut while opening a package (one of those awful cardboard-paper-cuts), and the moment Matt heard you let out that little hiss of frustration and pain, he came rushing over to fuss over you, face painted with concern as he took your hand and frantically examined the wound. It’s especially funny considering how he insists you don’t need to worry about him when he shows up at 3 in the morning after patrol, bleeding from a stab wound in his side, or on the verge of passing out from a concussion.

So, you mention the nightmares, and Matt goes all soft, pulling you against his chest, holding you close, kissing the top of your head.

“Oh, angel, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks. You shrug.

“Eh, you’ve got other stuff on your plate—they’re just nightmares.” Matt shakes his head, nuzzling his face into your hair and inhaling deeply.

“They’re upsetting you, and ruining your sleep.” He murmurs, kissing the top of your head.

“Matty, babydoll—“ He cuts you off by pulling back and pressing his forehead against yours, his warm eyes unfocused and unseeing but somehow still so damn emotional.

“Sweetheart,” He says. “You always take care of me. Let me take care of you, please?”

Dammit—Matt and his stupid puppy dog eyes. That sweet soft sad look he gives you, the pleading, pouty face, his pretty pink lips and big dumb wet eyes. You relent, sighing in defeat, and he grins, pulling you into his arms, kissing your cheek, and dragging you to bed, laying down with you.

“I’m here, okay?” He murmurs, kissing the top of your head. You grumble, folding yourself into his arms, smushing up against his chest. He rubs your back, holding you close. “Nothing gets to ruin your sleep except for me.” He says. You snort, giving his bicep a squeeze–oh those wonderful thick arms of his.

“Dork.” He pulls you over, tucking you against his chest for a cuddle. He nuzzles his face against the top of your head.

“I’m here. I’m not gonna let anything happen to you. No nightmares.” He says. You smile, hand finding his, fingers lacing through his own.

“I don’t know if you have any control over what I dream about, but I appreciate it anyway.” You say. Matt yawns softly, kissing your temple.

“I’m just gonna hold you so tight the nightmares won’t be able to get you.” He loves having you so close, loves being able to protect you and cuddle up with you to sleep. He presses his nose and mouth into the crook of your neck, letting out a happy growl. You reach back to ruffle his hair.

“Thanks, Matty.” You murmur. He nods, kissing your cheek.

Curled up in his arms, you fall asleep easier. The rain falls outside, soft pitter patters on the window panes as Matt’s steady breathing lulls you to sleep.

When you wake up at two in the morning, hands gripping the sheets, Matt wakes up with you, pulling you closer and kissing your temple, hands coming up to rub your shoulders.

“Hey angel, you’re okay. I’m here.” You push yourself further into his arms, body shaking slightly as you wrap your arms around his arm, holding it against your chest. “I’m here.” He rubs your chest, hand drawing soothing circles against you. “What can I do to help, hm?”

You just push yourself closer to him, and he settles you into his lap, shushing you gently and kissing the top of your head. He holds you tightly, hand gently rubbing over your racing heart in a gesture he hopes is grounding and comforting.

You tuck your face against his warm neck, inhaling the scent of him, pressing a soft kiss to his skin. He chuckles, hand coming to cup your cheek, his face tilting down and his nose nudging against yours. You wrap your arms around him, too tired and shaken up to be embarrassed about seeking him out for comfort. He cuddles you against him, laying back with you against his chest.

You’re quickly lulled back to sleep by the soothing sounds of his breathing and heartbeat, and after that, you sleep solidly through the night without any issues. Matt’s warm arms wrapped around you, blankets cozy and soft, the rain and thunder outside becoming gentle background noise.

In the morning, Matt wakes you up with a few soft kisses on the temple, stirring you to consciousness, drawing a little grumble from you. He chuckles, rubbing your back gently.

“Sorry sweetheart, I couldn’t resist.” He pecks you on the lips. You hide your face against his chest, trying to block out the light from the window. He kisses the top of your head, throwing his leg over your hip to pull you closer. He’s so warm, and he smells so good, and he’s cuddling you close like you’re the most precious thing in the world. “Did you sleep okay? Aside from the bad dreams?” He asks, hand resting on your back. You nuzzle your face against the crook of his arm. You did sleep okay, you felt safe and warm in his arms, held close in his arms.

“Mhm. Slept better with you.” You say. Matt grins, face flushing as he snuggles you closer, squishing you against him.

“You should stay over more often. Move in with me, so I can keep you safe from all the nightmares.” He says, fingers brushing through your hair. You smile softly.

“…Shit, are you asking me to move in with you?” You ask. Matt kisses your forehead.

“Depends…would you say yes if I was?” You chuckle.

“Yes, yes I would.” Matt smiles, nuzzling his nose into your hair.

“Then yes, yes I am asking you to move in with me.”

“And I’m saying yes.”

[maple-the-awesome]

You Sacrifice Yourself for Them Part 1/3

Part 2 || Part 3

Pairings: Legend, Sky, Time x GN Reader

Requested by anonymous: HIIIII OMG I JUST WANRED TO SAY i lovelovrloveloveeeee the way you write so much!!!!!!! ur recent loz post had me kicking and squealing in my sear hehehe T_T could i request a scenario with the chain in a situation where the reader sacrifices themselves to protect the boys? im imagining things begging the enemy to take them instead, protecting them from a hit or even something funny like taking the blame for a mistake they made!!! id love to see some angst from you!!!!! THANK U AND HAVE A GREAT WEEK!!!!!💖💖💖💖

Zelda Masterlist 💙 Fandom Masterlist

Shit. Shit. Shiiit.

This was not how this day was supposed to go. This was not how this dungeon was supposed to go! The group calls him 'Veteran' for a reason. He's done more dungeons on his own than the lot of them combined. He's quick on his feet, able to complete the most complex puzzles like child's play, and barely breaks a sweat against the foes that lurk in every damp shadow. Anymore, dungeons are easy (too easy, maybe, compared to some of the rougher...emotionally draining parts of his journeys). 

This was supposed to be just as easy. He had no shame in bragging or flexing his skills, yet all that has officially flown out the window in a way that one could deem quite literal, actually. A quick whiz of air and an echoed shatter that would've reminded him of the wonderful sound of broken pottery if not for how horrifying it was in true comparison. No, that sound was far from exhilarating, especially paired with the image of you falling sideways like a lifeless doll, pieces of tile bouncing off your head and exploding in the air like fireworks trailed by crimson. 

Legend isn't sure if he managed to catch you in time. He probably did, but in his panic he feared you might've hit your head on the floor as if that's not exactly what already happened to knock you out in the first place. Damn floor tiles! Usually they're just embarrassing annoyances when prepared for them, but that's the problem: he wasn't. When those dangerous squares came flying at him at a blurring speed, he expected to take on the hit, not for you to shield him with your own body. What in Hylia's name were you even thinking?!

For what feels like hours but is really only a few seconds, Legend's mind runs rapidly with petrified thoughts: Are you dead? Did he just let you die for his sake? It's supposed to be the other way around if anything! He's the world's punching bag, not you. You're…too special for any of that…

"Hylia, t-that hurt..." Legend snaps out of it only when you groan, barely able to open your eyes against the blinding light of the torch - the only light in the room - which has long been abandoned behind both of you. 

"Are you kidding me?! Are you stupid or something?! What the hell were you even thinking doing that?! Do you know what could've happened if you got hit hard enough or at the wrong angle?! You could've been given a concussion, put into a coma, o-or -"

"- But it could've ruined your pretty face."

Legend’s words choke in his throat as he stares at you as if you've suddenly grown several heads...that or he has just now realized you're the biggest idiot in Hyrule, who knows? Clearly, you're still in a daze yourself, head wobbling around as you blink rapidly with pupils dilated wide. Maybe the whole concussion thing can't actually be ruled out quite yet.

"...Stupid..." Legend mumbles under his breath with a click of his tongue as he looks away from you, "...What about your face then?"

"Awww. You think I'm pretty, too?" 

He huffs instead of answering, carefully helping you up before draping your arm over his shoulders and pulling you securely against his side where he can better keep you from stumbling off into something or, Hylia forbid, trip face first into the ground, causing more damage aside from the goose egg already bruising your forehead and the line of blood dripping down it, "We need to get you to the Traveler. ‘get you fix up.”

"Huh? But what...what 'bout the dungeon?" 

"We can come back later. The treasure at the end probably isn't worth it anyways if floor tiles are what's guarding it."

You hum distantly, dropping your head directly against his without any notice to the way this makes his cheeks flare unwillingly, "...Hey Legs?"

"What?"

"Can you please not tell anyone I got beat up by pieces of floor?"

Legend snorts and pretends to think your question over, "Hmm…In light of you saving my life, I guess I can keep that promise."

"Thanks, bun."

"You know, on second thought, maybe I won't."

Sky awoke in a pleasant mood that was only made better upon remembering his current whereabouts. He had a wonderful dream about being back home during peaceful times, and while disappointed to leave such a relaxing feeling, at least he found himself still in that cozy little inn the Chain decided to stay at for the night. What was better was that it appeared to be rather early. The sun was barely shining through the window, only barely peeking over the village roofs, and the room itself was silent aside from the sound of some snoring which confirmed that the rest of his roommates were still fast asleep, thus Sky figured there would be no harm in dozing off for a few extra minutes until he hears someone else get up for the day…That was his plan, anyways…

"...Hey Sky?"

"Mmm?"

"You, uh, know there's only ten minutes until eight, right?"

In a blink of an eye, Sky shoots straight up, suddenly not feeling so tired. Rubbing his eyes and bearing through his new headache, he's horrified to confirm that you must be right. The window is now glowing in a bright gold, showing a bustling little village outside. You, yourself, are already dressed in your tunic, hair done and ready to go. Legend and Wind, who had been your other roommates last night, must follow the same status seeing as neither of them nor their belongings are here anymore. It's just you and Sky.

In an instant, he leaps out of bed, nearly tripping yet recovering as he hurries to find his own belongings which seems a lot harder to accomplish in his panicked state compared to any other day. You, meanwhile, replace his spot upon the bed, sitting down there with an apologetic look, "I would have woken you up sooner, but I wasn't sure if you were purposefully sleeping in."

"You're alright - uh, thank you for waking me up at all," Sky backtracks when he remembers he had folded his tunic under his bed, kneeling down to grab it along with the rest of his belongings stuffed under there, "Where's the Vet and Pirate?"

"Already at breakfast. Wild dropped by a little while ago to say that it would be ready soon. I'm sure the others are already digging in."

"Crap."

"I'm sure there'll be enough left for us regardless. He always makes so much whenever we stay somewhere with an actual kitchen..." Despite Sky having worn an undershirt to bed, you still feel the need to awkwardly look away as he pulls the rest of his clothes overhead, "You must have a real talent for sleeping because the rest of us woke up to a loud 'thud' and cursing...'don't think Legend will be taking the top bunk at the next inn we reach."

Fully dressed, Sky's first order of business should really be to rush downstairs instead of testing his luck with angry companions, but he takes the time to spare you a glance instead, "Why haven't you gone downstairs yet?"

The question, once thought of, weighs heavy on his mind. You just said that you awoke with the others, however you chose to stay here and risk getting in trouble yourself for tardiness rather than joining them. 

You merely shrug as if it’s of no concern, "I figured I'd wait for you. Like I said, I didn't know if you were purposefully sleeping in and I would've felt worse if I fully gambled on that, leaving you to sleep until noon and suffer Time's wrath."

Sky fidgets and stares down at his feet, although when he opens his mouth to say something, you're standing again while pushing him towards the door, "But let's not push our luck too far, alright? Time was pretty adamant about getting out of here at a decent time."

Yes, he was. He had made a strict point of that last night which is further emphasized by the fact that he is already standing at the bottom of the staircase by the time you both appear at the top of it. It appears that he was just about to make his way up to scold you, but since you've so kindly met him halfway, he can do that from here, "I assume there's a good reason for sleeping in yet again, Skyloftian?"

Sky gulps under the Old Man's glare, prepared to take on whatever punishment that will soon follow seeing as he's officially reached his limit of making the entire group late, however as quickly as he begins to dread the thought of taking on an extra watch for the night or doing a supply run with his own rupees, you're beating him to an explanation, "It's my fault, actually. I had a rough night and didn't realize what time it was until Sky woke me. If he hadn't waited for me, he wouldn't have been late so don't be too mad at him, okay?"

"That's not -" Sky's head whips towards you in surprise, however he falls silent when you give him a look that commands it.

Time hums, glancing between the two of you without much sign that he believes your lie. He has no reason to considering that Wind had already mentioned you were up and at 'em this morning. Perhaps if you had crossed his path earlier for this conversation, he would’ve been more inclined then to point this out, forcing you to confess the truth, although it’s five minutes till eight now meaning he'd be wasting time none of you have to argue not to mention he really doesn't care so long as everyone’s ready to go.

"Well, since you're both technically down here before eight, I'll let it slide this time," He narrows his eyes at you both, taking some sort of pride in how you each bow your heads shamefully, however that's the extend of it before he turns his heel, "But it's up to you to savage yourselves breakfast before Wild packs it up and I still expect you all to be out in the lobby by eight sharp, not a second later even if it means you have to go without a starting meal for today."

"Yes, sir!"

"I'm okay. Worry about the Old Man first."

"Clearly you're not fine. Your arm -"

"- I've had worst -"

"- That doesn't matter. You're still injured."

This argument isn’t going anywhere. Anyone in the group could see that, but are they brave enough to point it out? Considering the fact that they all stand by in awkward silence, probably not.

The last battle was a tough one which may be a bit of an understatement considering Time and you both walked away with some serious wounds to show for your victory. Time had been knocked in the head by a Moblin club, thrown backwards where he then laid unconscious for several moments only to awaken with a gash in the club’s former place, although still a far less visible injury compared to yours. You didn’t miss the way Sky kept gagging when helping you back into camp, unable to so much as glance at the terrible result of a Lizalfos sword slicing through your arm. Provided the extent of these soon-to-be scars, everyone would expect (and hope) that the two of you would be eager for Hyrule’s healing magic, however they were quickly proven otherwise. 

“So? I’ll live.”

“Not without medical attention.”

“I’ll take a potion.”

“I thought you didn’t have any left?”

You curse to yourself before sticking your nose into the air with a stubborn change of subject, “You know, last time I checked, a head injury is a lot more serious than a simple cut!”

Time ignores your claim, feeling his face grow warm in irritation (or maybe that’s due to the fresh blood dripping down from his hairline), “You call that ‘a simple cut’?”

You merely shrug, readjusting the crimson cloth you currently press to the nasty slice that parts your skin directly down from your shoulder into your bicep. It no doubt burns like the fires of Death Mountain which you don’t hide despite your persistence in turning down any aid. Your face is scrunched into an expression of pain, a hiss leaving your hips whenever you move the cloth or your arm in any way, yet you still meet Time’s eyes with no sign of budging.

“Twilight, tell him he’s being ridiculous!” 

The poor farm boy leaps in place when you both end up turning his way. Although not another word is said by either of you, he understands that voiceless command of Time’s stone cold glare: he isn’t to say a word - not a word - that could be taken as a form of agreement towards your cause. He’s to be a good boy and point out that your arm isn’t going to fix itself, thus you should be the first to be tended to by Hyrule. Of course, he cares about your wellbeing and would definitely side with his mentor and his intimating ways if not for how the older male sways side-to-side with the wind, clearly struggling to maintain himself as the effects of a serious concussion start to take its toll on him.

“...(Y/n)...does have a point..." Twilight mumbles, gulping when Time’s glare darkens.

Thankfully for him and all the others who stand by with their heads down, including little Hyrule who’s been stuck between you both too fearful to make a peep, Warrior has finally had enough of this, officially having no problem taking charge with his annoyance made clear through his stern voice, “The longer you both argue about this, the longer you both go without medical attention, so please, for the love of Hylia, will one of you just swallow your damn pride and let Hyrule do what he needs to?”

There’s no instant reaction, neither of being too eager to see Warrior’s very valid point, however after glancing at you once more and noticing how tightly you’re holding onto your arm, Time sighs at long last, resulting in a chorus of others to follow, “...Fine. I’ll go first.”

This satisfies you, allowing you to relax your muscles and focus on keeping that cloth pressed to your arm while Hyrule begins working his magic to fix Time’s own injury, although as always, the Old Man has to have the last word, shoving his pouch towards you with a grumble, “At least take a red potion in the meantime. It should dull the pain.”

Thankfully, you don’t argue as he feared you would based on your initial hesitation. Instead, you huff, but ultimately dig through the pouch to locate the bottle which you pop the cork off of dramatically, “Fine.”

[mama-qwerty]

Tom Wachowski slowly crawled his way out of unconsciousness, the black of his mind swimming and mixing with the light glowing through his eyelids. He wasn’t quite sure where he was, or what had happened. The last thing he remembered was being . . . somewhere. A building. Maddie was with him, and they were doing something important. They were . . .

The memory stubbornly refused to come.

Words floated to him, flavored with a British accent.

“That was the scene three hours ago, when an explosion occurred in low orbit over the Earth, approximately 400 kilometers above the surface of the planet. We reached out to NASA, who refused to comment, instead directing our questions to the director of the Guardian Units of Nations, Amanda Rockwell. Director Rockwell assured our station that the explosion was nothing to be concerned with, as a meteor struck a satellite, shattering it with extreme force. The light show we saw was the pieces burning up on reentry into the atmosphere.”

Was this an episode of Doctor Who?

An explosion over Earth? Guardian Units of . . . G.U.N. He knew that acronym.

“Satellite my ass.”

He knew that voice.

Maddie uttered a frustrated sigh, and there was a click, cutting off the British voice in mid word.

“M’was watchin’ that.”

His voice was thick, sluggish. Like his tongue was too heavy for his mouth.

A gasp and then Maddie was closer, her voice soft and shaky and edged with either excitement or nerves, he couldn’t tell which. “Tom! You’re awake, oh thank God!”

“Wha happ’ned?” He willed his tongue to stop lying there like a lump so he could speak normally. Why did everything feel like he was moving through molasses? He tried to open his eyes, but even the orange-ish light of oncoming twilight streaming in from the windows directly across from the bed nearly blinded him. “Hngg!”

A gentle hand on his chest. “Don’t try to move, the doctors said you were pretty banged up.”

Tom relaxed back onto the bed. At least now he knew where he was. There was a faint beeping he hadn’t isolated before, coming from his left. Something squeezed his index finger on that hand. He gave his arms a little roll, and felt a pinch on one, where he was pretty sure an IV was inserted.

Hospital.

“Whad happ’ned?” he asked again, his tongue still stubbornly useless. He rolled his head toward where he sensed his wife, cracking his eyes open a narrow slit. “’R you hurd?”

She gave him a soft smile, shaking her head as she poured a cup of water and offered him the straw. “No, babe. Just you. The doctors said you have six cracked ribs, a lot of bruising, and probably a concussion. I didn’t know what to tell them when they asked how you got hurt, so I just said you were hit by a car.”

Keep reading on ao3

[lemony-snickers]

Hiya Lem! Sorry if I’m too late~but hows about 17 and Kakashi for the Spotify wrapped fic game! Or if ya got too many Kashi’s, maybe Yugao! ~or anyone you feel fits the song best~ ❤︎₊ ⊹ 

17. fire - louis the child ft. evalyn.

only one late here is me. <3 also, never too many kakashis i did both! sort of! .

lookin' up, starlight; take me there, i wanna fly

Kakashi’s back is hard against Yugao’s as they face the closing circle of enemies, his voice a barely discernable growl as he barks orders from behind his broken mask.  They are in the shit, and Yugao for the first time since taking her ANBU oath wonders if this may be the mission that prevents her from ever returning home.

She looks up, the pinpoints of stars dancing in her blurred vision overhead.  She doesn’t have time to contemplate the concussion, though, because Kakashi springs forward and she must do the same if she wants to survive, to protect her teammates.

The battle is protracted and bloody.  By the time Team Ro limps away, they are all battered and bruised.  Ko’s ankle is broken and he leans against Tenzo who used some of the last of his strength to create a wooden crutch to help distribute the weight.

Yugao looks ahead.  Their team leader is tense, Hound’s shoulders lifted almost to his ears.  Kakashi’s silver hair is stained red and brown – new and old blood mixing with the shimmering strands, matting it to his scalp in places.  She wonders how much is his, how much belongs to those he slayed, if any of it came from her own wounds.

In addition to an obvious head injury, she herself has sustained several lacerations and fears she may be bleeding internally, if the sickly grey bruise spreading over her abdomen is any indication.  She won’t be able to see a skilled enough medic until they are back in Konoha, and so she grits her teeth against the pain and follows her Captain.  When her eyes flutter closed a few short hours later, voices screaming her call sign, the faint beginning of panic bleeding into the edges of the syllables, the last thing she sees is the face of Hound blotting out the stars.

Yugao stares at Kakashi’s panicked half-face through his broken mask and tries to tell him it’s not his fault.  She always knew her life in the corps would end this way.

but i’m miles off the ground; i’m leavin’ this whole match city to burn

The hospital lights are blinding, the itchy blankets too cloying and hot when she wakes.  Yugao throws them away, but when she tries to stand, she wavers, suddenly dizzy; vision blurring in defiance of the too-bright lights.  Adrenaline, insistent and overwhelming, courses through her quicker than common sense.

A firm hand grasps one arm, holds her steady.  Her hearing is fuzzy at first, but then it clears like she’s coming up from underwater.  “Stand down, Uzuki-san.”

Her eyes slide over to find Kakashi, wearing Konoha’s standard jonin uniform.  It feels wrong to see him in the blue fatigues and flak vest.  She can’t even remember the last time she’s seen anyone on her team out of their ANBU uniform.  Sometimes it feels like they live more of their lives as their masked counterparts than as themselves.

Even though most of his face is covered, it still feels like an intrusion to see his right eye peaking out from over his mask.  She’s used to Hound, not Kakashi Hatake.

She tries to shrug out of his grip, but Kakashi’s fingers only dig in harder, forcing her down until she’s sitting on the bed again.  She curses, feeling the beginnings of another bruise.  When he releases her, Yugao massages the place where his hand had been.

“I don’t think the medics would take kindly to you injuring a patient.”

“If that patient would stay in bed resting, I wouldn’t have to.”

Yugao scoffs lightly, but knows better than to challenge him further.  Stories of Kakashi’s escapes from this very place are legendary and many.  She has personally witnessed him scrambling from the window of a higher floor room, the voice of the Head Medic screaming its way into Konoha in his wake as Kakash rips an IV line from between his fingers.

She heard they started putting the lines in his feet so it would be more difficult for him to pull them out without drawing attention from the guard in his room.

Still, she supposes she is in no position to question her commander—standard uniform or no.  Kakashi walks to the window and pushes it open.

“I expect you to report back as soon as you’re discharged,” is all he says before he disappears.

Yugao smirks.  She knows he wouldn’t be here unless he cared about her well-being, despite his best efforts to conceal any concern.  But every member of Team Ro has seen their Captain’s selflessness, the blows he takes so they won’t have to.  He can’t hide his true nature from any of them, no matter how hard he tries.

long nights, it’s a lifestyle; so good to the last drop

Yugao wonders if there is some innate biology that prepares someone to be a great leader.  Kakashi must have it, if so.  She is in awe, watching him bark out orders not only to their squadron but countless others in the gathered crowd.  Everyone listens.  Everyone.

There is not a single person within hearing distance who does not sense he is the best person to direct the recovery efforts.  Even if it’s outside the scope of Team Ro’s mission.  Even if he is a foreign shinobi – none of that matters.

He oozes confidence; competence.  His voice is clear, steady, and sharp; it makes people believe in him.  It is why Yugao has always found it so easy to follow him into battle, even when the odds are precariously stacked in the enemy’s favor.  Her chest flares with warmth for her Captain, for her luck in being assigned to his team.

By the time the dust clears, she knows the number of survivors would be more than half what it is had Kakashi not been here to direct the rescue teams.

She watches as he wanders off by himself, settles against a cold rock to open a rations pack and eat in solitude.  She doesn’t approach him; knows how important the decompression space is after an emotionally tumultuous effort.  She and Tenzo find themselves a place to sit together and do the same, talking quietly about the mission; everything that went wrong and how eager they are to return to Konoha.  To take a hot bath and sleep in their own beds, no matter how uncomfortable their old mattresses are.

When she sneaks a glance back over at Kakashi, she sees he’s sitting with his head tilted back against the stone behind him.  From the steady rise and fall of his chest, she thinks he might finally be catching a few precious moments of sleep.

Good, she thinks.  He rarely truly rests during their team assignments, and she can see the toll it takes, even without seeing his face.

“Something I can help you with, Leopard?”

Yugao stiffens, not expecting his voice.

“No, sir,” she says, clearing her throat, “Just wondering what our next orders are.”  She ignores Tenzo’s teasing glance, the soft huff of his breath as he allows a half-chuckle escape his mouth.

She’ll get him back for that later—as if he wasn’t staring at Kakashi, too.  Though, she thinks, Tenzo’s reasons are very different from her own.

“We’ll move out in ten,” Kakashi says, standing, “so best finish your rations.”

Yugao nods quickly, stuffing the rest of the bar in her mouth before chasing it with a gulp of water from a canteen offered by Tenzo.  She watches Kakashi’s back the entire way to Konoha, as she so often does, still wondering how he had known she was watching.  Another enigmatic piece of her Captain’s puzzle—one she will likely never slot into place.  No matter how many missions she runs with him, she does not think she’ll ever find enough pieces to construct a clear picture.

i'll watch it go down; ‘cause that sun gonna take me with it

Yugao can’t move.  She feels as if she’s been buried beneath a ton of rocks, each one heavier than the last.  Her face itches, eyes tearing no matter how hard she tries to stave off the sadness.  The skin around them is red and raw, her lips chapped.

Hayate is gone.  And she cannot bear it.  Doesn’t want to.

Without him, she sees little reason to move.  To eat or breathe or live.

Weak, her mind whispers, you are so weak.

There have been countless knocks at her apartment door, calls from friends and comrades asking to be let inside.  They have food, they have flowers, they are checking on her.

Yugao doesn’t care.  She wants nothing to do with any of it.

When she hears her bedroom window slide open, Yugao thinks maybe the enemy who killed Hayate has come for her, too.  She closes her eyes, grateful for the opportunity to join him in the afterlife, for an end to this awful suffering.

“Get up.”

Her eyes snap open and there is Kakashi Hatake, staring down at her with one cool grey eye.

Her lip trembles, embarrassment lighting her nerves.  She covers her face with her arms, an awful sob barreling from her mouth before she has the sense to stop it, to shove it down the way a good soldier should be able to.

Not him.  Not her Captain.  It doesn’t matter that Hound has not led Team Ro for years, Yugao still looks up to him.  Still marvels at the grace with which he can adapt to any weapon, the efficacy with which he can devise a battle plan in any scenario.

Even the way he has taken three unruly genin under his wing, though rumor has it he is perhaps not as adept at leading children as he was Black Ops operatives.

Yugao’s crying seems to never end, ceaseless rivers of tears streaming from her eyes, lungs jolting until she hiccups pathetically.

She hears Kakashi sigh and assumes he will leave, that she is too pathetic and weak for him to help her.

Instead, she feels the mattress dip when he sits down a few minutes later, allows him to pry her arms away from her face as he lays a cool, damp towel over her eyes and forehead.

It feels nice, and her hiccups lessen and then eventually quiet, though a few errant tears continue to leak from the corners of her eyes no matter how hard she tries to staunch the flow.

“It never goes away,” Kakashi says quietly.

Yugao peels the washcloth off and looks at him, but his gaze is trained elsewhere, far across the room.  Across time, she thinks, looking at something she will never see.

“You will carry him with you for the rest of your life, and it will be a burden.”

She tries to protest—Hayate could never be a burden to her—but Kakashi holds up his hand, fingers twisted into the mission signal for silence, and she is still good, she finds, at following orders.

When Kakashi turns to look at her, Yugao gasps.  Because the fabric beneath his sharingan is damp with tears.  His other eye bores into hers, intense and clear.  “It will also be the greatest honor to keep him in your memory, and that is why you will get out of this bed and continue on.”

It doesn’t happen right away.  Not that afternoon, or the next.  But Kakashi keeps visiting, keeps prying her window open and handing her bowls of broth and eventually, Yugao pulls herself out from beneath her blankets and she returns to the world; heart heavier, but her purpose clearer than it has ever been.

i'm building a fire, fire, oh; i'm buildin’ it higher, higher, oh

This is something she can do.  A way to avenge Hayate, to protect her home.  To carry him with her and use the grief to make something better.

Cutting down Sound shinobi as they rampage through the streets of Konoha has suddenly become Yugao’s favorite thing in the world.  She pours all the anger and love she ever felt for Hayate into each swing, as if every enemy she sees is the one who made that killing stroke.  She is grateful for all he taught her, the strength she has now because of him.

She throws herself in front of a civilian, holds her armored forearm up to stop an enemy nin’s axe in its bid for flesh.  The armor bends, cracking beneath the force, the edge of the blade biting into her skin.

Yugao only smirks.  No wound can hurt as much as the one in her chest, the vacancy where Hayate should still be and isn’t.

Behind her mask, she grins.  And when her enemy falls to her feet, throat opened like a smile, Yugao wonders if her Captain would be proud of the soldier she has become.

If Kakashi knows how much she learned from him.

Whether Hayate is watching her from somewhere far away, complaining under his breath about her sloppy footwork as she sidesteps one attack and parries another.

She hopes so.

There will be time for such questions later.  For now, she has more important things to attend to.  Because, though she knows she may one day find herself in a battle she cannot win, she also knows that today, battling for her village in its heart—her teammates scattered around her doing the same—is not a fight she will allows herself to lose.

and if i go down in flames; the smoke gonna spell my name

[kometqh]

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

Captain Rex X F!Reader You aren't special. You don't have any form of magical connection to the force. So why then, are you constantly plagued by vision-like nightmares straight from the pits of Mustafar? Word Count: 4,632 Warnings: Minor swearing, minor cut to thumb, concussion, horror, mention of character death, feelings. A/N: This took so long to write when I have to spend my evenings stressing at work T_T but its here and its out, even tho no one asked for it lol. I'm quite happy with this one, it's a mix of a few different genres (?) and I'm happy with how it came out <33 hopefully whoever reads it will enjoy it just as much <33

Pure, blinding light ignited the hallways in a sterile white glow until you could almost taste the smell of disinfectant on the tip of your tongue. Distant whirring and humming of machinery filled the inside of the building, drowning out the raging storm outside. You had no kriffing clue where you were.

In a flash, the lights blacked out, one by one, until the hallway was swallowed in a momentary darkness. Your eyesight had a hard time adjusting, as the power promptly came back on, and once again you were blindsided.

Although the hallways were barren of any life, your gut churned. Anything and anyone could be lurking about, deep in the shadows where no artificial light could reach. Just like in the deep ocean, creatures lurked. They peered from below, anticipating the right moment where they could strike. Like an innocent, disoriented animal, maybe you were being carefully observed by some predator of a higher strength and intelligence. Maybe they were watching through a camera or watching you from behind the glass.

As thunder roared wildly, a loud creak travelled through the walls, all the lights in the room flickering out with a crackle.

You waited a moment, observing the ceiling expectantly. A small spark crackled from one lamp. But nothing. The power was dead.

Your gaze moved to watch the glass, the waves crashing against it with a vile ferocity, blanketing the facility you found yourself in, in further, deeper darkness. Droplets of water hung onto the glass, racing downwards with the pull of gravity, similarly to bleeding paint on a canvas.

Your body was stuck in a state of distress, and you wondered how you even got to this place. The last thing you remembered was laying in your cozy, warm, queen-sized bed, enjoying the absurdity of some comedy-based holofilm.

The last thing you expected was to find yourself standing in an unknown, bleach-scented, derelict, straight-out-of-a-horror hallway.

As the waves continued to claw at the windows, a shiver ran down your spine. A sudden coldness enveloped you, icy shadows embracing your body.

Anything could be lurking within the darkness, waiting, inching closer, anticipating.

As your vision adjusted to the darkness, you noticed something.

Your reflection moved, but you didn’t.

You blinked furiously, leaning forward and hoping that if you squinted hard enough, your eyesight would adapt to the darkness faster. Your arms wrapped around yourself, providing some warmth amidst the freezing air of the facility.

You could almost feel frost settling in your lungs.

For a split second, you wondered if this is what it felt like. If sheer cold and anxiety embraced one moments before death.

Something moved. Again.

A flash of clarity struck through you. This had to be a really, really shitty dream, you realised.

There was no possible explanation other than this being a nightmare. An overly, awfully vivid nightmare.

But there was a dull ache crackling in your fingertips, and it settled deep within your knuckles and bones as you tightened your grip on your arms, on something.

Something cold. Something hard. Something almost… Metallic.

Your subconscious seemed to clock the nature of the object before your conscious mind could.

You grazed your thumb across the object, feeling for that familiar ridge. You counted six, perfectly equal elevations. Your thumb trailed higher, feeling for the gradual thinning out of the instrument. Until the pain registered in your mind, and a warm sensation enveloped the delicate pad of your thumb in a pooling droplet of blood.

A… Scalpel.

Bile teased at your throat, burning and scratching its’ way up, yearning to see the surface. You quickly averted your gaze, the tool dropping to the floor with a hollow clank.

This felt too real to just be another shitty nightmare.

As you glanced into the window again, you caught a glimpse of a shift in the shadows. It was slight, so subtle you were convinced it was just your imagination playing up again.

Suddenly, you felt movement.

At first, it felt like a shiver on a cool spring morning. Almost as though it was nothing to fret over, something you could insist would pass. But then you felt the unmistakable sting of sharp claws digging into your waist, and the panic settled in. You weren’t alone.

Foreign limbs strangled around your body, suppressing your chortled scream with a hand, pulling you deep into the shadows of the facility. Your vision was slowly blocked, until you could only see a fine line ahead of you.

Your hands clawed at the thin air before you, begging to latch to any foreign surface that could save you from the darkness, and pull you back into the light.

Thunder roared and lightning cracked, igniting the room in a blinding white glow for a split moment, your screams suppressed as your eyes landed on the reflection in the glass.

Your arms fell limply to your sides, the veins in your sclera’s a stressed, bulging red.

A body.

Your eyes fluttered open in a hurry. Your lips were gaping in a silent scream, beads of sweat trickling down the side of your temple. Blood pulsed loudly in your head, almost hurting as you brushed the sweat away.

An involuntary, guttural groan escaped your chest as you crawled backwards in your bed, your hand frantically searching behind you for your bedside light as your gaze never strayed from the space before you.

Whatever that thing was, it was following you. It could be anywhere. It could be hiding in plain sight, and you wouldn’t know it until the lights were on-

The familiar click and the spread of a warm amber glow illuminating your room eased your senses, your fingers lingering on the switch. It took a moment to register what just happened.

You were safe. There was no creature. There was no body.

You took in a deep, shaky breath and hid your face away into the safety of your palms.

It was that dream, again.

Ever since you left med school on Coruscant, your mind has been plagued by these nightmares. Each time they increased in their intensity, in their detail, in their vividness.

Your heart rattled against your ribcage, and your mind raced at thousand miles per hour.

What the fuck…?

This couldn’t be normal, you thought as you slowly settled, your body drenched in cold sweat. Those weren’t just silly images conjured up by your mind.

There was something else at play.

You shook your head as you leaned back against the headboard, looking down at your palms. Shadows hung over them, deepening the scars and creases.

Those nightmares… They meant something.

You weren’t quite sure what they meant, yet, but you were determined.

You’d find out, someday.

But for now, you needed to catch some Z’s, after all, tomorrow was your first assignment.

Blaster fire and pained howls of men coddled your brain like a swarm of wasps.

You couldn’t catch a break. It was constant analysing, bandaging and praying as one soldier after the other were hit with plasma bullets, their agonised screams and cracking of bones and barely contained groans playing in a loop like a broken record.

Heat from explosions blew charred smoke in your face, drenching your skin in more sweat with each passing second. Your hands were painted with ash and dried dirt. No amount of disinfectant was adequate enough to sanitise at a faster rate than the one of injured men coming to you.

You were more of a surgeon than a field medic, but a shortage of medical staff in an already politically unstable Republic was not something you could fight against. You had no choice.

Sure, the GAR could afford to train their own medical personnel, or even better, invest in droids, but the hostility between its soldiers and the mech wasn’t something that could be easily treated.

Either way, you were a surgeon stuck amidst a raging invasion and piling injuries and corpses.

“What’s your name soldier?” You asked as you scanned him over, brows furrowed, lips narrowed into a tight line. At this rate you were simply following a script, offering a false sense of comfort to the injured.

“R- Rex. The name’s Rex.” He coughed out, groaning as you gripped his shoulder. Or well, his pauldron. The metal beneath had been grazed with a bullet, cracking under the initial impact.

“Rex?” You mused, testing it out before removing his armour to quickly assess his shoulder for any injuries. Your fingers quickly found your scissors and got to work in cutting some of the black undershirt he wore. “That’s a pretty name, for a pretty soldier.” You joked, sending him a quick wink and your prettiest smile.

You gave him no chance to reply as you moved the piece of fabric, your eyes quickly analysing the extent of the damage.

The armour did absorb most of the impact, though it didn’t prevent him from coming out completely unscathed. There was visible swelling, his otherwise tan skin becoming discoloured where most of the impact had been taken, and tiny, raging, red vessels were swimming aggressively in the bruises. You had seen similar injuries before. This would be a piece of cake.

Something felt off, though.

Something about his demeanour. You weren’t sure what specifically, just yet, but he was brimming with confidence, with experience.

“This’ll need to be checked over later, but a bacta patch will do just fine.” You slapped a patch over the bruising, before placing his armour back into place. “See me after the battle, soldier.”

A smirk tugged at his lips as he thanked you, checking his armour was in place.

“That’s Captain for you, doctor.” He threw over his shoulder as he placed his helmet on, his voice quickly turning robotic under the modulator.

Recognition flashed in your eyes as you scanned him over, spotting the navy blue kama, the markings on his helmet, the pauldron that sat proudly atop his shoulder. He was the Captain Rex. Right hand of your new General, Anakin Skywalker. How could you not have realised the moment he spoke his name?

“Kriff.” You hissed out as another explosion erupted, shielding your face. The captain glanced back at you, and without missing a step he hauled you up.

“Come with me. It’s not safe out here.”

The two of you ran, narrowly dodging bullets as Rex manhandled your body out of the way, expertly aiming for the droids’ weak spots. He had done this a thousand times and would do it a thousand times more.

The doorway was just a couple more metres, the clear glass reflecting the colour of plasma bolts and fires. But as always, your luck seemed to run out at unexpected moments, as a droideka pulled up in front of the two of you. Rex pushed you behind him, shielding you away from the mech. It wasted no time in raising its’ shield, had its guns drawn before you could even blink. But Rex wasn’t the Captain of the 501st for no reason.

The droid was blown up almost in slow-motion. From the rolling of the grenade to its downward look as it pierced through the shield. A yelp left your lips as Rex turned, bringing you into a protective embrace as the two of you were flung backwards.

Air escaped your lungs as if you were a deflated balloon, your body feeling hollow as you struggled to breathe. Unexpectedly, the air returned, and you found yourself gasping.

Intense pain bloomed in the back of your head, spreading through your body like a shockwave. Your eyes felt as though they were about to pop out, a heavy ache resting in your skull.

Something was ringing in your ears. All sounds were muffled as you slowly lifted your head. The Captain’s figure was blurry as he leaned over you, his helmet moving slowly, animatedly, his voice drowned.

Were you underwater?

His gloved hand lifted to your cheek, giving it two light taps.

And then, everything rushed in all at once. The sound of blaster fire, the screams, the metallic stomping of droids, the Captain’s voice.

“Talk to me, doc. We gotta get going if we don’t wanna get blasted.” He said quickly, taking your wincing as a response as he hoisted you up, draping your arm over his shoulder. His touch was warm and firm, it enveloped you like a warm blanket.

Confusion overtook you as Rex placed you down against a wall before he took his helmet off.

Your vision was blurred, spinning. But his voice acted as your guide through the blurriness.

“Doc, how many fingers am I holding up?” He asked, raising his hand up.

Squinting, you looked him over. The explosions outside seemed to quieten down as you looked from his hand up to his eyes. In your hazed state, you were stunned to silence. You never knew clones had such beautiful eyes.

They brought a sense of calm amongst the raging battle around you. You leaned closer, so close you could feel his breath fanning over the tip of your nose. Something sparkled in his eyes; and it drew you in like a bee to honey.

His irises were a perfect mirage of the golden dunes of Tattooine, coated in the amber glow of the setting suns.

His voice, coarse like sands of arid deserts, soothed your mind back to the present, back to his question.

“T- Two?” You asked hazily, rubbing your forehead. The confusion was slowly easing, only to be replaced by a stinging sensation. A hiss escaped through your teeth as you touched the spot, retreating your hand to observe your bloodied fingers.

“S- Stitches…”

“What was that?” Rex asked, rummaging through your backpack.

“S- Stitches… I’ll need stitches.” You huffed out, letting him handle you however he pleased. He was gentle as he pressed a cloth against the back of your head, his breath fanning over the tip of your nose.

“Stitches… That’s catchy. And yeah, you’re right.” He said as he retracted the cloth, the softness that accompanied it gone too. You heard a soft thud before Rex’s hands were on you again. He carefully wrapped a gauze around your head, his fingers careful not to cause more discomfort.

From the corner of your eye, you noticed the bloodied cloth laying limply on the floor. It was stained a crimson red, laying abandoned by your side. Surely the bleeding wasn’t that bad.

He ripped the ends of the gauze, tying them into a knot. It sat tight against your head, and you fought the itchiness in your fingers to rip it off. You weren’t usually one to be injured. Though you had to admit, the added gentle pressure kept you grounded.

“We need to go and get backup. C’mon, this way, Stitches.”

You concluded that the hallways were endless. Rex had been hauling your body for the duration of the journey, narrowly avoiding colliding into another clone. A Commander. After that, time became a blur yet again.

It didn’t help that you were feeling tired, sleepy, nauseous.

The three of you headed down the hallways, searching for any other lingering troopers. The sound of distant conversation caught your attention, your head turning in the direction it came from.

“You hear that, Rex?” Commander Cody asked, his helmet turning to face Rex’s.

“I hear that, Cody. We’ve got backup.” He proudly said, exchanging quick glances with him.

As the three of you rounded the corner, you were able to pick up on their conversation. They were discussing their next course of action, it seemed.

“What are we going to do?”

“We fight.” Rex replied as you came into view, his hands reaching to take his helmet off, your vision swayed though a steady hand quickly supported you. As the rest began talking, Rex propped your body against a wall, and you couldn’t help but glance over the other 501st members.

One of them, Fives, you heard his name earlier, had a goatee and a tattoo. He seemed fiery and so damn sure of himself – not in an arrogant way, no – as he spoke encouraging words to the young cadets. The other one, Echo, seemed shyer and more reserved, and was constantly glancing up at Fives. He looked like any other normal Reg. Freshly shaven, distinct regular haircut, no identifying facial marks like scars or tattoos.

Something twisted at your gut with a molten fist. He was so familiar, and yet you couldn’t understand why. The answer was settled just on the tip of your tongue, scratching at your brain like an unreachable itch.

The pain in your head had shrunk into a dull ache and blurry vision whenever you attempted to walk on your own, so resting and letting the actual soldiers do the rest was not up for discussion on your part.

With a boosted morale, the clone, 99, began talking about an armoury. Rex used that moment to kneel beside you. His gloved hand felt warm on your shoulder, his grip tight and comforting.

“I’ll be back for you in a sec, Stitches. Don’t close your eyes, understood?”

“Yessir.” You muttered in response, attempting a mock salute. He rolled his eyes at you before departing, his steps hurried and glances anxious as he disappeared behind a corner.

The walls were painted a filtered red, doing little to quench your own anxieties. Were you going to get out of here? Would Rex and the others come through? You had very little experience with a gun, nethertheless facing a whole group of bloodthirsty, unfeeling droids. You reached for the strap of your bag, fiddling with the bumpy material. A soft hand on your shoulder shook you from your thoughts.

“You’re a new face around here, what’s your name?” The clone asked, Echo, as he eyed the gauze wrapped tightly around your head. You eyed him up and down, the itch returning as you thought over your response.

After a moment, you let up, rubbing the strap between your fingers.

“I’m the new medic for the 501st.” Your reply was short and curt as you pulled the bag atop your lap, unzipping it.

“New medic? That’s perfect. But, what’s wrong with your head?” He asked as he watched you pull out a bacta patch. It probably wasn’t a good idea to put the substance onto your hair, but you had no other choice. Not if you wanted to avoid having to be stitched up.

Recognition flashed in Echo’s eyes as he watched you unwrap the gauze. His gaze followed it as you let it drop to the ground. It was bloodied, dirty with sweat and gunpowder and hair sticking to it in a weird mixture of odd substances.

“A concussion?” He asked, offering his palm to you. “Let me help.” He said, and you reluctantly dropped the unopened patch into his hand. You were hoping he’d know what he was doing as he gently moved your head away from the wall.

His fingers were delicate, practiced, as he moved some hair away. He remained quiet as he opened the patch and applied it to your injury, but a soft huff bubbled in his chest at your relieved sigh. The cool liquid was amazing, to put it simply. It latched to your scalp, tiny cyan tendrils reaching out for your skin. A quiet curse left your lips, your eyes rolling into the back of your head as you let yourself lean against the cool metal of his armour.

“Thank you.” You muttered against him, relief blooming in your chest. Your heart swelled as he caressed your hair tenderly.

Rex’s voice cut through the barracks as he, Cody and 99 returned, essentially interrupting your strange, little moment with Echo.

You lifted your head, resting your chin on Echo’s shoulder as you looked the three of them over.

They had stacks of guns in their arms, the cadets cheered as they crowded the three of them. You quirked a brow at Rex, noticing his quizzical expression as he looked you and Echo over. What you failed to notice was the stunned look and deep blush adorning Echo’s face.

“Ready up, boys,” Rex spoke, handing the last gun to Fives, “This might be a tough one.” His sight fell upon you again, his stare stern and yet tender as he remained focused on you, and you only.

“Doctor?”

Your body stuttered at the sound of a voice, your shaky hands almost dropping your datapad. “Captain?” Your voice was laced with confusion as you looked up. There he was, shoulders relaxed, gaze tender as it locked onto some feature of yours. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d like a follow-up on my shoulder, Doctor.” He replied almost instantly. He’d only ever gone to Kix for medical examinations, but unfortunately – not - his usual go-to medic was suspiciously nowhere to be found.

“You can look at me, y’know.” Your voice softened as you set your datapad down. Guilt began to tug at your heart as his gaze met yours. The last time the two of you were in a room together, you had made a grisly confirmation of 99’s death. He had not only protected the others, but he even risked his life to save yours. He hadn’t even known you for more than a couple of minutes at most. He was a soldier, through and through, no matter what cruelties life and Kaminoans had thrown at him.

“Doc?”

Your attention snapped back, your body taking in an involuntary breath. Rex’s eyebrows were furrowed, a small wrinkle formed between them as he eyed you.

“C’mon, let’s see what’s underneath all that armour.” You breathed out, hoping to distract him. You didn’t need the Captain to study you under a microscope.  

Rex nodded, remaining quiet. He began to carefully remove his armour, one by one, his touch careful, practiced. He had done this a thousand times, and he would do it a thousand times more.

You distracted yourself by reaching for a medical cart. His armour would not be going on the floor, nor the bed. As you returned to his side, cart in hand, his stiff figure had you quirking a brow. His hands were hesitant to lift his shirt, itching at the hem.

Rex wasn’t a shy man by any means, he had been friendly with many fine women. So why did his heart stutter at the thought of being undressed around you?

“I’ll need to watch to assess for any impairment.” Your voice startled him. His throat grew dry, his fingers restless. He wasn’t expecting you to be so forward. This is just a normal checkup, Rex, he scolded himself internally.

With a quiet nod, his arms crossed over and tugged at the hem of his shirt. He lifted it, hissing a little as his shoulders shrunk in. It was nothing to worry about, you noted, as that was where the bruising was.

However, you supressed a choked gasp. The sight of his naked chest had your well-practiced professionalism struggling. Tan, sun-kissed skin, taught muscle and broad shoulders, numerous scars littered across the expanse of his chest, stomach and waist. A few freckles here and there.

Something bloomed in his chest, something warm, and a smirk tugged at his lips, his chest almost puffing up with pride as you stood motionless for a few seconds. His hands were resting on his lap, and you wondered for a moment whether the flex of his biceps was forced or natural in this position.

“Doctor?” His voice was raw, guttural as he leaned his head to the side. That was when you finally averted your gaze, settling on looking at his shoulder instead. The bruise was still there, discoloured skin and blood vessels swimming around in patches. It must have hurt like a bitch.

“Let me get a patch for that.” You said quickly, moving to rummage through a drawer on the side of the bed. They contained all sorts of supplies and materials, in case of emergencies. “We’ll check for your range of motion – in case the damage is deeper than just surface level.” You mused as you placed the bacta patch and gauze beside him.

You moved around him, poking at different muscle as you inspected him. So far so good, no abnormalities or bumps.

“Try and raise your arms above your head,” You requested, observing as he does so with little difficulty, “And now stretch them behind your back.” You continued, placing your palms on both of his shoulders, applying gentle pressure.

No swelling, no stiffness, no difficulty in movement.

“Now place your arms by your sides, then slowly lift and extend them until they’re above your head.” You requested, showcasing an example with your own arm. Starting from your hip, you kept it straight before slowly lifting it to the side, from your hip to your head. Rex followed your instructions, and you found yourself quickly dismissing any concerns about the damage to his shoulder.

“Your shoulder seems to be doing just fine, Captain,” You said as you stepped away, typing away on your datapad, “Try not to apply pressure onto the bacta patch, or else it might pop. Come back in two hours and I’ll take it off for you.” Your fingers were careful as you placed the bacta on, softly smoothing it over as you ensured it stuck.

You reached for the gauze, your arm brushing against his.

“Sorry.” You muttered, facing him.

Your breath hitched, realisation striking you like lightning.

His face was just inches away. His breath fanned over your nose, his warmth reaching out to you.

You could count every freckle, every scar, every imperfection across his features. Thousands of tiny stars and speckles flickered across his face, the light above you serving as his little sun, casting shadows to dance over his features.

And just like a shooting star, you disappeared from his orbit in the blink of an eye.

His gaze remained trained on you, observing every little movement and twitch. He was studying you again, like bacteria under a microscope. A blush fought its way to your face, painting your cheeks a shade darker.

You moved away from Rex wordlessly, keeping your attention fixated on wrapping the gauze over his shoulder.

As you stepped back, Rex uttered a small thank you, easing back into his shirt.

The two of you remained silent, you watching him put his armour on, and him fighting to keep the poker on his face. His heart was beating fast, hard against his ribcage and he worried you could hear it in the silent confines of the medbay.

You continued watching, quietly, even as he uttered another ‘thank you’ and headed for the exit.

Your voice stopped him in his tracks.

“Captain?”

“Doctor?” He asked, his body half facing you.

You swallowed, taking a sudden, deep breath.

“Thank you… For saving my life back there. I owe you.” You said, offering a small, rigid smile.

He shook his head at you, mirroring your smile. Much softer, though.

“I guess you do, Stitches. I’ll see you around.” He said, before stepping outside. The doors closed behind him with a woosh, and you should have felt relief. You could breathe again. But your chest ached. He saved your life, he took care of you, so why did you feel so tense in his presence? So nervous?

Stop being silly, you thought as you made your way over to your desk, the screen of your holopad lighting up. You did your best to focus on the reports at hand, and yet you couldn’t fight off the giddy smile that ghosted over your face, or the nervous, unsteady racing of your heart.

Or the recurring memory of his lips so close to yours.

Tags: @flamingbisexual08

[ditheringmind]

“There’s a buffalo in the parking lot.” Derek slurs around a mouthful of blood; some dribbling out and rolling down his chin in warm little drops.

“He’s confused.” A voice off to his right says. He can't see who spoke because more blood runs into his eyes, but he is not confused; they are because a huge brown buffalo with glowing red eyes and smoke billowing from its nostrils is stamping its hoofed foot, ready to charge.

He fights against the arms holding him down or he thinks he does.

“Derek, calm down. Nothing is there.” Scott says, moving right in front of Derek, blocking his view of anything other than his stupid face. Derek tries to push him away, but his arms will not work, and he looks down at them in confusion.

Huh, Odd. he looks back to Scott.

“Wha?” He slurs again because now his lips have decided they don’t work either.

“You hit your head. Do you remember anything?” The Scotts say. Scotts as in more than one. Scott keeps splitting. Three are staring at Derek with that overly concerned expression. Head cocked to the side like a puppy.

Derek remembers the damn buffalo and…and, nothing.

“Buffalo.” He says then startles when the Scotts yell, “Forget about the buffalo!” A sharp pain slices through his head at the chorus of voices.

“I’m calling Deaton.” The voice over his shoulder says and for once Derek thinks that’s probably a good idea. He is just going to lie down and take a little rest. He is fairly sure cool pavement will feel nice against his skin.

He thought November was a cold month, yet here he is, feeling like Hansel and Gretel sitting in an oven getting cooked alive.

“Derek!” The Scotts bark and snap their fingers in front of his face. “don’t go to sleep, dude.”

“D-d-don’t call m-m-me d-dude.”

WTF? Now his tongue doesn’t work either.

The Scotts roll their eyes, and it makes Derek’s head spin.

“Gonna be sick,” he manages to say before barf spews from his mouth like a sprinkler. He knew he shouldn’t have eaten that hotdog for lunch. Disgusting chunks get stuck in his throat, and it just makes everything worse.

“Jesus, fuck, that’s disgusting,” the Scotts whine, sounding funny, all tinny and far away, but…aren’t they standing right in front of him?

Oh well, Derek is too tired to try and figure it out.

Derek doesn’t come awake per se. It’s more like vaguely becoming aware. Voices start trickling in, melding with his dreams talking about concussions and brain damage and he wonders who they are talking about. It’s probably Stiles, he can never seem to stay out of trouble. He furrows his brow, concern for the younger man clearing his head somewhat.

He is cold and uncomfortable, laying on something hard. His head hurts, like a lot and the air hurts his nose when he inhales, like someone is sandpapering the inside of his nose.

He must make a noise or move because a warm hand grabs him by the wrist.

“Scott turn the lights off and shut the blinds please,” Deaton asks, it’s his hand holding Derek’s wrist.

“Derek, I need you to open your eyes.” The request comes softly and only shoots little sparks through his head.

He flutters his eyes open and then immediately slams them shut because, holy fuck, it feels like red hot pokers are slicing through his corneas straight into his brain, just from the watery light leaking in through the small window in the corner of the room.

“I’m sorry Derek, but I need to check your pupils for signs of a concussion. It may be quite unpleasant for you.”

But he’s a werewolf, he can’t get a concussion. Right?

First one eye and then the other is pried open, and a fresh level of hell is flashed into them. The searing pain is such that he cries out and throws up his arms to protect himself from further pain. But the movement makes the world spins around him and before he can even think he is leaning over and emptying his stomach for the second time tonight.

“Brah, you really got to stop puking on me,” Scott says to loud as he hefts Derek back into a lying position on the table.

All Derek can do is breathe. He is shaking and sweating, and he is pretty sure he is going to die.

[tenderjock]

should old acquaintance be forgot (and never brought to mind)

itty bitty timetravel ficlet that i may be writing more for ... we'll see how that goes. PEGGY&JACK friendship, hints of peggysouson, non-canon compliant sousa/violet. cw for implied suicidal ideation, alcohol & drug use, offscreen (period typical) sexual harassment.

TEN

The last December night of 1947 was clear and cool in that L.A. way, air dry as a bone and sky twinkling with a thousand starlight pinpricks. Stark’s property was lit by red and pink lanterns and shimmering gold tealights, glittering reflections off the pool and the towers of champagne flutes on every table.

They had cut the music for the countdown. Jack found himself outside on the patio in a crush of people, Sousa pressed against one side, shoulder to hip. Carter was tucked under the other arm.

SEVEN

Someone started banging a noisemaker. The noise of the party swelled, people shouting the numbers out, Sousa gripping Jack’s wrist momentarily for balance as the crowd moved.

FOUR

Jack drained his champagne, the acidic bubbles tickling his tongue. He was glad he’s not on the clock, because busting the people doing coke in Stark’s bathroom suite doesn’t sound like the kind of thing he wants to be doing right now.

TWO

ONE!

“HAPPY NEW YEAR,” the entire party roared as one. On his right, Sousa had his tongue down his fiancée’s throat. On his left, Peggy tugged his chin over and pressed a grinning but chaste kiss to the corner of Jack’s mouth.

He blinks into silence.

He’s in his apartment, back in New York. He’s stripped down to his undershirt, and fireworks are going off somewhere in the distance. There’s a glass – of Scotch, he sniffs – in his hand, and a mostly-empty bottle on the table in front of him. Jack’s got his gun sittin’ on the table in front of him, too.

Jack is also, as he discovers when he goes to stand, pretty much blind fucking drunk.

It’s confusing, and it takes him a few tries to get to his bedroom, where he peers out the window. Snow is falling gently over the Manhattan streets. Inside the room, his jacket and shirt are thrown over his bedside table. His boots – a pair of wingtips that he had ruined in New Jersey mud a good year ago, he thought – are scattered across the floor.

Jack stares at the shoes, head swimming. He feels like he’s going to throw up, and he barely makes it to the bathroom sink before he does. He washes his mouth out slowly.

Two minutes ago, he was in Los Angeles. He’s either suffered from some sort of amnesia – not impossible, given the risk of drugging or concussion in his line of work – or he’s lost his marbles – also not impossible, although he liked to think he’s made of stronger stuff than that – or something else happened.

It’s the something else that’s throwing him for a loop.

When he pushes himself off the sink, the world swims, and Jack makes the tactical decision that whatever is happening can wait until the morning when he sobers up or his concussion kills him in his sleep. He collapses on his side without taking his pants off.

In the moments before unconsciousness takes him, Jack thinks about Carter’s shoulders pressed up under his arm, Sousa’s dark eyes glimmering in the low light of the party. The way Jack’s laughter had shaken all three of them, like they were linked together by a tangle of limbs. Like they were one person, with three souls.

When he dreams, it’s of pink lanterns and the sense-memory of being held.

: :

It’s January 1, 1946.

Jack scowls at the newspaper. The newspaper remains firm on this fact.

He doesn’t know what’s going on. It seems unlikely that the last two years were some sort of elaborate hallucination, but quite frankly that’s his best theory so far. He doesn’t know how else to explain how he magically got across the country, or how the bullet scar in the shoulder that he remembers being shot in is gone, just clean, unblemished skin, or way his life has just reset itself to his first month at the SSR –

And he’s scared. He scowls harder. He doesn’t want to be, but he’s scared.

“Where’s Carter when you need her,” he says out loud to himself in the middle of the sidewalk in front of the newsstand. Then a thought occurs to him, and the paper crumples under his fingers.

If he hallucinated these last two years, then everything with Carter – Belarus, telling her about Okinawa, working on the Underwood case, all the crap in L.A. – all of it was a fantasy.

Jack swallows, hard. It would be just like him to dream up the best person he could ever possibly come up with, to befriend her, to fight by her side, to imagine her telling him he was a good man –

He doesn’t feel good. He goes to the office anyway.

It’s early, still, only about five-thirty. And it’s New Year’s Day. Most people are still recovering. There’s a skeleton staff of phone girls and one agent on the night shift, Yauch. He looks up when Jack comes in but doesn’t say hello, just goes back to whatever he was reading.

Slowly, agents start to filter in, all looking some degree of hungover. At quarter ‘til nine, Jack hears Sousa’s crutch clunk down the bullpen. He can’t help it. He looks up.

Daniel looks young. He looks tired, too, in a way that has nothing to do with a late night. He crutches quickly and a little clumsily past Jack without looking at him. Jack follows him with his gaze, taking in the way no one greets him except Yauch, who nods as he’s packing up to leave for the day. Sousa certainly doesn’t say good morning to Jack; why would he?

Typical, he thinks to himself, angrily. Make up a bunch of friends for yourself because your life’s so fucking miserable. It was pathetic, is what it was.

When Jack turns back to the front of the room, Carter’s standing there, staring stonily into the bullpen. Their gazes lock. Her brow furrows, her red bow of a mouth sets in a look that he recognizes from her pointing a gun at his head, and she spins on her heel and leaves.

Without thinking, he stands and follows her.

Jack catches up to her in the hallway leading to the interrogation rooms. He reaches to catch her arm but she jerks away from him, glaring.

Of course she wouldn’t want to talk to him; why would she?

“Sorry,” he says. He rubs his mouth, then huffs out a deeply unamused chuckle. “I just – are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Carter says sharply.

“Right,” Jack says. “I – right. Of course you are. I didn’t mean –” He doesn’t know where he’s going with that sentence, so he ends it instead.

Carter seems to be thinking hard. If this were two years from now, Jack would tease her, would tell her not to sprain something. He just looks at her instead.

“I’ve had a queer sort of morning,” she says, finally. His stomach flips.

“Yeah,” Jack says slowly. “Me too.”

Carter's staring at him, a flicker of something, a skeptical kind of hope, in her eyes. Jack can sympathize; his chest is full of the same emotion, making his heart race and his throat tighten.

As much of a coward as he usually is, he has to know. It was more terrifying to be alone than to be rejected.

"Peggy?" he says, hardly daring believe it, swallowing hard. Her eyes widen.

"Jack?" she whispers. That's all she has to say - Jack can see it in her face. It's her. It's her, it's his Peggy, it's really her.

The relief hits him like a fuckin' bus, leaving him feeling staggeringly dizzy and faint-feeling. Jack huffs out a noise, a laugh or a sob, he's not quite sure, and backs up until he can slump against the hallway wall. Carter puts one hand to her grinning mouth and steps back too, shakily bracing her back against the opposite wall. After a moment of breathing, Jack allows his weak legs to deposit him on the ground. Across from him, Carter does the same.

They just sort of stare at each other for a minute, sitting on the floor with their legs stretched out in front of them and grinning like loons.

Eventually, Carter exhales, a happy noise, letting her head fall back until her skull thuds against the wall. "Well," she says. "This certainly puts things in a new perspective."

"Tell me about it," Jack says. He considers her for a second. "Since last night?"

"Yes," she says. "Right after midnight. You, too?" He nods.

“Everything’s so different,” he admits. “I hadn’t – realized.”

“Yes,” Carter says. She tucks her chin to her chest. “I’d forgotten how infuriating it was to be called sugartits on a daily basis.” Jack chokes back a slightly mortified laugh. He’d have to get used to dealing with Krzeminski again, too. “And Colleen is still alive, now. I can change things, now. Fix mistakes.”

Jack doesn't know who Colleen is, and it's a little jarring, the reminder that Peggy was and remains out there doing things he simply doesn't know anything about. "So what’s the plan?" Jack asks. At Carter's raised brow, he tells her, "What, you think I'm letting you take all the credit for solving whatever’s going on?"

Carter laughs. “Oh, that’s never a concern where you’re involved," she says, eyes dancing. Then she goes serious. "They’ll think we’re insane if we try to tell anyone about it. It'll be a hell of an undercover assignment, Jack."

"Yeah, right. And my other option is what?" Jack says. He waves a hand dismissively. He's not gonna sit around and play the nice little desk jockey while Carter runs around with the big boys. "The hardest part will be pretending we don't know each other." They weren't exactly strangers at this point in time, but given how much things have changed, they might as well have been.

"Oh, no," Carter says. "Everyone will just assume we're sleeping together."

There's something in the way she says it - like she’s commenting on the weather, not even bothering to sound upset or annoyed or embarrassed. It itches at Jack. Before he can stop himself, he's saying, "You say that like I'd even be interested, Carter."

Carter snaps her gaze to him, eyes big and surprised, red mouth a perfect O. She goggles at him for a fraction of a second, then lets out the loudest, most unladylike snort he's ever heard in his life. It sets him off too, and the two of them are laughing so hard that Jack's getting a stitch, feet knocking into each other in the middle of the hallway when Sousa comes crutching into view.

"Uh," Sousa says, looking from Carter to Jack and back again. "Am I interrupting something?"

Jack wipes his eyes, snickering a bit still. "Just keep walkin', Sousa," he says. "Nothing to see here."

"Please, Jack, there's no call to be rude," Carter says. She climbs to her feet; Sousa offers a hand, which she ignores. "We should all be getting back to work, anyway."

Jack's looking at Sousa when Carter calls him by first name, so he sees the surprised little twitch. His stomach clenches. Sousa doesn't make a fuss about it, though, just says mildly, "Hey, speak for yourself. I'm working here."

"Right," Jack says. He clears his throat, straightens his collar. "Carter, we -"

"We'll talk later," she says briskly. "We both have things to be attending to."

"Yeah," Jack says, and then adds, just to be a dick, "I saw the coffee pot was getting low."

Carter pulls a ridiculous face at him, making him laugh again. Sousa is still standing there, looking like he has no idea what is going on.

Makes three of us, Jack thinks, and grins.

[curiositydooropened]

Wildfire • Pyre

Reunions with old friends leads to more information about Vickie's death. You and Steve seem to be growing closer, falling back into old roles. But something dark lingers in the recesses of your mind.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 8,528

Warnings: enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slooooowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Three: Ignite • Chapter Five: Searing

---

NOW

September 1988

Everything Rightside Up existed in saturation. Blue skies were blue. The red-oranges of fallen leaves were ruddy and neon. Green leaves of canned spinach were mossy and vibrant. Even the stark whites were brighter, cornea-burningly so. 

Your mouth felt dry as you approached the Med Bay, sneakers squeaking on linoleum beside the steady rhythm of Eddie’s shoes matched with the creak of his walker. His hair and eyes were painted in rich chocolates today, his skin almost as blinding as the walls that surrounded you. 

“I think you’re doing a good thing,” he reassured, raising the fingers on one hand to twinkle a wave at Sandra, the beautiful girl behind the counter who buzzed you in. Disinfectant stung in your nostrils. 

“I think I’m doing a neutral thing,” you argued, holding the door open for him to pass through. “He doesn’t want to see me. He probably isn’t even awake yet. Maybe he’s a vegetable.” 

“Henderson said he flipped him off yesterday,” Munson grinned. “He’s fine, and he does want to see you.”

“Henderson?” You frowned, taking a step backwards from the threshold whence you came, thumbing to a different section of the building, far away from the people in lab coats and the looming threat that lay ahead. “Oh, I better go check in with him then.” 

Eddie caught your wrist and propelled you back toward him. “You saved Harrington’s life. I would kill for an opportunity like that. You get to lord it over him forever now.”

You sighed, faked a smile, tried not ignore the pit in your stomach, tried to forget the sting of ash and decay as you stripped yourself of your pack and ducked beside the brick fireplace, the only part of that little house that remained standing. 

You’d called out for Steve, again and again, panic stinging your lungs just as it had when you’d lost Vickie. Then the adrenaline kicked in, her voice and his, Steve’s, echoing instructions in your mind. Lift here, tug there. Your squats had come in handy. You walkied back to base, got an emergency evac vehicle. 

When you found Harrington, he was unconscious, face caked in ash, blood pooling somewhere beneath him. He was lucky he’d been in the stairwell and not any higher. A millisecond sooner, and he’d have been crushed by a toilet, a vanity, a king-sized bed. You cleared the rubble, checked him for major breakages, and hoisted him onto your back. He was so heavy.

“Just go in and tell him to say ‘thank you’ or you’ll pull the plug.” Eddie was shoving you through another door, but you noticed he hadn’t hurried to follow.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” You hissed, offering a nervous smile to a nearby man in mint scrubs.

“Nope,” your best friend grinned. “Got me a receptionist to flirt with.” He tousled his curls and leaned casually against a long countertop. 

Sandra appeared just over his shoulder, a sweet smile on her round face. “Two doors down,” she gestured. 

With clenched fists, you inched ahead as instructed. You were sweating. You didn’t even know what you were going to say. You just wanted to see if he looked small, if his hair still coifed perfectly against cotton sheets, if his mouth would turn up at the corners when he saw you. 

Your fingertips pressed to the door, and you heard laughing inside, a rasped voice. Your heart sank, stomach rolled. You glanced sideways into an open window and saw dirty blonde and freckles, and you turned heel for the start of the hallway.

Eddie stood on the other side of a closed door, waggling his fingertips, too-mischievous a smile playing across cat-like features. 

Then, she said your name. 

Robin Buckley stood ten feet away. She was dressed in civies, hair crimped and vest buttoned, and her sweet, freckled cheeks were pinched pink to compliment the sad sea of blue in her eyes. Her hand was raised in a greeting, the other arm wrapped around her ribcage, a shield, a nervous stance. 

You swallowed, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. But some other force was pushing you forward, one step at a time to split the distance. 

Her arms were around you in seconds, spindly, soft, and she smelled exactly as you always remembered: vanilla and patchouli, weed. She was warm, a bit of home you hadn’t had in months, hadn’t deserved. You didn’t deserve her. 

You pulled away, swallowing the lump in your throat, blinking away any emotional that threatened. “I was just coming to visit uh…” You gestured inwards, at a boy in too big a bed, brow crinkled, hair a riot against stark white linens. His eyes were squeezed shut, jaw clenched. 

“Oh yeah we were just,” she rasped, graveled voice sweet as honey. She gestured inward and paused before you watched her own eyebrow quirk. “Sleeping. He just fell asleep.” 

You settled on, “oh, good.” You didn’t feel right in your body, didn’t feel present, didn’t feel necessary. You’d interrupted a moment. You were an intruder. 

“Lucky for you,” Robin crossed to Steve’s bedside and grabbed her bag, tossing it over one shoulder, “I’m starving. Shall we go get some lunch?” 

You blinked at the invitation, the white walls closing in. She stared expectantly, soft blues and tans. “Oh, one of us should probably stay with…” You gestured once more toward the boy. The frown hadn’t left his face, though now it felt more of a grimace. You wondered if he might be in pain. 

“He’s fine,” Robin insisted, and you felt slender fingers jostle your shoulder. “Come on. Looks like you could use to get out of this Hell hole.”

You turned to look at Steve one last time, as you were herded along the corridor and back to reception, and his face had settled to one of peace. 

—

She drove you miles out of town, somewhere south, where a dry dirt road met a diner with a view of the lake. Ducks gathered at the banks and a child cried in a mother’s arms, and the sweet smell of maple syrup flooded your senses with some otherworldly nostalgia that ached in your molars and ribcage. 

She chatted the whole way there, as Robin was apt to do, a mess of words about life and her parents and foregoing university for community outreach, and you clutched the belt at your chest like it were a life vest.

She ordered a club sandwich with fries, and promised to share when you ordered a salad, not sure you could keep anything down. Not with the world on its axis like this, not with her cherry-stained smile as if nothing was wrong, as if this threesome wasn’t missing it’s essential party. 

“Thanks so much,” she smiled at the woman setting drinks down between you. The same red plastic cups you found in the Mess Hall made you feel like you were trapped in a simulation, some sort of sick joke. 

Robin stirred the ice in her soft drink with a red-and-white striped straw, and you watched the bubbles fizz through dark liquid to burst at the top. “Before I force you to tell me what the Hell is going on with you and Steve, I have to tell you something.”

You blinked back at her, the water in front of you unappetizing despite the dryness of your mouth. 

There was something uncanny about the way she spoke, too chipper, too soft, but you noticed she was avoiding your gaze, staring instead at the rings she wound around her fingers. Her nails were chipped in navy blues. “And I know you’re going to argue with me, because that’s who you are, and I’m not going to engage with that because this is honestly just my truth, you know? And I’ve spent a long time thinking about this, so I know how I feel.” 

“Robin,” you cut-off her anxious rambling, an auto-response you’d built over the last couple of years, muscle memory. 

Her mouth closed, and you watched the tick of her jaw, sunlight pouring in to cast her in honey and warmth. She was a thing of beauty, and to watch the wobble in her bottom lip as she clamped down it drew the breath from you. 

You sat in silence, wringing the paper napkin in your lap while she chipped more fervently at the blue polish, bits of it scattered across a coffee-stained tabletop. 

“I’m mad at you,” she finally came out with it, and the quaver in her voice punched you right in the stomach. Her eyes shone, harsh, dark. “I’m so fucking mad at you, and it’s so frustrating because it’s not even your fault, not really.” 

You swallowed back the tears that threatened to fall, the ache that clawed your inside with sharp talons and flower-faced teeth. 

“It’s not your fault she was flayed. It’s not your fault she had no other choice. It’s not your fault you didn’t have a choice, but none of that is what I’m mad about anyway,” she continued to ramble, twisting the rings around her fingers. “I’m mad that you left me. You just ditched me, and I understand you’re hurting, and I’m so sorry for that, but did you think for like half-a-second that I’m hurting too? And all I needed for the past three months was my best friend? You left me alone with Steve, for Christ’s sake. Steve! I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love him with all of my heart, but he’s not good with things like this. He’s getting better, but he doesn’t know her like you do, and sometimes I just need to talk about her and -” 

“Robin,” you stopped her again, your breathing matching hers in speed, heart racing, lungs strained against your ribcage. 

Her mouth slammed shut, and her fingers went to her ears like a petulant child. “I’m not going to hear anything you have to say unless its an apology.” 

Your mouth hung open at that, processing her emotions, your own. A bell caught on the breeze, the softest of sounds, and then it felt like fingers carded through your hair, a hand to your shoulder, warmth, comfort, light. You released a sigh, “Robin, I’m so so sorry.” 

The corners of her lips turned up, and she rolled her eyes, reaching for the red plastic up. “I forgive you, obviously. Idiot.” She toed at your knee with the rubber toe of her shoe while she drank, and you both laughed off the emotion prickling in your eyes. 

You picked up your own water with a trembling hand and downed the ice cold liquid, letting it dampen the swell in your throat and chest. 

“Now that that’s settled, please tell me what the hell is going on between you and Dingus. The boy tells me nothing.” 

—

As the heat of summer fell away into fall, the sun went with it. You awoke in darkness, struggled to pull yourself out of bed after restless sleep. Daylight faded from the farmland too quickly, a mask of yellowed orange that covered naked branches that twisted up through browning leaves. It was cold and dark and reminded you of that place, an unfriendly reminder that loomed over your shoulder as you ran, lap after lap around a track. 

Three days after your lunch with Robin, you’d managed to peel yourself from sweat-drenched sheets to run off the dread that settled from a nightmare. You’d run with a friendly tune in your head, tainted ominous by each thump of footfall against the track, eery by the humming under your breath against the water pressure from the shower, your own voice echoing off tile walls. 

The sun was just coming up by the time you entered the dormitory corridor, dim warmth that seeped from sitting quarters and splashed across heavy steel doors. 

You scrubbed excess water from your ear with the towel draped over your shoulders and rounded the last corner, halting when you saw shadow framing your door. Tall, with broad shoulders, hand-raised in a knock. 

You sidestepped, tilted your head to get a better look, and nearly screeched to a halt when you reached an angle that let the light shine in. 

Steve Harrington waited for you to answer your door, jaw clenched, sporting short hair. It had been buzzed around his neck and ears, but remained long on top, parted down the center in adverse to his signature coif, a mess of brown that he tousled in one hand. 

You blinked back at him, taking in his stance, tight and uncomfortable, before it all sunk in. 

He was awake. He was standing. He suffered no broken bones, only a concussion and several bumps and bruises, so you shouldn’t have been surprised. He was waiting at your door.

“Shit,” you snapped yourself out of it and crossed to him.

He startled and spun on his heel to face you, eyes alight with surprise. He looked good like this, more adult. Maybe that was the official nature of his stance, or the stack of documents he held under one arm. “Um… hi.” He greeted, scratching at the back of his neck. You wondered if he missed the locks back there that were so easy to sink your fingers into.

You swallowed, blinked back at him. “Hi.”

“Are you okay?” He asked, extending a hand your direction, although the look on his face was less comforting than perturbed. 

“Your hair,” you gestured, biting back a sarcastic smile aching at your cheeks. “Are you okay?” 

That famous Harrington eye roll greeted you, and he shifted to expose the stack of manila envelopes under his arm, wrapping his knuckles against the top. “I brought you something to look at. Could we uh…?” He nodded the closed door to your room. 

“Oh, shit, yeah,” you shuffled with the key in your pocket, the little brass thing tethered to a decade old friendship bracelet that had long since fallen off Vickie’s wrist.

Harrington stepped out of your way, and you fumbled with the lock until the door popped open to reveal a mess of dirty laundry and dishes strewn about. You cursed under your breath and scurried to kick things into their appropriate corners. You winced at the crash of plates in your sink, and scurried to the bed to pull the duvet up and over two scrunched pillows. 

Harrington set his haul on your rickety table.

When you’d finished your tidy, you turned to face him, a bit flustered, but you hadn’t anticipated catching him in the act of sizing up his own reflection in the mirror. He frowned, running his fingers through his hair in an attempt to flatten the sheer volume peaking the fringe pieces. 

“It looks good,” you offered, delighted when he jumped at the sound of your voice, hand snapping back to his side. 

“They um… they had to do it for the stitches.” He gestured to the back of his head. 

Following the curvature of his skull on the left side were ten tiny stitches, black thread holding his flesh together where there’d been a gaping wound. You’d wrapped something around him to stop the bleeding, your shirt, maybe. You couldn’t remember much from that horrible morning, only the aches of your muscles as the exhaustion willed you to sleep on a cot in the Med Bay that first night you’d been asked to quarantine. 

“How’re you feeling?” You asked. 

Harrington nodded. He watched his own fingers dance along the tabletop. “Good. Nothing broken. They released me about an hour ago.” He glanced up at you, a shadow cast from the bridge of his nose as morning light began to seep in from frosted windows. 

“Good,” you managed a soft smile, hoped he could feel the relief that relaxed your shoulders. 

“Hey, um…” He scratched at that stubble on the base of his neck once more. “Thank you for uh… saving my ass.” His eyes found yours, humble and honest. 

You took a few steps forward and hesitated to reach for his arm until he put his hand out to catch yours. You gave his fingers a gentle squeeze. “Guess those squats were worth it after all.” 

You bit back another smile, stomach swooping as one again his eyes rolled back into his head. You released his hand and swatted at his stomach before pulling out a chair at your little rickety table to seat yourself at. “You need to lay off the brisket, big boy. I nearly threw my back out.”

“You need to quit hanging out with Munson,” Harrington slid into the seat next to you, spinning the stack of files your direction. “You’re staring to sound just like him.” 

You cocked a brow. “You threw Munson’s back out?” 

Watching him fight back sass tickled you more than you thought it might, the same relief you felt pulling Robin into a hug after your day out together. It felt like your axis was righting itself, like maybe your world was staring to feel a little less Upside Down. 

Harrington tapped two fingers to the top of the pile in front of you. “Erica stole these for me. If anyone finds out, we’re screwed. And we owe her our dessert cards for the next two months.” 

You snorted and flipped open the soft manila folder to find the face of a bright-eyed girl with red hair and freckles. Her jaw had been tightened, eyes a little wild, determined, and God, she’d been so young. Instinctively, your fingertips trailed the glossy coating of the photograph, and you wished you could feel the softness of her skin, smell her mom’s detergent on her clothes. You wished you could wrap her into your arms, like you’d done with Robin, and make her laugh, Hell, make her roll her eyes like you did with Steve. 

“These are her files, anything Erica could get her hands on. I peeked through them, but I didn’t want to get too far in without you.” Steve said, voice achingly soft beside you. “They’re in chronological order. Psych eval, medical tests.”

You thumbed through the first few pages, her enlistment form. Perfectly typewritten was every historical accuracy about your best friend. Her full name, the street she grew up on, her blood type. And after a few pages, you’d come across a picture of yourself, your information labeled under PARTNER. 

“If anything’s too hard to get through, let me know.” Your new partner leaned forward on his forearms, staring at your upside down photograph, his hair falling into his eyes. 

You swallowed, nodded, and turned another page. 

—

Hours had gone by, you weren’t sure how long, but the warm light cast upon Steve’s face suggested it was mid-afternoon, broaching evening. You’d learned much about your best friend and at the same time nothing at all. You’d choked upon all of the times she defended you, or told a higher up how wonderful you were, how worthy, how competent. Never once were you disparaged. Never once had she fought or fallen out of line. 

You wondered if you should have started at the bottom of the pile, worked your way back to the moment she’d been flayed, but when you’d mentioned, Steve halted your wrist and told you he’d take the bottom half. You thought to argue, to protest, but the look in his eye was soft, not scolding, and the grip on your wrist was loose.

You caught yourself watching him work, both of your voices hoarse from passages read aloud. When he concentrated, his brow crinkled, and the tip of his tongue stuck to the corners of his lips. You’d caught him, on several occasions, harrumphing over hair fallen into his eyes that couldn’t be tossed back like it used to. 

Now, as you glanced up from another mission log transcription, you saw the wave of warmth fan his features, and immediately he winced at the glare, fingers rubbing at bloodshot eyes. 

“Are you okay?” You asked, alarmed at the grit of his teeth. 

“Yeah, just um…” He squinted your direction. “Eye strain, I think. I should have been wearing my glasses.” 

You leapt up, if for no other reason than you cover him with your shadow, the frosted glass above your bed lacking curtains. “The concussion probably doesn’t help. Let’s take a break.” 

He emitted a soft groan and rubbed at his eyes again, pinched the bridge of his nose between his forefingers. “You’re probably right. Is that okay?”

You wrapped your arms around yourself and glanced down at the heft of his pile still remaining, hidden pages calling out to you. “Yeah, totally. It’s all kind of blurring together at this point anyway.” 

“Yeah, right,” he inched his way up and out of his chair, retrieving a sweatshirt he’d shed toward early afternoon off the back of his chair and stuffing his head into it. He’d unintentionally crowded your space, all limbs, and he smelled clean and a little sterile.

Somewhere in his reflection, a flash of orange caught your eye. You glanced sideways at the dingy mirror, the expanse of his back, the stitched scar at the base of his skull. 

“Do me a favor?” He muttered, running his fingers through his hair for the dozenth time. 

You hummed and tore your gaze from the mirror image.

“Don’t look at that stuff without me.” 

The piles sat between you, typewritten notes on stark white pages that beckoned. You glanced downward and caught your name, a conversation with Owens post-mission. Just a handful of pages beneath that was the log you knew you were looking for, maybe images taken post-mortem, maybe a death certificate. 

“We just don’t know what it could kick up. What if it triggers something?” Harrington wrapped his knuckles against the tabletop, recapturing your attention. 

You swallowed, eyes a little glassy from exhaustion, and nodded. “Sure, yeah. You want to take them with you?” 

He shook his head, shrugged. “I trust you.” He turned and clicked open the door. The hallway beyond was quiet, dark save the glow of a red EXIT sign. Before he left, he turned to offer a squinted smile, the faintest upturn of his pink lips. “You going to be alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you reassured. Something had shifted, crashed apart with the stairs of that house. Moments that bond often have this affect on relationships, you’d discovered that much over the past few years. 

Steve nodded and left, door closing softly behind him.

As he did so, the papers on the tabletop fluttered closer to you, an unseen force shifting things back into your line of sight. A label slipped out of the bottom stack, and typed in careful letters you read the word ‘FLAYED’. 

—

You left in a hurry, shoving all of your dirty clothes into a basket to haul downstairs. You took a turn on the track as your pants dried. You avoided your room like something had begun to grow in the walls, a pitch black ooze that spread with every footstep.

You couldn’t be there, couldn’t read it, and yet every inch of you itched to know the truth, to get answers. 

When you’d exhausted most avenues of distraction, you finally found yourself in the corridor just south of the Caf. Moonlight pooled in through windows along the hall, casting everything in sterile whites and soft greys. Your stomach rumble was louder than each footstep. The kitchen staff had locked the pantries to maintain rations, but this wasn’t your first excursion sneaking in for a midnight snack. 

Your laundry basket released from your hands and fell with a thwack to the linoleum before you elbowed through one of the swinging double doors, port hole window catching your reflection in the moonlight. The kitchen was otherwise pitch black, and you hadn’t needed a flashlight for the laundry room. 

Taking careful steps in the darkness, you narrowly avoided a butcher’s block, but smacked your hip bone against a wide, metal stove. Pots and pans clattered above you, and you scrambled to keep them afloat, cursing yourself for definitely waking anyone sleeping at least five floors up.

“Hello?” The seam to the walk-in split open, and you were suddenly blinded in a thick beam of warm light.

You held your hands up to shield your eyes, and when you heard your name, you peered into the darkness to make out the broad-shouldered silhouette of your new partner. “Harrington?”

He tilted the torchlight from your vision, and you saw he had a baseball bat over his other shoulder, of which nail spikes were sparkling from the end. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.” He grumbled, turning back into the refrigerator as though this was a perfectly normal occasion. 

“What the Hell?” You sighed and followed him. “What’re you doing down here?” 

He shrugged, spinning the flashlight in his hand to give you the handle. Then, he pulled a three gallon tub of ice cream off a nearby shelf and hoisted it under his arm. “What does it look like I’m doing down here?” 

He pushed past you in a fog of steamed breath, and you followed before the door slammed shut. He dropped the tub onto a countertop with a hollow thud and the bat scraped along the ground as he propped it next. 

You watched him search a couple of drawers for two spoons, illuminating his path back to you.

“I haven’t had ice cream in like three years,” he explained, taking the flashlight from you to prop on a windowsill near him. Reflected light illuminated the hollows of his cheeks, the bags under his eyes. “But I’ve had this crazy hankering since that house fell on me.” 

You snorted and hoisted yourself onto the countertop beside him, ice from the tub melting against your bare leg. “Why the aversion to ice cream?”

Steve sighed, peeling the lid from the top and handing you a spoon before diving in himself. “When you spend half a summer slinging cones and banana splits, the smell of it gets a little sickening.”

You’d almost forgotten, memories of Starcourt Mall feeling like another lifetime. Vickie and you had gone every weekend after it opened, delighting in the comfortable seating at the movie theatre and spending far too many hours pouring over albums at the music store. She’d insist on scoops from Scoops just before you left, and you’d initially thought she was fawning over the sailor boy, with his voluminous, highlighted hair, his doe eyes, his glossy lips. Turns out, she wanted to gawk at her pep band compatriot, the pretty, awkward girl with band-aids on her knees. 

You watched over the tub as he took his bite in shadow, eyelashes fanning his cheeks, brows furrowed against the cold. “How is it?” You smiled, reaching in near to your elbow to take a scoop for yourself. There was no way to tell what flavor it was at this point, but knowing the quality of food at the caf, you had a feeling your options were limited to chocolate or vanilla. 

“It’s no SS Butterscotch,” but he went back in, spoon clanging against your own. “What’re you doing down here?” 

You shrugged, spooned frigid cream into your mouth. You winced at the cold, but the sweet vanilla cream melted against your taste buds, and you sighed, leaning against the wall behind you. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Did you read any more of Vickie’s file?” He winced around the cold, brought his fist up to cover a cough. 

You frowned back at him. “You told me not to.” 

His eyebrows raised at that, and he shrugged, shoveling himself another spoonful. “I didn’t think you’d listen. I use that tactic with the kids.”

“Hey, fuck you,” you growled, mouthful. 

In the silhouette, you swear you caught a smirk flash across boyish features. “So… I heard you talked to Robin.” 

You hummed, the chill from your ice cream and the metal countertop creating a small shiver. You shifted your thighs, unsticking them from the surface, and tugged down on your shorts. “Yeah, we had a really nice lunch the other day.”

He avoided eye contact, licking his spoon clean. 

Over French fries, your heartfelt apologies turned to chatter, the two of you falling back into old rhythms, humming old ear worms and gossiping. Robin vented about the try-hard team lead in her gardening society, and you, with matched eye rolls, vented about Steve’s overbearing demeanor when it came to the mats, the pool, the turf. Robin ensured you he was like that in the beginning, and that he’s just protective. You couldn’t help but feel the fizz of your stomach when she mentioned he cared about you. 

You wondered how much she’d shared. “I uh… I apologized for going AWOL.” You spun your spoon between your fingers, the cool metal glinting in dim light. 

“Why did you,” he asked after a long moment, voice cutting the stillness in the air, “go AWOL?”

You glanced up at him again, and this time he was watching you, eyes hooded in shadow, but the glint of them traced your features. You swallowed and looked away, stared instead at his silhouette on the adjacent wall, the curve of a strong brow and nose and jaw, the dip of his throat. 

You struggled for words, feeling the heat of him staring you down, but finally you settled on an explanation that felt right. “Because I’m a coward, and because I didn’t feel I deserved her friendship, not after all of the heartache I caused. Still don’t.”

He didn’t respond, and you sat in silence for a long while until you felt brave enough to look at him again. His shoulders were slumped, and his lips were parted as if he were going to ask something else. 

Terrified he might spill some truth that you weren’t ready for, you spilled out a question that had been lingering for months, a year. “What did I do to make you hate me?” The words felt sticky, your throat coated with vanilla ice cream and regret. 

His jaw slammed shut, eyes tracking yours once more. 

“We used to be…” Bets placed on the Scorch field, the sparring mats, shot-for-shot from the whisky glass snuck out of Hopper’s office desk drawer, truth or dare whispered while Robin and Vickie slept in an adjacent bed, the exchange of steamed breath watching the stars, nose-to-nose, the flutter of lashes. “Friends. Then we were all up for Scorch Leads, and you just… went AWOL.”

You picked at the rolled paper lip of the ice cream tub, focusing on that spot instead of the eyes watching you. “Is my competitiveness really that annoying?” 

“Yes,” he said, snapping your attention back to his mouth, and the corners had curled every so slightly.

You warmed, rolled your eyes. 

He scratched at the stubble on the back of his neck, rolled his shoulders. “You want to know why I was such an asshole when we were up for that promotion?” 

You nodded. Another shiver wracked through you, and you realized you’d been leaning against the tub. 

Steve sighed, picked the lid off the counter beside you and replaced it, the top puffing with air when it was sealed. “Remember that first mission? When they dumped us in the middle of nowhere and we had to find our way back? And you and Vickie took twice as long as everyone else?”

“It was not twice as long,” you rolled your eyes. It took you so long because you had to be thorough, you had to prove yourself, no one wanted it more than you. When you’d heard about Team Lead promotions, it was the first time in years you felt like your existence was made for something. Your expertise paid off.

Your new partner lifted the tub and carried it back across the room to the walk-in, catching the swing of the door with his shoe.

You hopped off the countertop and tossed metal spoons into a massive metal sink. They clanged near the drain. 

Steve’s voice was muffled from inside the freezer. “Robin and I waited at the Gate for you. She wore a hole in the pavement pacing, and I sat with my back to a big tree and realized I’d do whatever it took to win, or at least to make sure you guys didn’t.” He returned with a banana, which he placed into your palm before going for his bat and flashlight. 

“What’s this for?” You held up the fruit, cold to the touch and followed him out the swinging double doors.

“Potassium’s good for muscles, and it helps your body process calcium.” He said, like a info doc on the Public Broadcasting Station. 

You sighed and tossed it to the top of your laundry pile before hoisting the basket back under your arm. “Wait, are you saying you thought Vickie and I wouldn’t make good leads?” 

“No,” he swung the bat over one shoulder, beam of light illuminating your joint path upward. “I’m saying that by becoming leads, there’d be a higher chance of you being in danger. All I ever wanted was to keep you safe.” 

You tried not to lose pace with him, feet fumbling, stomach swooping, and you glanced up at him through your eyelashes. You couldn’t make out his features in the dark, but you felt him watching you, felt the brush of his bicep against yours. 

“Eat your banana,” he said, and you continued up the stairs in soft, surrendered silence.

—

The yard was clean, grass long-since browned, and leaves swept into a large pile. The cars in the driveway didn’t belong to her parents, no, these were new. In fact, the entire home didn’t feel like home to you anymore, not like it used to. A porch swing creaked on the wind, stark white paint cracked and cushion oozing ichor from a rainstorm long since past. 

You heard a scuffle from the garage, swung right, calling out for her, searching a greyscale landscape for a shock of orange. You took a step forward, tripped over an unwound garden hose. 

“She can’t come to the phone right now,” she said, only it wasn’t her, wasn’t her voice, something deeper.

You looked up, but when you tried to scream her name again, a hand was covering your mouth, a strong arm lifting you backwards, away from the scene. Your friend lay, lifeless before you, skin melting into the concrete driveway like plastic. You screamed, kicked, clawed, bit at the hand cutting off your airflow, to no relief. 

Suffocating, drowning, the world around you blurring with blue lights, a face peering through the swell, that menacing grin, all teeth, no lips. You screamed, bubbles rising before your eyes. You kicked, vines tangled around your ankles, dragging you downward, darkness all-encompassing.

—

The fluorescents buzzed and the tape whirred in its recorder. That distant throb in your skull hadn’t receded in days. Your chair creaked with each bounce of your knee, an energy you’d picked up from your partner, and you rubbed at tired eyes, squinting across a large table. In a chair at the other end was the pitied frown of one Dr. Sam Owens. 

“We did find a small laceration on her ankle, and her falling into this creature would account for that.” He explained. He was being gentle, as if you hadn’t snuck into the files, as if you hadn’t stared at the photographs of her lifeless corpse, as if you hadn’t seen the black liquid oozing from her skin. 

You nodded, picking at a scratch in the tabletop. 

“And you’re saying this virus had been gestating for a month before she showed any signs of being flayed?” 

You shrugged, picked a little harder, until it bent your nail at the corner. “You’re the doctor. I’m just telling you what I remember.” 

“Okay, alright, I appreciate that.” You heard the click of the tape deck, glanced up to find two fingers on the stop button. When you looked up, Owens had sat one leg on the tabletop. “How’re you doing, kid?” 

A shiver wracked through you, some twisted all-knowing presence that had given you away. Maybe it was the squint of your eyes against the lights, maybe your nose had begun bleeding again, you couldn’t be sure at this point, couldn’t feel much for the buzz in your skull and fingertips. 

“Do you understand why Hop and I picked you and Vickie as our team leaders?” He asked when you hadn’t responded, folding his hands over his lap. Crisp checked sleeves were rolled over the cuffs of a brown sweater. Everything about this man was soft and cleaned, so far removed from the grit and grime that surrounded your day-to-day. “It’s because you understood our mission here.” 

You frowned, unsure where this unprompted speech was coming from, unsure what he was talking about, unsure how long you’d been in this room, how long you’d been awake, how long you could cling to the sliver of sanity holding you together. 

“You understood that all of this,” he gestured to the room around you. Two massive windows looked out at the expanse of woods, everything tinged ruby red and honey yellow, that nightmare-fuel flash of orange. “This isn’t about redemption. It’s not about righting our wrongs, of which, we’re all guilty.” 

His eyes were deep blue like the waters of a pool, but soft, careful. You thought of Vickie, of the mournful look on her face when she plead for you to snuff out her light. You thought of the lifeless corpse on a slab, photographed with naught but a sterile sheet maintaining her modesty. 

“No, it’s about renewal. It’s about ridding this world of this festering sore, this virus, so it can learn and grow, so we can learn and grow and restart our lives. Not pick up where we left off, but pull ourselves up from the ashes and create something better.”

You blinked back at him, the wall in your mind, in your heart, fighting with his words. That competitive nature you’ve been biting back all week threatening to escape. Instead, you grit your teeth. “Anything else you need from me, Doc?” 

Owens sighed, gave you that pitied look you’d received since Vickie died, since you killed her, since you gave up on her. He shook his head and gestured to walk you to the door. “Take care of yourself, kid.” 

—

How could you build a new life without her when she was always home? How could you rise from the ashes of her funeral pyre when you lit the match? 

—

The bass was low, a rattle in your bones arhythmic to your heart. You were hyper aware of your heartbeat, it having clambered against your skull for the past three days, maybe longer, you didn’t know anymore. Neon lights buzzed against newspaper clipping covered walls, all-encompassing, a tornado of information about Indiana’s State Fair and blue ribbons and reds and yellows and blues and greens. 

A shove to your shoulder drew everything back into focus. Eddie’s brows were stitched together, jaw clamped shut. He was pissed. At you, specifically. He’d bullied you into joining the gang at Roadie’s tonight, blackmailed you, in fact. Now, here you stood, knocking back tequila to no lasting affect, receiving a pool stick from your teammate’s hand. 

“We’re solids,” he instructed, nodding toward the felted green table. 

“I got it,” you snapped. 

The seven was lined up for an easy left pocket, and you sunk it before going after the three. The felt was soft under your finger tips, and the lamp heated up over your head, and something about the angle of your elbow nearly cleared someone’s beer from the lip of the table. They caught it, but your cue ball missed the three entirely, whiffing itself into a tailspin. 

You cursed under your breath and stood back up into a full conversation you’d somehow missed, laughter and crinkled eyes. You frowned at Eddie, passing him back the stick. 

“Argyle whistled at your ass, and you knocked his beer off the table,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re actually doing quite well for not being here.”

You glanced over his shoulder at Argyle, who held his hands, and a bottle, up in surrender, brown eyes wide. “Hey, man, please don’t kick my ass. I was just complimenting a beautiful woman.” 

It took a second for his words to set in, for the blur of the roadhouse to dull, and when they finally clicked, you plastered on a smile and plucked the remainder of the boy’s beer from his hand. The liquid was room temperature at best, the glass coated in condensation.

Your group erupted in laughter. 

Argyle was harmless, and only ever flattered, and you felt that if you were really present, if your laugh was genuine, things tonight might feel exactly as they had before. 

“I’m getting waters,” Steve ran a hand through the new curtains of his hair and turned for the bar. Robin rubbed between his shoulder blades. Nancy knelt over the pool table, sinking thirteen, twelve, eleven. It was Jonathan’s turn to whistle, and she hip-checked him with a smug look on her face before sinking fifteen and nine. 

“I’m so glad you came out,” Robin appeared at your side, warm and perfumed.

“Me too,” you smiled, avoiding the glares you were receiving from Eddie across the table. His incessant knocking pulled you out of bed, and he practically had to force you to put real clothes on. 

“Quick, before Steve comes back, tell me a secret about him no one else would know.” Argyle grinned behind another bottle he’d scrounged up table side. He’d also extended a basket of fries to you. 

You took one, a little soggy, and thought behind your hand as you chewed. 

“Oh my God, he wears glasses at night like an old man.” Robin snickered. 

Argyle gasped, the exact kind of scandal he was fishing for. “I bet he looks good in glasses.” 

“He does,” Nancy confirmed from the table. Jonathan seemed less impressed at this revelation. “Eight ball middle pocket.” And with a sturdy clack, it went in. 

Eddie cursed and peeled a couple of dollars from his wallet. 

“We get winner!” Robin declared, nabbing the pool stick propped near Eddie’s walker. 

“Aw man, I wish I had a partner,” Argyle lamented into his fries.

“No, you don’t,” Steve appeared, taking the neck of your bottle from your hand before replacing it with a plastic cup full of ice water. 

You rolled your eyes, but sipped, the frigid water a nice wash against the buzzing under your skin. His warmth beside you was welcoming too, the smell of his cologne.

“Sure I do. You get to learn all kinds of things no one else would know. Come on, tell me something about her.” 

Your heart sank under Steve’s gaze. You had one big secret, one looming bad guy that only Steve and Eddie knew about. None of you had told Robin. None of you could tell Robin. You tried not to focus now, tried to keep the nightmares at bay. 

“She’s a terrible swimmer,” he settled on. “Like one of the worst I’ve ever taught, and I used to teach toddlers… and Robin.” 

“Fuck off, Harrington,” Robin cackled, breaking the rack with an immense thwack. “You are just the world’s worst helicopter mom.”

“I’d back off if you could walk up a set of stairs without tripping,” he snapped back. 

“Says the guy who had an entire staircase fall under his weight,” you commented.

Everyone laughed. You even felt the rumble of Steve’s chest against your bicep, that warmth slowly thawing the freeze. 

“Jonathan, what do you guys think? Having a partner all it’s cracked up to be?” Argyle mused to his best friend. 

Jonathan sunk the first ball of the game and shrugged. “It’s nice when someone has your back. Nance can get a little bossy though…” 

Nancy rolled her eyes and took a long swig of her beer. She wiped the corners of her mouth as she swallowed and said, “Jonathan hums, constantly. No matter what we’re doing, he’s humming.”

Just as she said it, he stopped the tapping of his hands to his thigh, and you all pointed in glee at the discovery. 

“Hey, nothing wrong with a man with rhythm,” Eddie grinned, slapping a high-five to his friend. 

“God, Vickie does that too,” you chimed in, enjoying the camaraderie you’d been missing for so long. “She just gets these like ear worms and she has to sing them. Drives me up a wall.” 

You hadn’t realized what you’d said until Steve stiffened beside you, until you made eye contact with a sad smile from Eddie. Your blood ran cold. 

“Oh my God, I know! She was constantly getting things stuck in my head,” Robin pitched in to help you recover, but you noticed the waver in her voice, and it crushed your insides a little harder. 

“My go?” Steve cleared his throat, stepping forward to take the stick from her hands. You noticed she’d been wringing it. You felt sick.

When Steve bent to strike another ball, Eddie whistled, and the tension was quickly diffused with another round of laughter. Everyone began to chatter again, but the noise had faded under the dull thrum of bass and the buzz of neon, and the ice cold terror that lingered there between your shoulder blades. 

You muttered an excuse for the bathroom, but walked straight out the double doors and into the cold autumn air.

—

This time of night felt like being there, in the Ether. Sun set, everything went to grayscale save the sign attracting moths overhead. The red cast over the gravel parking lot, shimmering off chrome tailpipes and the hood of Harrington’s car. That same lingering damp clung to the air, steaming your breath, chattering your teeth, and you propped yourself against a corrugated tin wall. It smelled of iron and cigarette smoke, and your tongue tasted of tequila and regret. 

Your head spun, eyes ached and dry with exhaustion. No sleep felt easier than sleep these days, but you noticed each came with a price. Your muscles twitched, like a shiver, but incessant. Either way, you couldn’t escape them. 

She was always out of reach now, concerned features just past the focus of your view. She donned the same face as in the photograph: sad, frightened, determined. Her hair was crispy at the ends, a shock of orange burnt black, and soot coated the fingers of her extended hand. 

He was there too, less visible, but somewhere in the recesses, always lingering behind, waiting for the opportune moment, a terrifying face above rippled water that beckoned. 

You heard the crunch of boots against gravel, a noise from reality that sucked you back, wracked a shiver through you. You wiped at a running nose and plastered on a fake smile to ensure you were alright. 

But Robin hadn’t come to check on you, as you assumed she might. No, in her stead was Steve, face knotted up in worry, fingers carding through short hair. 

And you didn’t know what made you do it, maybe these unseen forces, maybe the embarrassment from inside, or maybe you’d just been dying to do it for well over a year now, but you swung on him. Full fist, knuckles connecting with cheekbone, and he stumbled backward in surprise before blocking your neck swing.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He growled, grasping your wrist in his hand. 

“What’s wrong with me?” You called, tearing your arm from his grip to shove at his chest. “What’s wrong with me, Harrington? I had to murder my best friend. I had to take a torch to her living, breathing, screaming body and not let go of the trigger until she stopped. I have to relive it every single day of my life, and I’m just supposed to be strong about it and okay with it because this is the life I’ve chosen to live.” 

You accentuated each thought with another shove until he was backed against a wall, his Member’s Only jacket fisted in your grasp, and then, he was wrapped around you, arms tight, the pressure of his large hand relieving the throb in your skull as your body wracked with sobs. You nearly crashed to your knees, but he stumbled and held you upright. One strong arm swung around your ribs, while the other stroked your hair. 

“You were supposed to protect me. To keep me safe,” You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, gasping for air as you sunk your fingernails into his shoulders, desperate for his help. 

Heat fanned your face, soft lips pressed to your temple to draw your focus, and you felt the steady inhale, exhale of his broad body against yours. He guided you to match his breath. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

You finally relaxed into him, face tucked into a warm neck, his presence all-encompassing, a splash of water on a puffy face, and when you felt grounded enough, you released his jacket, allowing your arms to drop at your sides. 

His release was slower still, and large hands came to cup your face, to thumb away your tears, but you couldn’t bear to look at him, embarrassed or heart broken or angry, maybe all three. 

He spoke your name, soft, tender, and you brought your hands up to pull his wrists. His hands fell away easily. 

You glanced up at him, avoiding eye contact, and noticed a splash of red against his white t-shirt. “You’re bleeding,” you mumbled, fingertips trailing the small patch of blood, maroon spreading across the cotton fibers. 

“No, you are,” he said.

When you met his gaze, something happened, a shift you couldn’t explain. You felt the world rumble beneath your feet, saw the gaping maws of gates flash behind your eyes. Like the drop of a bass, the dull throb in your skull shifted to searing pain. You mopped at the blood on your upper lip with trembling fingers. “Something’s wrong.” 

You thought you might tumble over, equilibrium changing. 

Steve caught you in his arms. “What do you mean? What’s wrong?” 

You heard your name from somewhere close by: her voice, a warning. You glanced to your right and saw Nancy and Jonathan rushing out of the double doors. 

“Steve!” Nancy called. “Massive seismic activity detected. We have to go right now.”

Argyle was rushing to start up his truck. Eddie and Robin were closed behind, hugging leather and denim jackets to their bodies. 

“Take care of her,” Steve and Eddie spoke simultaneously, pointing at their perspective best friends. 

Steve rounded on you. “Are you good?” 

Unsure, but determined, you nodded, and he slipped his hand in yours to hoist you into the truck bed. As the five of you sped off into the night, you could just make out Robin and Eddie under the glow of the neon sign, a shock of orange lingering behind them. 

---

A/N: Finally, a reunion with Robin! As I was writing her at the diner, I was like uhhhh... I think I'm in love with her. So that's fun. And the Reader and Steve are finally getting closer, finally getting over their issues... kind of? Please come yell at me about it. Thanks. Love you! Thanks, as always, for reading xo xo xo

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Three: Ignite • Chapter Five: Searing

[dominimoonbeam]

Am I determined to put more David/Huxley fics into the world? Yes, yes I am.

Am I also indulging in some amnesia trope?

...yep.

<3

Still working on this one but I like sharing!

The as of yet unnamed Daley amnesia fic. <3 <3

-

Huxley woke up in a dimly lit room, the glow of machines and the bare wisps of light edging in around the blinds already enough to make his eyes ache and his skull throb. He tried to lift an arm, to throw it over his face, but the effort was suddenly too great.

He didn’t feel right.

He didn’t feel well.

He groaned and tried to roll over, away from the window, squinting in a desperate bid to see where he was.

“Sunflower?” a deep voice rasped, full of worry and relief.

It was beautiful and Huxley instantly hoped whoever the guy was talking to was okay.

Another voice was in the room. Hands pressed him gently onto his back.

There were questions but he couldn’t catch them. His head hurt.

“You’re okay, Sunflower. Just rest,” the voice said.

Good, Huxley thought. He was glad that guy’s Sunflower was okay.

When he woke up again, he was alone and this time he was able to slowly open his eyes and sit up.

His head still hurt and he was grateful that the light wasn’t sneaking in through the blinds anymore.

It didn’t take him long to realize he was in one of the rooms in the healing ward. He had a vague memory of hitting the ice. Only it wasn’t the ice… It was a stick. He’d landed on someone’s hockey stick and there had been an ear splitting crack.

He palmed the side of his head, but of course there wasn’t a wound there even if there had been one before.

“You’re awake,” someone whispered.

Huxley squinted up at the stranger.

They were quick to tell him where he was and that he was okay. A healer. He nodded and thanked them for the patch up, trying to swing his legs over the edge of the bed and get up. His vision blurred and his head ached.

“Oh! Hang on,” the healer’s whisper strained in their rush to brace his shoulder. “You’ve still got a concussion. I want to get another look at you, ask a few questions, and then you and your husband can head home.”

Huxley’s head jerked up to look at the healer, only to wince at the pain the movement shot through the backs of his eyes. His hand pressed at his forehead again. “What?”

“The head injury was really bad, Mr. Shaw. Please, take it easy.”

“Mister—” he started and then stopped, laughing a little. “I think you’ve got the wrong patient.”

The healer was quiet and he assumed they were reeling from their own mistake. He looked up, about to try to assure them it was fine. Mistakes happen all the time. It wasn’t a problem. But the way they were looking back at him made him swallow those words. “Honey…What’s your name?” the healer asked.

Huxley felt sick and it suddenly had nothing to do with his head. Okay, no, it still had a lot to do with his head but this sinking feeling was new. He gave his name. He knew his name. No matter what people said, he wasn’t stupid.

The healer nodded slowly but there was something careful about it. “What year is it?”

He answered.

The healer nodded again, even slower. “Okay. Hang on. I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Why? Am I wrong?” he laughed. He wasn’t wrong. It was 2023. He was playing hockey for Dahlia in his last year at DAMN.

“Just stay put, okay? Everything is alright. I’ll be right back with a colleague and we’ll get this straightened out.”

Before he could ask what they meant, they were gone and he was alone in the dark room again.

He got out of bed and stumbled, shoulder hitting the wall but he managed to stay on his feet. There was a duffle bag on a chair and he found some clothes in it. They were his size and he pulled them on hurriedly. He hoped one of his teammates had brought them and that he wasn’t stealing. This night was bad enough already.

His heart was pounding. He needed to get out of there. He needed to get back to his house and just figure out what was going on. He couldn’t find his phone and swore under his breath.

He ducked out of the room into the hallway, cringing at even the low lights of the nighttime corridor. He kept his shoulder to the wall as he walked, using it to stay upright and moving the right direction every time his vision blurred and his head made it feel like the ground was tipping.

“Mr. Shaw?” someone shouted.

Who the fuck was Mr. Shaw and why did that healer think it was him?

He turned a corner and almost ran into a tall guy. “Woah! I didn’t know you were already up,” the guy said, hand on his arm to steady him.

Huxley squinted at the face. The guy clearly knew him but he didn’t know this guy.

“You took a really bad hit. You had us all worried.” The guy smiled but it looked strained now. “Do you wanna sit down?”

Huxley swallowed hard and shook his head, pushing past the stranger and toward the elevator. “Sorry. I… I gotta go…” His legs almost buckled when he stepped into the lift.

The guy definitely looked worried now.

Voices were rising down the hallway now. It was already too loud and part of him worried there might be actual alarms going off. Could they make him stay? No. He needed to go.

Huxley hit the button for the lobby, the doors sliding shut just as shadows were running into the corridor, someone exchanging fast words with the guy Huxley had run into. The guy lunged for the elevator, trying to catch the doors, but a split second too late.

Huxley panted, fear adding another layer to that headache behind his eyes. Fuck! What was going on? Who were these people and what did they want from him?

He tried to catch his breath.

The elevator finally came to a stop and opened. Too bright. Too loud.

Oh shit.

His legs almost gave out again, his skull splitting. He pressed his hands to his ears. Fuck!

And then a shadow fell over him, blotting out the fluorescents. The elevator doors slid shut again and Huxley groaned, shaking his head. “No.” He needed to get out of this place. He didn’t want to go back upstairs. He wanted to go home.

“Hux,” a deep voice said quietly, full of worry.

He dropped his hands, sagging into the corner of the elevator. He needed to call someone.

A body pressed against his, keeping him up and blocking out the world. Huxley relaxed a fraction. “I…I gotta go home…” he tried to explain.

A hand gently cupped the side of his face, big and warm. “Okay. I’ll take you home.”

He sighed heavily, dropping his head forward onto the stranger’s chest like he’d done it a thousand times before. It felt right. And this guy was going to take him home. Everything was going to be okay.

The elevator opened onto that sleepy floor again, but there were people waiting and that healer.

Huxley groaned and tried to shake his head, tried to back up but all he could do was push the back of his head against the metal wall of the elevator. “No… I…” He struggled. His head hurt so bad.

Those steady hands were still on him, cupping the sides of his neck. “It’s okay. We’ll talk to the healers and then we’ll go home.”

Huxley tensed. It was in the way this guy said, “we’ll go home.” Like they lived together.  But Hux hadn’t had a roommate in over a year. He looked up, despite the way his lids struggled to stay open, to get a look at this guy. He was big enough to be on his team, that was for sure, but he wasn’t.

The guy looked back at him, worry making a little crease in his brow that was both familiar and completely new. “Sunflower?”

Huxley stared, shaking his head slowly. “I don’t… Who are you?”

[thebiscuiteternal]

I posted ancient fanart, now time for an ancient fic. I wrote this one in... hell, I'm not even sure. Before 2008 at least.

Warnings: Descriptions of injuries, internal ableism, the constant feeling of the sword hanging over your head

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

He'd always heard that the closer you were shoved to death, the sharper everything in that moment seemed, but he'd never really put any stock in it. But now, as he stared vacantly up at the ceiling of the hospital room, he was rethinking that disbelief.

The heat of the explosion shockwave, the wood and glass burrowing into his back as he hit the window, the sense of knowing he was going to die as he hit the ground and felt bone snap and muscle tear in a blinding flash of agony.

A sudden sharp twinge of pain between his shoulderblades made him want so badly to roll over onto his side, but the casts and bars around and through almost all of his body were having none of it.

He hadn't seen anyone but doctors and nurses since he'd woken up six hours previous, and, to his annoyance, they had no interest in telling him a damn thing other than it had been almost a month since he'd been brought in. It wasn't a bad thing for him to want to know how serious the damage was, especially since-

-no, he wasn't going to think about that. Or so he told himself. Despite his efforts at forcing down the voices that brushed his semi-conscious memories, they insisted on being heard again.

He's as good as dead. Just leave him.

Iscariot didn't believe in no man left behind. He'd known that since the day he took his vows to join the order. But still, the memory made something in his chest constrict, and he squeezed his eyes shut as he struggled to keep his breathing even. The slower and more shallow, the less it hurt. Morphine could only do so much.

He'd just recovered control of his nerves when the click of the door opening made him glance over, expecting another nurse, and he blinked in surprise when Father Renaldo poked his head in. "Ah, you're still awake. They finally told me it was alright to come in. How are you feeling?"

Only the knowledge that it would cause unimaginable pain kept him from snorting at the obviousness of the question. "Have they given you any details?" he finally managed, voice more hollow and weak than he would have liked. And the uncomfortable fidget the older man made was a sign that he would like the answer even less.

"Well… it's quite the laundry list, my boy. Concussion, broken collarbone, four broken ribs… Right elbow's cracked, left forearm's broken. Various bruises and contusions, left leg broken in three places…"

There was something else, and they both knew he was skirting. "Anything more?"

Renaldo took a deep breath, and a wash of fear went through him. "I'm sorry, Enrico," the man mumbled, then quietly left.

---

Shattered vertebrae and a severed spinal cord. He stared silently as the doctor finally gave him the truth that Renaldo hadn't been able to bring himself to say.

"Meaning-?" he couldn't help asking after swallowing back the sudden dry feeling in his mouth.

"There are therapy options, of course, and we could try surgery if you wish, but it's very likely that you won't be able to use your legs for the rest of your life."

He felt his stomach drop as the doctor got up from his seat and left, and he suddenly wanted to throw up.

Paralysis.

God, was there ever any more obvious death sentence? Biting his lip and covering his eyes with his good hand, he tried to pretend he couldn't hear the familiar, if muffled, voices outside his door.

"Have you gone soft? He's a liability now, we can't keep him. Especially not in that position."

"I know that, Alex, but we have no choice at the moment. No one was expecting this, and we don't have anyone trained enough to replace him."

Now he really was going to throw up.

---

Everyone knew their days were numbered when they went into the order. After all, there was no such thing as demotion or resignation in Iscariot. You either lived, died, or someone else chose which one for you. And now the choice was up to everyone else and how long he was useful.

A painfully sobering thought when he'd spent the majority of his life trying to wrest control of it away from others.

Sighing, Enrico opened one of the many folders he'd been brought and started on yet another sheaf of paperwork.

When he thought about it, really, he probably had a few months at the most. For all Renaldo had talked about training, making assignments and filling out forms wasn't that hard.

He'd probably be dead within the year, and someone else would be doing this.

That didn't mean he had to give them additional reason to kill him sooner, though. Despite the protests of the therapists and his own body, he was getting to a point that he could be mostly self-sufficient. With any luck, he wouldn't have to ask for any special modifications at all, although making do would be considerably difficult.

Just the thought of having to sleep in his old bed alone made his spine –what he could feel of it- ache, and he inwardly swore about the common habit of higher beds before turning his attention back to the papers in his lap.

Right, time to stop thinking too much. Back to work.

As he was working on the last authorization notice –and trying desperately not to fall asleep in the middle of it- he glanced up as voices started up –as usual- outside the door. But this time, the conversation was a little more interesting than talk of medications.

“Well, Father, it looks like he’ll be ready to leave today. I have to admit, he’s been quite the surprise. It’s not often we get someone so gung-ho about therapy so soon after their accident.”

“He’s always been headstrong.”

He inwardly bristled at the tone and bit his tongue to keep from muttering something particularly insulting about Anderson’s heritage. Or at least more insulting than what people said about his own. Whether the man heard it or not, it wouldn’t exactly go far towards his inner resolution to earn temporary respite from his execution through good behavior.

Forcing himself to keep quiet, he went back to work, and was finishing the last page when the man came in.

“Ready to go?”

“Sure,” he replied, matching the lack of emotion as he closed the folder and put it on the stack, then swatted off the cursory attempt to help him as he wrestled himself into the wheelchair. It hurt, and he was exhausted by the effort, but he reminded himself that the less he asked for help, the less nuisance he’d be.

And was that the barest hint of approval he saw on his former mentor’s face?

Probably his imagination, but it made him feel better nonetheless.

---

“Are the itineraries ready, sir?”

“There aren’t any.”

Renaldo glanced up, a slight note of surprise in his expression. “Might I ask why?”

“Because they’re useless,” Enrico replied, tone a little more exasperated than the carefully cultivated vacancy that had been in place over the last months. “I can give them all the directions I want, and the papers will have been thrown away before they even leave the building. It’s less a waste of my time just to point them in the right direction, let them do what they please, and just clean up the mess afterwards, considering it seems that’s all I spend my time doing anyway.”

He briefly regretted the brief outburst when the man arched an eyebrow at him, but the only response was a slight pat to the shoulder. “I understand, sir. Do you want me to handle the debriefing today?”

“No… I’ll do it.”

So he’d said, but as he pushed himself down the hall, he felt physically and emotionally drained.

While forcing himself to stop thinking –as much as he could, anyway- about when the proverbial axe would fall had helped, other worries and realizations had risen up to take its place.

Enrico spent more time these days than he would have liked remembering the man he’d taken this position from in the traditional way. How he’d been smiling as he bled to death.

Was it because the old man had finally been burned out by the same lessons that were being learned now?

Like the fact that Iscariot neither needed, nor wanted a leader, just someone to handle the fallout.

Or the fact that agents only behaved once you’d broken down and did things their way.

He wished his mind hadn’t gone that route, because then it followed that line of thinking to Anderson. The man had been considerably less of a stubborn ass since he’d gotten out of the hospital.

Since he’d stopped trying to take control.

He couldn’t help a bitter little chuckle, but didn’t want to keep going on that train of thought. Shaking his head a little, he forced himself to continue on his way down the hall.

---

His nerves prickled just before he felt the blade at his throat, and he barely lifted his head. “I’m assuming you’ve found a replacement.”

They both knew it wasn’t a question, but an answer –question- came anyway in the form of a small nick of pain and Anderson’s familiar rumble. “You knew this was coming?”

Despite himself, Enrico laughed, the sound hollow in his own ears. “Don't act so surprised. I’ve known since you told the other agents to leave me behind at the church, so I suppose it’s fitting that they picked you to finish the job.”

There was a huff from behind him, and the blade vanished as he looked over his shoulder then turned the chair, unable to keep himself from inwardly being amused at the expression on his caretaker his mentor the other priest's face. “What’s wrong? Don’t want to kill me now that you know I’ve been preparing myself for it?”

“I don’t want to kill you at all.”

“Don’t lie to me now, Father. You were the one who was so eager to get rid of the liability to the organization.”

“It’s because you’re a liability that-“

“What?” he asked when Anderson cut himself off mid-snap and turned away.

As always.

A small spark of anger rose in his chest, and he couldn’t resist throwing the man’s words from months before back at him, goading him. “Have you gone soft? Can’t kill me now that I’m not screaming back at you at every opportunity? Now that I’ve learned to just give in?”

The look that got was mixed irritation and pity and something he couldn’t identify, and the older man crouched in front of him, touching his cheek with the same almost -not quite- affection that had been there when he was small and vanished as he got older. “Is that what you think I’ve been trying to teach you?”

His insides went cold for some reason he couldn’t explain, and he suddenly wished he could squirm away. “Isn’t it? You were always such a pain until I stopped fighting you and always talking about how I had no right to be angry at-“

“I never said you had no right to be angry at your parents,” Anderson chided, leaving him suddenly feeling uneasy and unbalanced and confused as though he were six again. “Anyone who was abandoned as you are would feel angry. I told you that you couldn’t stay angry at the-“

“It’s the same thing!”

There was a small ringing noise as the bayonet hit the floor, and hands squeezed his shoulders. “It’s not. Enrico, I wanted you to learn to grow past your rage. To be something that wouldn’t require it to sustain you.” He pulled away and straightened. “You never should have been in Iscariot in the first place, because you didn’t have the right reasons for it.”

“Then why let me get this far? If you never wanted to let me in this position, or be here at all, why didn’t you just kill me in the trials. It would have been easy for you.”

“Maybe physically.” There was that look again, the one that he wasn’t sure what it meant. “I never enjoy having to kill someone I raised. And I still hoped that one day, you would finally get it. That it wouldn’t come to the point that you would be a danger to the organization.”

“I wasn-“

“You were.” The certainty in Anderson's voice stung. “All that ambition and rage, eventually it would have caused more problems than you were worth. The signs were all there.”

And then the incident. And then he’d been broken. So many ‘and thens’ that set up what he was now, which was apparently what Anderson had wanted to be, even if not for the reasons he’d thought.

He swallowed past the knot that had formed in his throat. “But it doesn’t matter, because you’re going to kill me now anyway. There’s no such thing as resignation, remember?”

“I know.”

But Anderson didn’t pick up the bayonet he'd dropped, and Enrico made a noise of surprised confusion as he was lifted out of the wheelchair instead. “What are you-“

“Hush.”

Startled into silence, he bit his lip, and wondered where they were going as Anderson carried him down the hall.

---

This hadn’t been planned, he reminded himself as he looked about the tiny bedroom apartment, and that fact somewhat impressed him.

In just a few short days, Renaldo had gotten him declared dead with no body or blood to prove it, and his replacement had been instated with no problems at all. In less than that, Heinkel had found this little apartment and arranged for its rent and utilities to be covered before Anderson had even brought him here.

He would be earning them, of course. Renaldo’s mind was still sharp, but his eyes were continually going, and who better to read important documents to him than someone who had experience and nothing better to do?

He wouldn’t be allowed to leave the apartment either, to keep his continued existence hidden, but what reason did he have to?

He could do this, he told himself. A quiet little life was better than no life at all, right? He’d been expecting to have his throat slit and his body to be left for the cleanup crew, so this wasn’t so bad… right?

Pushing himself over to the window, he peered out.

At least the view was nice…

A hand settled at the back of his neck, and he glanced up at Anderson before basking in the reassuring squeeze.

In a twisted sort of way, he’d finally gotten the two things he wanted the most, a family and the approval of his mentor.

He could be content with the way everything else had turned out.

Really.

He just had to keep reminding himself of that when the walls of the apartment seemed far too close.

[onlygenxhere]

Jatp/10 Things I Hate About You AU

In honor of the third anniversary of the premier of Julie and the Phantoms here is the 10 Things I Hate about You AU I will never write.

I’m not going to explain a whole lot about 10 Things. If you’ve seen the movie this should make sense, If not I highly recommend.  

Luke is Patrick – With his sleeveless tees and his doesn’t give a crap about school attitude. Think more brooding musician Luke, less excited puppy. He gets sent to the office all the time for skipping class to write music.

“You’re not afraid of me are you?”

Julie is Kat – Angry at the world. Her mother died three years ago and she’s moved on from grief to anger. The only scene I have an idea about is changing the dancing drunk on a table scene to singing karaoke drunk on a table. Cause I’d still want her to hit her head and have Luke catch her and take her outside and worry she’s got a concussion.

That whole scene on the swing set, need it.

“Why are you doing this?”

“I told you you may have a concussion.”

“You don’t care if I never wake up.”

“Sure I do.”

“Why?”

“Because then I’d have to start taking out girls that actually like me.”

“Like you could find one.”

“Oh, See, that, there. Who needs affection when I have blind hatred.”

“Ugh, just let me sit.”

“So why’d you let him get to you?”

“Who?”

“Bobby?”

“I hate him.”

“Well you’ve chosen the perfect revenge, mainlining tequila.”

“Well you know what they say?”

“Nope, what do they say?”

Julie passes out.

“No, no, no, no, Julie wake up look at me! Listen to me Julie open your eyes!”

Julie opens her eyes to see Luke hovering over her.

“Hey, what color even are you eyes? Every time I look at you they’re different.”

He smiles at her.

She throws up.  

Reggie is Cameron – New kid in school. Completely smitten by Flynn the first time he sees her just like Cameron is with Bianca.

“I burn, I pine, I parish…”

Alex is Michael – He’s a band geek instead of future MBA (Masters Business Administration) like Michael was. He knows all the gossip about everyone. He’s the one showing Reggie around campus when Reggie sees Flynn for the first time. He could also be the one that sets up the apology song (Can’t keep my eyes off of you) for Luke to sing to Julie with the band chiming in.

Flynn is Bianca – Kat’s/ Julie’s sister. I’m going to go with Flynn being adopted a couple years after Julie was born.

“Can you for one night forget that you are completely retched and be my sister… please.”

So they wouldn’t be the same age like in jatp but a couple years apart like in 10 things. So everyone but Flynn and Carrie are seniors.

Willie is Mandella – Kat’s best friend who Alex has a crush on. No weird Shakespeare thing needed. Maybe Alex just leaves a regular old note in their locker asking them to prom? Maybe it’s not a “regular” note but one on the back of a postcard of a famous painting by Willie’s favorite artist.

Carrie is Chastity – Flynn’s best friend.

“I know you can be overwhelmed and you can be underwhelmed but can you ever just be whelmed?”

“I think you can in Europe.”

Bobby is Joey – It’s definitely believable that that character could be an idiot jackass and I think I can believe he’s a model if he was prepped up some (less grunge more styled). The only weird would be that he’d end up taking Carrie to the prom and most of us write them as related. I was thinking they don’t HAVE to be related but then again maybe it’d be even funnier if they were cousins and she was his only option after Flynn ditched him for Reggie.

Bobby punches Reggie.

Flynn punches Bobby.

“Shit Flynn! I’m shooting a nose spray add tomorrow!”

“That’s for making my date bleed!”

Punches him again.

“That’s for my sister!”

Knees him in the groin.

“And that’s for me!”

She helps Reggie up off the floor.

“Are you ok?”

He smiles, “Never been better.”

KISSES!

Nick is Bogey Lowenstein – Rich band nerd not cool jock. It works well enough.

“You guys please, take it outside!” Fighting boys crash through the window. “Thank you!”

Ray is Mr. Stratford – Kat and Flynn’s dad. I know on jatp he’d a photographer but he’d just have to be a gynecologist in this because all his panic about the girls dating is way too funny to skip and with the pregnancy belly he makes Bianca put on at one point.

“I know who you want to bend the rules for it’s that hotrod Bobby.”

Caleb is Ms. Perky –The principle. Who doesn’t want to see Caleb spending time writing a romance novel instead of disciplining the children? I can just see him trying to think of new words for “throbbing member” and Luke or Julie giving him an answer he’s pleased with.  

“The point is Julie. People perceive you as somewhat…”

“Tempestuous”

“Heinous bitch is the term used most often.”

Julie grins.

“You might want to work on that… Thank you.”

“As always thank you for your excellent guidance Mr. Covington. I’ll let you get back to Christopher’s quivering member.”

“Quivering member, hum, I like that.”

Mrs. Harrison is Mr. Morgan - The English teacher, no stretch here.

Carlos and Victoria could still be there just in much more minor rolls. They would be pretty much how they are on jatp.

[aarons-main-blog]

It was raining the day you woke up. 

A loud sound roared through the world. 

As thunder tore the air, you found yourself jolting upwards. Pain filled your head from the rapid movement. You brought your hands to your face. 

The voice was quiet for a moment. 

It took you some time to realize you couldn’t see. 

A flash of light briefly filled the room. 

Your first thought was blindness, inflicted by some unknown force, but the flash of lightning disproved that. 

Hesitantly, you stand up. 

The body, feeling weak after awakening, slowly forced itself onto its feet. Lightning flashed again, showing the room slightly better. At first glance it seemed white, but when the light flashed again it was revealed to be a dull grey, shining only in comparison to the natural darkness. Another flash revealed a quietly rocking chandelier, then another revealed what seemed to be extinguished torches. 

Eventually, you decide to start slowly moving around to explore the room. 

The entity waited for a flash of light, then casually walked over to and down the stairs that had been completely disguised with the floor previously. They stumbled on the landing, expecting another step, catching themselves before they fell. The lightning flashed yet again, this time revealing that they had ended up standing before one of the massive windows lining one side of the walls. 

You look out the window. 

… 

Lightning flashed. 

You see nothing but clouds, rain, and darkness. 

They sighed quietly, shivering from the sound of rain. 

You look at the window. 

… 

Lightning flashed.

It seems to be an intricate pattern, made of fractured stained glass. The centerpiece of the art is too high for you to see, and too dark to understand. 

They sighed again, this time disappointedly. Looking behind themselves just as a flash of light hit, they just barely saw a dark door on the other side of the room. A more accurate description of it would be a lack of light, but the two were close enough. 

The being waited for another flash, before trying to walk over to where they had seen the door. They let out a quiet Ack! as they tripped over the platform they had been standing on. When a flash of light came again, they gave it another look, showing it to be a large, one-tiered platform with some sort of designs on the side, possibly being shaped like flowers. The being stood up in the dark, keeping the location of the platform mentally marked, before orienting themselves towards the door they had seen. 

They began moving slowly, dragging their feet across the floor so as to not trip over anything else, making steady progress in the direction they had seen the door. Each shift let out a not-unnoticeable shuffling noise, but over the course of their one-room travels, they got used to it. Eventually, the light flashed again. 

Out of the corner of their eye, the entity saw something out of place - in the entirety of the flat-grey colored room, it stuck out like a sore thumb - they waited in place for the next flash, and when it happened, they gasped in surprise. It was a massive armor statue, probably seven feet tall (although they had nothing to reference it to), with an ugly-rust color as opposed to a nice one, holding a sword tip-down in the direction of the floor. Taking one cautious step back, the being then froze, waiting for any sort of movement anywhere in the room. 

You hear nothing but the sound of your own breath. 

After what felt like a suspiciously long time, the lightning flashed once more, revealing what the suit of armor looked like again. It did look seven feet tall as compared to the being, but based on the absence of noise and its rusted nature, it didn’t seem to have anything in it. In front of it was what looked like the type of sign that would be seen at a museum or a historical trail, being a slanted plane on top of a pole, but whatever was on it proved to be illegible the next time the light flashed. 

Do I have a concussion? The being thought to themself. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do for a concussion, but isn’t it something like don’t fall asleep? 

Ignoring the possible ramifications of that (as there was nothing they could do about it at the moment), the being looked around in the dark. As soon as the lightning flashed, they saw that there was a practically identical copy of the suit of armor on the other side of the room, holding a rusted shield as opposed to a sword. The entity knew they hadn’t seen anything like this before, but their positioning just behind alcoves in the wall made sense to them as they reconstructed a mental map.

Briefly, they considered trying to take the sword and shield, but as soon as they entertained the idea…

They look too corroded in place for you to remove. 

All but sighing in disappointment, the being moved on. Turning back to the right, away from the shield armour, the being looked for where the door had been. 

Moving on, the body halted in front of the door that seemed so appealing from the other side of the room. Nothing was visible on the other side, and even the occasional light from behind did nothing to illuminate it. 

You feel a chill creep over your body.

As they cautiously stuck they hand through the door, lightning flashed, showing that their hand was completely enveloped in this strange darkness. Holding it in place only by sheer will (not the fact that it took a few extra moments to realize it wasn't visible), the bring hesitated.

Do I risk it? There's nowhere else to go, excluding out the windows. I know it's just weird lighting, but...

You feel as if what lies behind the door is something that should not be there.

Eventually, the entity pulled their hand back. They still hadn't fully decided what they were going to do yet, but at least in this room they could see occasionally.

As if to directly promote this type of thinking, a sudden, massive, long lasting thunderbolt lit up the room, casting the whole of it in light. Even with that, though, the door remained dark. Normally, the being would have likely expected a roar of thunder of comparable volume and length.

This was not a normal time, however.

As a massive roar stripped the room bare of any resemblance of peace, the being let out a yell of surprise, jolting away from the windows the noise had come from and turning to look towards them. This was a mistake, however, as this put them precariously close to the edge of the territory of the door.

Not being able to see this fact in the now once-again pitch black room, the being let out a sigh. Putting one foot that had been raised at the shock behind themselves, they steadied-

-the being immediately began falling backwards, into the door, too shocked to shout in surprise again.

The last thing they thought they saw, looking upwards as they fell, was the lightning emanating through the door one last time, before being warped and fading as soon as it arrived.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sorry this is posted late on Halloween I thought I would have a whole afternoon to finish if but then I got pulled into trick or treating as the "Scottish Plague Doctor" (and yes I did look ☆fabulous☆) and I know timezones are weird and some people will see this when it's posted and think 'oh it's not Halloween anymore' but just give me a little slack

Anyway, with the rant out of the way, please expect me to update this in the future! I am going to make it like a multipart fic (and have the beta versions of the next few sections set up but need to be edited) and I like where it's going but idk how long it's going to be.

Thank you for reading this!